by Ben Hopkin
“Well, Billy, it’s just that I’m fascinated by crime.” Her tone was almost a whisper, as if she were confessing. “It’s mesmerizing.”
“That it is, miss,” the curator agreed, his voice colored by a slight tremor.
Billy wasn’t convinced yet, not yet at the least.
Make a connection, the ghost Kent said in her ear.
“And well, Mom and Dad are a little upset I quit Cambridge to take up blogging, but I was hoping if I could get a first hand look and post my experience, it might up my SEO.”
The man’s eyes lingered on her lips as if he wanted more from them than words.
“So, can you help a girl out?” Kyra asked, making sure to place her elbows under her breasts, forcing them in Billy’s direction.
He cleared his throat and glanced around, looking to see if there were anyone else in close range. “All right. You can come in. But no pictures.”
He ushered her inside the space and shut the door behind him. Kent was left out in the cold. Kyra almost protested, but she couldn’t risk the progress she’d made. One person inside was better than none.
But now what was she going to do?
* * *
Kent listened from around the corner as Kyra worked the gatekeeper to the Black Museum. She was good. Not as good as Kent, of course, but she handled herself well for someone that had been thrown into a situation with no preparation time.
The truth was, this was a trial run. The likelihood of this being the source of the evidence they needed was low.
But Kyra didn’t have to know that.
Besides, Kent had never seen the Black Museum. He was on his honeymoon. Shouldn’t he get to do some sightseeing, too?
Then Kyra was inside the door. And from the conversation he had overheard, Kent would wager that there was no way she was convincing the curator to leave her alone in the space.
But she could entice him away.
Kent pulled out his borrowed cell phone and sent a quick text.
Get him out of there. ASAP.
On a whim, Kent started the stopwatch on the phone. How fast could she work?
It had been quite a while since he’d had a student as apt as Kyra. Well, one that wasn’t a murdering psychopath, anyway. Kent found that he was enjoying this a lot more than he would have expected.
With Nicole, he was always playing two gambits. One as an instructor in the dark arts of profiling. The other, well, the other was about seduction. Plus, there was an emotional intelligence in his new bride that was… uncomfortable, that was what it was, but she challenged him in a way that few could.
Kyra, on the other hand, was like a female version of himself. Kent’s legendary charm with breasts. Some proper training, and she would be unstoppable.
Pulling the strings necessary to get Kyra out to the states for college and then Quantico had been one of the best choices he’d made. And that was saying something, indeed.
The door swung open, and Kent pulled his head back a bit to keep from being spotted. He needn’t have worried. The man had eyes only for Kyra.
Kent glanced down at his stopwatch. Two minutes, thirteen seconds. Not bad.
Linking arms, the two sauntered down the hallway, Kyra resting her free hand on the man’s shoulder, creating a closed loop of physical contact. A girlish giggle trickled out of her as she leaned her head in to hear something he had whispered to her. She was really good.
She was also coming in this direction.
Oops.
Kent slunk off in the direction of the elevator, looking for a nook or cranny in which to hide himself. Thank god there was no one around to see his moment of panic. Only Nicole got to see him like this, and that was unavoidable in a relationship.
Relationship. There were moments that he was still shell-shocked. He was married. Like, married. And soon to be a father. You might as well label him gobsmacked.
He shook himself, scanning the hallway for anywhere, anything, that would do as a hiding place. Nothing. Did the Brits not believe in potted plants? This was a serious oversight on their part.
The sounds of Kyra’s approach with her quarry were getting closer and closer. If he didn’t do something, and fast, the whole operation would be scuttled. And might get Kyra fired and them both thrown off the case.
That was not going to happen.
And then he saw it. On the far side of the elevators was a garbage bin. It was small enough that Kent wasn’t sure he could hide behind it, but it was the only option at this point, so he dove behind it just as Kyra rounded the corner with the curator of the museum.
“Just a quick trip,” she was saying. “Five minutes. No one will miss you.”
Kyra was letting him know the timeline. Clever, clever girl.
“You’re sure of that, miss?”
“Please, I’ve told you. Call me Laurie,” Kyra urged the man.
“Right,” he responded with a nervous chuckle. “Oh, hold on a minute. I’ve got to throw away my gum.”
That wasn’t good. Any closer to the bin and Kent would be discovered without question.
“Oh, you have gum?” Kyra asked. “Give it to me instead.” The last line almost hummed with the sexual energy she put into it.
Well, that was disgusting. Kyra must have realized that the garbage can provided the only cover available, and that Kent was more than likely right behind it. Clever wasn’t a strong enough adjective for her.
And then the elevator dinged and they were inside. Kent allowed himself a small breath of relief.
Now, time to see if their ploy had yielded any results.
CHAPTER 6
Nicole pushed aside a fellow pedestrian to get across the street a bit faster. It was a dick move, and she knew it, but she had to get to the Norman Shaw North Building. If she was right, there would be a severed torso waiting for her there.
