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This kid was a chip off the old block—not necessarily a good thing.
Josiah reversed from the parking spot without a glance, nearly taking out a minivan. Ty winced. He was going to get into a fender bender sooner rather than later, but Ty hadn’t been able to teach him to drive or how to use shading techniques. He hadn’t even been able to purchase Josiah’s first sketch pad.
“Well?” Violet asked, once he was inside the vehicle and situated.
“You may be dead-on, Violet. It’s personal, and he made sure to let me know he’s not stupid like I implied on the video. It’s the Fire & Ice Killer.”
“And what else couldn’t you tell me with ears around?”
Ty leaned back and sighed. “He’s my son...and the killer knows it. I’m not ready to divulge that information further. I might be recused if Asa knows, and I was down with that initially—before coming to meet with Bexley. Now there’s no way I can walk away from this case, this place.”
“At some point he needs to know.”
“I know. Let me process it all first. I can’t even think.”
Violet’s eyebrows twitched. “Alright. Your call. I disagree with it.”
“You don’t keep secrets? You do. You have. Don’t judge.”
“I’m not judging. I’m disagreeing. You say it was less than thirty seconds—the call?”
“Less than ten seconds. We’ll get nothing.” Ty gripped the wheel and entered the address of Amy-Rose’s family into the GPS. “What’s up with the missing personal items?”
“I don’t know. Mementos. Could be items in there to get to know you better. Recon, so to speak. You really made this guy angry. So angry he brooded and hatched a plan. We have no idea what his goal is, but what we do already know about him is he’s calculated, intelligent and hard to track or trace. This won’t be easy.”
Violet never had anything good to say. But she was truthful. And nothing about this case was good. “We’ll see if the other victims had personal items removed. Could be connected.”
“Could be, or could be specific to you. I’d like to have her catalog what exactly was in that box.”
“Okay.”
“One last little mention,” Violet said. “I’ve had the radio on, and that tropical storm is gaining some muscle off the West African coast and heading for the Bahamas. We both know how unpredictable hurricanes are. It could die down or it could ramp up. Either way, we need to pay close attention.”
He was already in a hurricane of his own and his gut projected the case was going to escalate to a Cat 5 if they didn’t get ahead of it.
The Artist casually stood to the side of the counter in the local coffee shop, awaiting his latte and a spinach quiche while concealing a grin. Everything he’d ordained was falling into place like perfect little puzzle pieces, forming a big picture. A picture he had created, spun and been meticulous to bring to fruition. Guiding a human life took a considerable amount of time and study. Arranging the women at lighthouses and hinting at Agent Granger’s past indiscretions were all he’d needed. These bread crumbs had brought him right to the Artist’s door.
Each coordinated detail was another crushing blow for Tiberius Granger. He’d mapped out his destruction and couldn’t be outmatched. Granger would pay for his sins—pride at the top of the list. When he finally fell to his face, he would be humbled, humiliated and held accountable.
He’d been in the shadows as the agent went inside the counselor’s office. Seen him come out in angst and turmoil. But he’d also been enamored with the brunette beauty who’d remained inside the vehicle. Long, dark hair with a sun-kissed glow on her skin. She’d turned in his direction as if sensing his presence, challenge in her eyes, and he wondered about folding her into his plan. He’d think on that later. For now, he savored the game.
The barista batted her lashes while he waited near the counter. Her desperation radiated like the Carolina noon heat. Smothering and sticky. She wasn’t the woman who’d caught his interest. No, the woman who had his undivided attention had lovely hazel eyes, though one was a little lazy, but they were sharp. She was several inches shorter than his six-foot-two height, but her legs were long, and underneath her clothing, he imagined she was toned and sleek.
She presented an aura that hummed red, a warning to steer clear, and confidence oozed from her pores—another layer of defense if one ignored the first signal to keep away. From his side view, he studied her short hair—not his preference, but it revealed a slender, delicate neck. From a few feet away, he caught her coconutty scent. He also caught her quick glances at him. Not lusty but aware of his presence. Most women paid little attention to their surroundings, and when a man had his physique and face—not pride but fact—they dropped their wary guard, which inevitably worked against them.
Women were the lesser sex and shallow creatures.
She ordered an Americano black and backed up next to him. They were about two feet apart while she waited.
He caught her eye. “Afternoon.”
Bucking her chin, she acknowledged his greeting.
Oh, he liked her quite a lot. Wary. Sly. A challenge.
“You don’t look like a local.”
She shifted, her hand lightly swatting her black fitted blazer in a gesture to unveil smooth steel in a side holster. Another warning signal. Interesting she didn’t flash the bling on her left ring finger instead. No, the gun instantly disclosed she was independent. Strong on her own two feet. But he already knew that about her.
