The Nick Lawrence Series

by Brian Shea

  “Speak of the devil, I was just thinking of you,” Anaya said.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “We’re okay. Promise,” Anaya said.

  “It’s killing me that you are so far away, but I agree that it’s for the best right now. I’m wrapped up in this case, and I wouldn’t be able to protect you the way I should,” Nick said.

  “I can handle myself, remember?”

  “I know, I know. It’s just… um… different now,” Nick said.

  “We’re going to be fine. The protection detail is here. You focus on finding this guy and let me worry about everything else,” Anaya said.

  “Hey is Mouse around? I want to say hello,” Nick asked.

  “Sure is. Hold on,” Anaya said, handing the phone off.

  “Hi Nick!” Mouse said.

  “Hey tough girl, I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there to see you,” Nick said.

  “No worries. I understand,” Mouse said.

  “What are you and Anaya going to do today?”

  “Not sure. I think we are going to make some hot cocoa and take a walk out on the ice. We’ll send you a pic,” Mouse said, speaking a mile-a-minute.

  “So glad you’re loving it out there. Anaya said you’ve got a dog?”

  “Yup.”

  “That dog couldn’t be in better hands,” Nick said happily.

  “I named her Izzy,” Mouse said.

  Nick’s throat constricted, and he paused to clear it. Izzy’s name coming out of Mouse rocked him.

  “She saved me,” Mouse said in a whisper.

  “Me too. More times than I can count and, in more ways, than I can say,” Nick said.

  Nick wiped the moisture from his eye. “She’d have loved to know that you named your new best friend after her.”

  “I’m so sorry about what happened, Nick,” Mouse said.

  “You know better than most the crappy hand that life deals us sometimes.” Nick rubbed his temple and tried to clear his mind. “You enjoy your time with Anaya. Keep an eye on her for me.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you next time,” Mouse said.

  “You bet. Next time for sure.”

  Nick pocketed the phone and looked over at Simmons who was intently focused on the wet roadway. Not cold enough for ice, but cold enough to make it a miserably slow commute back to headquarters.

  “How’s she holding up with all of this?” Simmons asked without taking her eyes off the road.

  “She’s good. The security detail is on site. Thank you for setting that up,” Nick said.

  “No problem. I’m surprised they were so quick to respond to my request.”

  “What’s the plan now?” Nick asked.

  “I’ve got to bring you up to speed on this investigation, and fast.” Simmons adjusted the wiper setting to deal with the varying rate of precipitation and continued, “Are you up for this?”

  “I’ve never backed down from a fight before and don’t plan on this being the first time.”

  “Good to know.”

  Nick stared intently ahead.

  “You just seemed a little off after the phone call,” Simmons said, shooting him a glance.

  “Just a lot to process, I guess,” Nick said.

  “Is Mouse your daughter?”

  “Mouse? No. Would be proud if she was. Tough as they come. Anaya and I helped her out of a really bad spot not too long ago. She was just adopted by her foster family in Michigan,” Nick said, allowing his pride to shine through.

  “I didn’t mean to pry. I just overheard the nickname and assumed.”

  “No need to explain. How about you? Kids?” Nick asked.

  Simmons sighed and fidgeted in her seat. “Not for me. Life dealt me some bad cards in that department.”

  “Sorry,” Nick said.

  “Not your fault, right?” Simmons gripped the wheel tighter, exposing the white of her knuckles. “Any plans of starting a family of your own?”

  “Plans seem to have had nothing to do with it,” Nick said.

  His cheeks flushed at his subtle admission. He watched to see if Simmons picked up on it.

  “So that explains it then,” Simmons said.

  “What?”

  “Why this Ferryman threat has you so messed up. How far along is she?”

  “Two months,” Nick said.

  “Well look at you. You’re going to be a father. Excited?”

  “I just found out the day before yesterday.” Nick said.

  “You had a hell of a start to your week,” Simmons said.

  “That’s the understatement of the century.”

  Nick stared out at the red chain of brake lights that danced across the windshield as the wipers worked to clear the drizzle. The zigzagged towers of Austin’s downtown skyline were dimed by the storm clouds overhead. The Ferryman was out there somewhere, and Nick needed to find him in the worst kind of way.

  16

  The office was warm. The thermostat, set too high in an attempt to offset the cold of the day, left the office ten degrees warmer than necessary. Nick shed his heavy coat and rolled up his sleeves. Simmons made a direct line to the conference room and seemed unaffected by the drastic change in temperature. Nick felt the eyes of his coworkers as he followed behind the redhead. He forced himself not to engage their looks. He’d aligned himself with Simmons and didn’t want to betray the fragile trust they’d just recently established. Nick knew this alliance provided him with the best chance of catching the Ferryman.

  Nick shut the door after he entered the conference room, closing them off from the others. Without Simmons on the attack, the room had returned to its comfortable standing. He tossed his wet coat on a nearby chair and sat. It took only a second before Nick realized that he was again sitting in the same chair as the night before. Simmons must’ve noticed this too, because she grinned widely as she placed the large cardboard file box on the table between them.

  “Don’t worry. No more interrogations from me,” Simmons said.