The thought had crossed her mind to call in the Bobbies, but then she would be giving witness statements for the rest of her stay.
Nope. She was going to figure this out on her own if Kent couldn’t bother to answer his phone.
The sad-looking middle-aged man she had shoved out of the way would just have to get over it. It might not be all that nice, but when there was a murder happening, nice sometimes went out the window.
It wasn’t until Nicole was on the other side of the street that she realized that she might just be turning into Kent. The rationalizations she had just gone through might have come directly out of her new husband’s mouth.
Shaking her head, Nicole turned to the face the buildings in front of her. She could deal with the implications of her lack of empathy later.
The Norman Shaw buildings were edifices that had been constructed back in the years spanning the 19th and 20th centuries. Made of red brick with a look that was somehow both homey and castle-like at once, the buildings seemed to typify everything that Nicole thought of as being typically British.
She knew it was more than likely a tourist fantasy, but she imagined everyone inside eating Cadbury chocolate, drinking tea and eating biscuits. That was not a thought she planned on sharing with anyone, especially considering the rather offensive picture she had seen that morning on Facebook. It was a depiction of a “typical” American breakfast: a huge plate of bacon with a side of eggs and a pistol.
Okay, Nicole had laughed, but it served to show just how far off a foreigner’s observations could really be. It was ridiculous.
Nicole stopped herself and groaned with a dawning realization. The picture had looked familiar to her, and at first she’d thought that she must’ve seen it before. And she had. Just not on Facebook.
Two weeks ago, Kent had almost duplicated that very photo when he’d gotten a hankering for bacon and had fried up an entire package. And Nicole had decided to clean her gun at the table right at the same time.
Maybe the perception wasn’t so far off.
Now, though it was time to get down to business. These buildings were used for the Members
of Parliament, or MPs.
Nicole scrutinized the Norman Shaw North Building. There was security here, which would make it somewhat difficult to get inside. It might be possible to get in with her explanation of what was happening and her American detective badge. Maybe.
But if it didn’t work, then she would be completely screwed. Alerting security to her presence was a risk that didn’t seem to have enough possibility of success for her to move forward.
Once again, Nicole wished that Kent were here. He would know exactly what to do. But the thought of the smugness that would accompany any request on her part for his help didn’t sit all that well with her.
She would have to find her own way in.
* * *
In the end it had been easy. After looking at the exhibits for a minute or so, all Kyra had needed to do was pretend that the remnant of crimes past was exciting enough that she needed a breath of fresh air and a cuppa.
Turned out, a spot of Earl Grey was the curator’s weakness. Well, that or swarthy Gypsy seductresses.
But now that she had faked an emergency to get away from the all-of-the-sudden clingy curator of the Black Museum, Kyra was left wondering one thing. How the hell was she going to find Kent again?
She needn’t have wondered.
After waiting for the curator to make his way back down to the museum, Kyra followed suit, taking the elevator down to the first floor. There, waiting for her with a shit-eating smirk, was the stubbled profiler.
He had clearly found something.
Kyra felt a warm flush of success. Even though she hadn’t been the one to discover whatever it had been, her diversion had been a critical part of the plan.
And Kent was pleased.
She could see it, both in the way he looked at her with eyes that were alight with a mischievous glint and by the manner in which he angled his body toward her. In every way that Kyra could observe, Kent had enjoyed watching her work over the officer in charge of the Black Museum.
Her body glowed with the knowledge of the power she held in her hands. And Kyra realized that part of that power had been over Kent. That was what made the sensation so heady right now.
As much as her performance had been for Billy, the museum curator, it had truly been for Kent, her mentor, her savior, her…
What?
What was he to her?
Even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. Her body was speaking it with every breath she took. But he was married. Kent was here on his honeymoon, for the love of all that was holy. Or unholy, for that matter.
Speaking of unholy, who left his new bride to track down a decade’s old cold case on his honeymoon? There was something seriously off about that.
But more vital at the moment was the information that Kent was keeping from her. She knew it. He knew it.
“All right,” Kyra urged. “Spill.”
The profiler just grinned at her.
* * *
Kent rang for the elevator, and Kyra shifted at his side. Much as he loved keeping her in suspense, this was something he couldn’t contain for long.
“I found one of the Ripper’s letters,” he stated, staring at the number on the top of the elevator as it ticked down toward their floor.
“You saw one of the photos, you mean,” Kyra corrected him.
“No, I saw one of the actual letters. Held it in my hand.”
“You…” Kyra’s eyes dilated. “It was there?”
Kent grinned. “It wasn’t just there. It was tucked away in storage. A box labeled L.A.”
Kyra shook her head. “Los Angeles? That doesn’t make any sense.”
They stepped onto the empty elevator and Kent hit the button for the main level. “No. Leather Apron.”
