2nd Cycle of the Harbinger Series: The continuation of the #1 Hard-boiled/Police Procedural smash Plain Jane

by Carolyn McCray

  “You’re out of control, Brynn. I saw you with those photos. It may have started out as jealous rage, but you enjoy it now.”

  The rep stepped in closer to Coop, her face contorted. “You think you have me figured out? Because I’m poor and some rich bitch at a bank was rude to me?”

  “She wasn’t rich. She lived in a tiny little basement apartment and didn’t have a car.”

  “What do you mean? She was wearing a fortune on her finger!”

  “Yes,” Cooper responded. “She was. A ring that was given her by her wealthy fiancé. But she was dirt poor.”

  “Then why would she make fun of my nails?” Brynn Capson was shaking her head, as if trying to negate everything Agent Cooper was saying.

  “She wasn’t making fun. She was trying to get shopping tips from you.” Coop’s tone was gentle, her voice quiet.

  “What? What do—?”

  Kyle stepped forward. “In her effects, we found a bag from Walgreens. With the same shade of nail polish you had been wearing.”

  Agent Cooper followed up. “She thought you looked nice. Sharp. Professional. And she just wanted help.”

  Tears were welling up in Brynn Capson’s eyes. “No, no. That’s not true. That can’t be true.”

  “Confess, Brynn. Confess, and I promise we’ll make sure your brother stays right where he is.” Coop reached out and placed a hand on the saleswoman’s shoulder.

  Something seemed to give in the woman. Her body heaved with her silent sobs as she nodded, unable to speak.

  Kyle might not be as smart or as trained in profiling as Agent Cooper, but he knew people. He knew body language.

  This case was over.

  EPILOGUE

  Salazar hadn’t been happy. Actually, Sariah figured a better way of putting it was that he had thrown a gasket. But there hadn’t been a damn thing he could do.

  With Brynn Capson’s confession to all seven counts of murder, the Mary, Mary Quite Contrary case was officially put to bed. And, miraculously, Sariah’s reputation as both a sharp agent and a pain in the ass had been completely solidified.

  She sighed. There would be repercussions, especially where Salazar was concerned. Just because she had solved this case didn’t mean she magically gained seniority over the macho agent.

  But, for now, she was happy.

  Looking over at Hadderly, who was busy packing up the temporary space the BAU team had occupied, Sariah realized something else. She had found a friend, as well.

  All of which was making her more than a little bit nervous. Happiness for her had always been followed by some pretty severe nastiness. Usually hard on its heels.

  She started moving toward Had when her cell phone went off. Glancing down at the number, she recognized it as belonging to her boss, Special Agent-in-Charge Nicholas Tanner. Fantastic.

  This call could go one of two ways, and with Sariah already waiting for the other shoe to drop, she almost didn’t want to answer the phone. But ditching the calls of one’s superiors didn’t do much for one’s career. She opened the phone.

  “Agent Cooper? I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sariah replied carefully. “Agent Salazar did a wonderful job leading the team out here.”

  “I call bullshit, Agent. You and I both know who really solved this case.” Agent Tanner chuckled a bit and Sariah felt her shoulders settle from being up around her ears to somewhere closer to their normal positioning.

  “Actually, sir, I did have a lot of help. Officer Hadderly, one of the local uniforms, was right there in the thick of things. Couldn’t have done it without him.”

  “Hmmm. I’ll keep that in mind, especially considering what I’m calling about,” Agent Tanner rumbled.

  “Sir?”

  “Well, you have to know that I’m not just calling to pat you on the back.” Her boss took a deep breath and then let it out as an extended sigh. “The DNA came back on the hand. It’s a match for the others.”

  Sariah felt her stomach muscles clench in a combination of excitement and nerves. She was right. Had been right all along. Humpty Dumpty was back. She had two conflicting urges… to confront Salazar and tell him to suck it, and to break down crying. Instead, she listened intently as Agent Tanner continued.

  “You were the one who found the link where no one else would’ve, so I’m putting you on this.”