  “Good to know. I don’t think I’d last another round,” Nick snarked.

  “I’m going to need you up and running on these cases, past and present. An extra set of eyes never hurts. And I’ve heard you have a knack for investigations.”

  “Thanks. And I agree whole-heartedly that it’s always good to have someone else look at things from a fresh perspective,” Nick said.

  “To be honest I don’t usually work with a partner.” She nibbled at her bottom lip. “I’ve found that I’m better off on my own.”

  “Many hands make light work,” Nick said.

  “Not for me. It’s more of a burden.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  “It’s simple really.” Simmons stopped unpacking the box and paused, with a file folder in hand. “Bait.”

  “Bait? There’s that word again. I hope that I can be more assistance to you than a piece of cheese in a trap.”

  “I hope so too, but if not, at least I can tie you to a chair and see if the bad guy comes. Figuratively, of course,” Simmons said with a wink.

  “Geesh, that sounds bad.”

  “Bad for you, but good for me.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of this.” Nick stared hard into the intense green of Simmons’s eyes.

  “Not sure you have much of a choice. Look at it this way, for whatever reason the Ferryman’s picked you. He’s coming sooner or later. And I’d rather use that and try to control it. If we can draw him out, then it would give me an advantage that I’ve never had.”

  “So, you want me to keep to my routine? Not draw any suspicion that we’re concerned so he feels comfortable making a move?”

  “See! I knew you were a smart guy. I just want him to move without worry. Maybe he’ll get sloppy and make a mistake.”

  “You keep saying him. How do you know the Ferryman is in fact a man?” Nick asked.

  “Most serials are. The percentages of females are so low, it’s typically not entert
ained in most initial theories. Even at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, we tend to jump to that conclusion. We try not to, but time-tested data says these types of predators are most commonly male. Similar to the percentage of the pedophiles you hunt. Although there are always exceptions,” Simmons said pensively as she tapped a pen on the desk. “I’m impressed that you caught that. Let’s entertain your question. What makes you think the Ferryman is or might be a woman?”

  “I don’t. I just said it’s a possibility. I haven’t been working the case, and you’ve obviously developed your profile. I didn’t mean to question it,” Nick said.

  “That’s irrelevant to my question. Why do you think it’s a possibility?”

  “The stab wounds on the latest victim,” Nick answered.

  “Go on.”

  Well, the first one I’d assume was the rib shot. And I’d guess the dead guy to be about 5’10” to 6 feet tall. Basically, he’s average to slightly above average in height. If the killer was standing, that knife would’ve come in from low to high.”

  “A tall man could make that wound by driving upward like this.” Simmons took the pen in her hand and held it pointing up with her thumb as the guide. She then made an upward arcing motion.

  “True, but I think the second wound is more telling,” Nick continued.

  “How so?” Simmons asked.

  “I’m assuming that the stab wound to the neck was the second attack. So it was done at an upward angle.”

  “How’d you deduce that about the neck wound?” Simmons said.

  “The cut was not straight across, as it would’ve been if the doer were of similar height. So, based on that, I’m thinking it also came from low to high,” Nick said, studying Simmons’s reaction to his conjecture. Her face was stoic and didn’t betray any indication of her opinion.

  “You got all that from being on that scene for such a short time?”

  “Look, murder isn’t my forte. I could be way off,” Nick said.

  Simmons took up the tapping of her pen again. “Well, I guess what they say about you is true.”

  “And what’s that?” Nick asked putting his guard up slightly in preparation for her answer.

  “That you’ve got a gift for this kind of work. More than I’d thought you would. I did my checking and most of the praise comes from your skills as an interviewer, but it appears you’ve got a great eye and can apply it to a scene as well.”

  “Thanks. Did I get it right?” Nick asked, accepting the compliment without much gushing or fanfare.

  “We’ll have to wait until I hear from Cavanaugh or Spangler, but I concur with your initial thinking to some degree.”

  “What am I missing?” Nick asked.

  “I’ve spent the better part of four years developing the Ferryman’s profile. Early on I looked hard at the possibility of a woman due to the height factor and some other indicators. I worked up a full list of potential physical and psychological aspects.”

  “And what made you change your mind?” Nick asked, sensing there was a but coming.

  “He attacked me.”

  “Attacked you?” Nick asked wide-eyed.

  “I told you I was targeted when I first began my investigation. I got a similar message to yours. I told you he killed my parents. What I didn’t tell you was that he tried to kill me too.”

  Nick watched Simmons break eye contact. Her pale skin became almost translucent and she immediately redirected her energy, busying herself separating out the files in front of her into different stacks based on the date of attack.

  “Wait, you’re telling me you went head to head with this madman?”

  “Not something I like to talk about.”

  “Tough. You’re going to talk about it to me. I need to know everything there is about this guy.”

  “Let’s just say my profile was wrong and it almost cost me my life,” Simmons said, lifting up her shirt just enough to expose her left side, above the hipline. She absently ran her index finger across the three inches of jagged ridges of white scar tissue.

  Nick nodded at the gesture. “What was it?”

  “Knife.”