  “Sir, I’m so—”

  “Don’t,” Tanner cut her off. “Don’t thank me. The other reason I’m assigning you is because everyone already thinks you’re either nuts or a suck-up. Word gets out that there’s a big team working the Humpty case and it’s a PR disaster. You’re going to be working this mostly on your own.”

  That dampened Sariah’s enthusiasm a bit, but couldn’t snuff it out completely. “I understand, sir. But what do you mean by ‘mostly’?”

  “Well, if the Ann Arbor precinct gives their okay, we may be able to borrow the officer you were talking about. You’ve worked together, and he seems to like you. That’s not nothing.”

  Sariah took the implied criticism in stride. “No, sir, I guess it’s not.”

  “But that’s not exactly what I meant.” Agent Tanner paused again. “I think we need to bring Joshua Wright in on this.”

  “Agent Wright?”

  “Former Agent Wright,” Tanner corrected her. “Since he worked the case and... well… everything happened that happened, I think he’s gone pretty far downhill.”

  Sariah thought for a moment. “I heard he was up in New York, working as a bartender or something.”

  “Or something. He’s the janitor for a bar, actually.”

  “Wow,” Sariah breathed.

  “Wow is right.” Her boss cleared his throat. “But no one knows that case better than he does. You’ll need to reach out to him.”

  “No problem.”

  “I can’t promise that, Agent Cooper. My guess is he won’t be too thrilled to hear from us.” Another deep breath, then Tanner finished up. “We can talk about it more when you get back. For now, grab that officer and buy him and yourself a drink. On me.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good work, Agent Cooper.” And then the connection ended.

  Sariah sat staring at the phone as the screen faded to black. Her world had just changed in a heartbeat, and for the life of her, she couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing. She probably wouldn’t know until she was deep into working the Humpty case.

  Shaking her head to rid herself of the shadows that now seemed determined to take over, Sariah lifted her head to look over at Had, who had finished up and was looking over at her, a sad smile on his face.

  Sariah grinned back at him, suddenly determined to keep the happy mood around her while she could. There was no way to control what was coming up in the not-so-distant future. But right now?

  Right now, she could take her friend out for a celebratory drink.

  Tomorrow they could tackle Humpty Dumpty.

  To purchase the Nursery Rhyme Murders Collection, click here.

  An excerpt from the historical crime thriller

  MAYFLOWER MURDERS

  PROLOGUE

  The door to the cabin burst open, and Doctor Parley Attwood’s eyes turned to the entryway there. No, not doctor. And not Attwood, for that matter. Not here. Not any longer. It was now simply Goodman Richard Parley Gardiner. Parley had to keep reminding himself of that fact.

  Framed by the rough wood of the cramped doorway, one of the small lads who always scurried about underfoot cried out into the sudden silence. His voice was shaking, whether from the cold or fear was not clear.

  “Dr. Heale, come fast, sir! Goodwife Hopkins is about to give birth!”

  The ship’s green young surgeon, or chirurgion, as Dr. Giles Heale always insisted on writing it, grunted as he pushed himself up on his bunk, resting on one elbow. In spite of the storm raging above, the young man had been dozing off, and his eyes appeared bleary in the dim candlelight o
f the cabin.

  He waved his free arm in a vague gesture of refusal. “Women’s work. Let the midwives care for Goody Hopkins.”

  “But, sir,” the brave young man continued, risking the surgeon’s wrath. “Goody Tilley say the birth goes badly!” This was Love Brewster, a goodly lad of about nine, if Parley recalled correctly.

  “’Zounds, boy. I’m coming. I’m coming.” Several of the crewmembers in the cabin glanced up at the near-blasphemy from the man. ’Zounds was a shortening for Christ’s wounds. Sailors were notorious for their language, but with the religious nature of the passengers they had aboard, tensions could run high.

  And where a curse or two might be overlooked, any profanity involving God’s name was met with harsh criticism from Pastor Job Wilkes, the austere religious leader of the “Saints”, as the Separatists called themselves. There was a sharp division between the Saints and the Strangers, as the congregation called those passengers hired by the Merchant Adventurers to help build the new colony.

  The doctor groaned and pushed himself upright, almost falling as the ship listed to the starboard side. He stumbled toward the door, grabbing hold of anything he could reach to keep his balance, including the shoulders of some of the other men, who grumbled at his rough jostling.

  Parley found himself in between the Scylla and Charybdis. If the birth were truly not progressing as well as it should, help was necessary. Help from the good Doctor Heale was about as likely as pigs flying in the air with their tails forward.

  But to acknowledge Parley’s own medical knowledge could lead to uncomfortable questions. Questions that he was not sure that he could answer to the Company’s satisfaction.

  It would have to be risked.

  “Dr. Heale, might I accompany you?” Parley called forward, using the polite you reserved for one’s betters. It had the effect intended. Giles’ chest swelled and his eyes brightened.

  “Ah, thou wouldst wish to observe, wouldst thou not?”

  Observe? thought Parley. I should be the only one to examine this poor wretch.

  Instead he answered with meekness. “Aye, Dr. Heale, and I believe young Joseph would be of help as well.” Joseph Whitcombe had been Parley’s assistant back in London, and was a witness to all of his triumphs, as well as his ultimate fall from grace.

  Joseph’s eyes lit up. “Yes, indeed! Thank you, Doct… er… Master Att… Goodman Gardiner, rather.” The young lad was well meaning, but had, on more than one occasion, almost revealed Parley’s true identity as one of England’s foremost physicians, trained at the prestigious University of Padua. Parley shot the young man a pointed look, and Joseph’s animation dimmed a bit.

  Dr. Heale grunted. “I might indeed need an extra pair of hands or two.” He scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “But be careful to mind what I say. To those uninitiated into the intricacies of the four humours, the demands might appear… strange.”

  The four humours. Parley winced. Ah, the learning of Hippocrates, and Galen after him. Hippocrates leading down to Galen and Galen hearkening back to Hippocrates. An endless loop from which medicine had yet to emerge. Nothing but these two.

  Every medical diagnosis for the last fourteen hundred years had relied upon the knowledge and writings of Aelius Galenus of Pergamon. And Galen had based his information off the teachings of Hippocrates.

  A brilliant man who had advanced medicine above and beyond all his peers, Galen nevertheless had lived over a millennia ago. And somehow, the learned men of this age had not managed to move beyond him.

  All ills, according to these two, came from a lack of harmony between the four humors of the body: blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm. One for each of the four elements. Yellow bile for fire, black bile for earth, phlegm for water and blood for air.

  Parley had been forced to listen to the young surgeon expostulate on medicine for the past sixty some-odd days at sea. The man was a barbarian, but that was only to be expected. He had apprenticed under the Barber-Surgeons, and a more ignorant herd of sheep, masquerading as men of science, Parley had never before seen.

  That would have been concern enough. But Giles Heale was fresh out of his training. This was the first job he had taken, meaning that his practical experience was next to nothing. Even an ignorant lout is forced into learning when every one of his patients begins dying. The fact that any in the Company were still alive was an indication that Parley’s thoughts on the nonexistence of God might be mistaken.

  The surgeon must have been aware of his lack, as his attitude had been one of arrogance mixed with defensiveness from the start of the voyage. And now there was an infant and mother about to be placed in his care. The man should have left it to the midwives.

  The ship rolled again, throwing the three men against the side of the narrow passageway. A stream of seawater poured through a crack in the deck above them, drenching young Joseph. He gasped and shook off the water as best he could, splashing both Parley and Dr. Heale in the process.

  “Ach, watch thyself, lad,” the surgeon complained, shrinking back from the deluge. “A wet chill may throw thy humours out of proportion. Wouldst not wish to wax phlegmatic, wouldst thou?”

  Parley suppressed a groan.

  As they forced their way into the hold where the Saints and Strangers lived in and amongst their own cargo, Parley could quickly see that the birth was not progressing the way it should. Women stood about Goodwife Hopkins, wringing their hands as the two midwives sought to soothe the laboring woman. One of the younger unmarried women was covering her in blankets.