  “Looks like we could be twins,” Nick said, allowing a slight grin to form. He yanked up his shirt, revealing a similar marking. His still had a red discoloration to the puffy scar left by the dead man that had given it to him.

  Simmons smiled and the color in her cheeks returned to normal.

  “I took one in the gut a little while back,” Nick clarified.

  “Seems like we’ve got more in common than I previously thought,” Simmons said.

  “You said your profile was wrong? How so?” Nick asked.

  “I was correct about the Ferryman’s stature. He was just slightly taller than me. I’d put him at about 5’5” with a wiry frame. My workup had the Ferryman pegged as a female. I had a lead and was looking hard at a stripper at one of the clubs in downtown Dallas.”

  “A stripper?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah. It seemed a good fit. She’d been brutally assaulted by a homeless man a few years prior. Beyond that, she came from a broken home. And when I say broken, I mean it was demolished. She had a history of abuse that would make a prisoner of war cringe.”

  “So, what happened?” Nick asked, totally engrossed.

  “I was doing surveillance on her club, trying to learn her patterns and see where she went after work. I was set up about a block down the street.” Simmons paused, and her breathing became more rapid. “A guy in a hoodie walked by my car and flicked something through my open window. At first I thought it was just an asshole trying to be funny, until I picked it up.”

  “What was it?”

  “A nickel,” Simmons said.

  “A nickel? Like the ones he leaves behind?”

  “Exactly. A Buffalo nickel with the Indian head carved out to look like a skull with Medusa-like snakes for hair. His calling card. The death token he marks his victims with. At this point, I’d collected enough from several victims to recognize it immediately.”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt, but what the hell’s a Buffalo nickel?” Nick asked.

  “It used to be a fairly common practice to deface a coin. The Buffalo nickel was popular because of the design. The large Native American profile on one side and the buffalo on the other gave artists a larger platform to manipulate than other coins. People used to engrave and modify the coin.”

  “I’m not tracking. So why does he use it? It must hold some significance,” Nick said, confused.

  “It’s known by another name. These altered coins are commonly referred to as a hobo nickel.”

  Simmons paused and opened a thick case file. She fished out a photograph which was tightly focused on one of these coins. Nick examined the picture closely. The face of the coin had been converted into a skull. The blood of some unsuspecting victim was painted onto the etched surface.

  “So, the connection is what? What am I missing?” Nick asked laying the photo on the table. The vacant eyes of the skull taunted him.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t see it at first either. He primarily targets the homeless. Thus, the sick bastard’s sense of humor using the hobo nickel as his tribute.”

  “All the victims have been homeless?” Nick asked.

  “Yes, for the most part but with some exceptions. A lot of conjecture has been made as to why,” Simmons said.

  “Pentlow wasn’t homeless,” Nick interjected.

  “Not by our definition, but after you arrested him, his wife left him and moved out of state. His house was foreclosed on. So, technically he was homeless. But like I said, he does make some exceptions. Like in the case of my parents.”

  “Okay. Sorry I didn’t mean to cut you off. I’d just been meaning to ask you about the coin,” Nick said.

  “No worries. It’s a lot to take in.”

  “Back to that night, what happened when you realized he’d tossed the coin into your car?” Nick asked.

  “I gave chase, of cour
se. The little bastard was quick. He tore off through a nearby warehouse. I called it in to my partner who was set up on the other side of the nightclub.”

  Nick listened as Simmons recounted the incident. As she relived the intensity of that night, her cheeks flushed, the color complimenting the red of her hair.

  “He completely caught me off guard when I entered the warehouse. It was fast. Really fast. He must’ve been waiting for me behind the door because he grabbed my ponytail as I ran into the room. I can still remember that pain. I thought he’d snapped my neck.”

  Simmons absentmindedly rubbed the back of her neck as she recalled the moment.

  “I thought he punched me in the ribs. It took me a minute to realize I’d been stabbed.”

  “I can say with genuine assuredness that I completely understand what you mean,” Nick added.

  “I was able to grab his knife hand while the knife was still inside. I fought hard to keep him from using it on me again. At some point during the tussle, he struck me hard in the side of my head in the temple area. Just before I lost consciousness, I managed to pull down the bandana that masked his face.”

  “So that’s how you know it was a man?”

  “All I saw was the scruff of a beard. So, either the Ferryman is a man or the bearded lady,” Simmons said, adding some levity to offset the intensity of the retelling.

  “Any other details about his appearance?”

  “He wore these red tinted sunglasses. It’s all I remember before I blacked out,” Simmons said softly.

  “How come he didn’t kill you?”

  “I ask myself that every day. I’m guessing my partner must’ve spooked him.”

  “He didn’t see anything?” Nick asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Both were silent.

  “Crazy, right? How quickly life can turn on a dime, or our case, a nickel,” Simmons said.

  “You couldn’t be more right about that,” Nick said.

  He thought of Izzy and how many times she’d been there for him during those times of turmoil. Life had thrown him a massive curveball, and now he needed to figure out what the world would be like without her. Although their personal relationship had stalled out, just knowing that she was out there somehow always made him feel safe.