  The woman’s face was blue, and she was shivering in the chill of the early winter air, in spite of the sheen of sweat present on her brow. This was a birth that might be beyond the capabilities of the midwives, but calling in Dr. Heale to salvage the situation was like inviting a wolf to watch over a herd of sheep.

  “Oh, Dr. Heale, thank Providence you are here to help,” called out Goodwife Tilley. The woman was a notorious busybody, and from what Parley could tell from the midwives’ reactions, there had been some controversy over whether or not the good surgeon should be consulted.

  “Trouble not thyself, Goody. I will set all to rights. Hast kept any of her urine or fecal matter?” When the Goodwife Tilley shuddered and shook her head, Dr. Heale shrugged. “’Tis a pity. Much can be gleaned from them both.”

  There, at least, was some vestige of wisdom, although Parley had his doubts as to how well Giles Heale could extrapolate accurate information from either the woman’s urine or her stool. Parley pushed his way into the grouping of women, doing what he could to observe without appearing too eager… or knowledgeable, for that matter.

  As he approached, he caught a glimpse of the infant, whose head had emerged. The child’s face was blue, and the umbilical cord was wrapped around its neck.

  “Push, Goodwife Hopkins!” Dr. Heale encouraged the woman. But his command caused the midwives on either side of the laboring woman to turn pale.

  And for good reason. That was exactly what the unfortunate laboring woman should not do at this moment. Parley cleared his throat, trying to figure out how to handle the situation without causing undue attention to come to himself. Perhaps if he just encouraged the midwives? They were clearly uncomfortable with what the surgeon had commanded.

  Parley stared at both women, nodding his head to give them courage, but their attention was divided between Dr. Heale and Elizabeth Hopkins. Whatever misgivings they might have had been pushed away by the “superior” learning of this oaf of a man.

  It would have to be Parley.

  He stepped forward. “Pardon me, Doctor, but…” But what? What could he possibly say right now that would convince a man of science to listen to someone that was not known to have any training in the medical arts?

  Then inspiration struck. “I have seen on the farm, when animals get the cords wrapped around their necks, that pushing back in the womb can help.”

  The relief of the midwives was palpable, but Dr. H
eale just stared back at Parley as if he’d sprouted an additional head. He stood up from where he’d been squatting before the Goodwife, and squared off with Parley, his attitude screaming that the advice proffered was neither welcome nor accurate.

  “This is a child of God, Goodman Gardiner. Not an animal,” he said, his tone scathing. The use of the name Gardiner surprised Parley for a moment. He still had not accustomed himself to his assumed name.

  “Of course not, Dr. Heale,” interrupted one of the midwives, a Goodwife Mary Martin, if Parley remembered correctly. “But I think Goodman Gardiner may have the right of it, sir.”

  The surgeon’s spine stiffened. “I should think that perhaps the caring for the sick and afflicted might be the domain of the ship’s surgeon. But apparently a man of no education,” he sneered, looking back at Parley, “… and a woman have more of an understanding than I.”

  “But Goody Hopkins is not sick or afflicted,” replied Goodwife Martin, in a matter-of-fact tone. “She is with child.”

  While Heale’s face turned purple with indignation, Parley looked down to see that the child was in crisis. This could not be allowed to continue. Without any further heed to his secret, Parley rushed in and pushed the baby back up inside Goodwife Hopkins.

  Her cries of pain tore at his ears as he felt for the umbilical cord, now loosened by the reinsertion. Parley pulled the cord out from around the infant’s neck, tugging it over his head. Now the birth could continue in a normal fashion, as normal as having a child at sea could allow.

  It appeared for a moment that Dr. Heale’s frustration was about to turn into apoplexy, but when the baby’s head reemerged, his attention went back to the task at hand. In short order, the child had been delivered, safe and sound.

  It was a boy.

  As the child let forth his first mewling cry, Stephen Hopkins, the father, rushed forward, his face glowing with pride. He turned to the rest of those in the cabin.

  “His name is to be Oceanus Hopkins!”