He could see the dawning realization on Kyra’s face. Leather Apron had been one of the monikers for Jack the Ripper before the letters had started appearing.
“Which one was it?”
Here was where it got really interesting. “None of the ones you’re familiar with,” he responded. “I’m assuming you’ve seen copies of the major four?”
“The ‘Dear Boss’ one, ‘Saucy Jacky’, ‘From Hell’ and the Openshaw letter,” Kyra rattled off. She clearly knew her Ripperology. Which would make this moment even sweeter.
Kent pulled the letter out of his pocket.
Kyra gasped. “You stole it?”
“Not stole,” he protested. Why did everyone think he was such a klepto? “Borrowed. I’ll take it back. You know, if I have time.” He shook his head in irritation. “Just look at it.”
Kyra took the paper, which was encased in a plastic sleeve, gingerly in her hand and peered at it. Her face was rapt with what looked like a combination of excitement and clinical detachment. How she was able to put both of those together was beyond him, but it was fascinating to watch.
“What do you notice?” he asked.
Her eyes shifted to meet his and then darted away. What was that about? In his role as her mentor, Kent supposed his scrutiny might make Kyra squirm, but that didn’t seem much like her
“The handwriting looks like it might be the same as the ‘From Hell’ letter,” she responded, her tone confident.
“Exactly,” he said. “There were a ton of other letters there, ones no one outside Scotland Yard has ever seen before, but this was the only one that was authentic.”
Kyra nodded, then stopped. “Wait. You’re saying that the ‘From Hell’ letter is from the real Ripper?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Kent replied.
From the flash of what looked like frustration in her eyes, he guessed that perhaps it hadn’t been to her. Fine.
“We’ve already established that Jack had to be lower class,” he continued. “That rules out ‘Dear Boss’ and ‘Saucy Jacky’.”
“How so?”
The elevator stopped, and Kent grabbed the letter from Kyra and thrust it back under his jacket. They pushed out through the crowd of people waiting to go up, and Kent nodded toward the exit of the building. They made their way over in silence, waiting until they were outside before they began talking again.
“Didn’t you see the handwriting on those two?” Kent answered as if there had been no interruption. “Way too precise for anyone that was uneducated.”
Kyra nodded. “The writing on the letter you have there is pretty degraded. Were you able to make anything out?”
“One thing,” he replied.
“What?”
“The New Scotland Yard,” Kent said with a grin. Messing with people was just so satisfying. Especially when they were as sharp as Kyra.
“Wait,” she uttered, her tone confused. “We’re at the New Scotland Yard.”
“No, no,” the profiler answered her unspoken question, shaking his head. “Not the new New Scotland Yard. The old New Scotland Yard.”
Comprehension dawned on her lovely face, and Kent could see the enthusiasm that he felt mirrored in her. They had a new mission in front of them.
It was time to go be tourists.
CHAPTER 7
Nicole had staked out the building more than five times by the point she figured something out. She was pretty sure Kent would have already been inside, but she was proud of her own solution.
No one paid the slightest attention to the cleaning staff. Not only did they not seem to notice them, the janitorial workers were all dressed as Nicole was. Casual attire, a downward look, a cleaning cart. That seemed to be the universal passcode here at the Norman Shaw buildings.
Now all that had remained was getting herself one of those carts.
Once she had figured out the way in, the execution had been shockingly simple. It was lunchtime, and several of the cleaning crews exited at the same time, leaving their janitorial supplies all clumped together in an alcove to the side of the building. All Nicole had needed to do was wait for them to clear the area, then she strolled up and grabbed one of the carts, angling toward the security gate.
&n
bsp; Keeping her gaze on the floor, Nicole moved forward, her heart beating. This was Kent’s domain, not hers. She did the kind of police work that was out in the open. Canvassing, asking questions of family members, interrogating suspects. This kind of cloak and dagger stuff was not really her cup of tea.
As she moved toward the metal detector, she pushed the cart off to the side, as she had seen the other staff do as they entered. The guard on duty caught sight of her tee shirt and grinned at her. She nodded, trying to keep her eyes down.
Even pregnant, Nicole still had it.
“Oy,” the guard called out to her as she went through the detector.
Nicole’s heart rate tripled. She could feel the blood coursing through the veins in her head, her pulse throbbing behind her eyes.
“Hmm?” she asked.
“Ain’t yer gonna eat somefink? Yer lot just went out for a bite, didn’t they?”
Nicole experienced a moment of panic. This could be the end of not only her detective work here in London, but her sightseeing as well. Ending up in custody might be Kent’s idea of a good time, but it was not hers.
Thank God she watched Downton Abbey obsessively. She put on her best Yorkshire accent.
“I just forgot summat I was meant to clean. Don’t wanna lose my job over a lunch, ” she answered.
The guard nodded sagely and waved her forward. Nicole let out a silent sigh of relief as she rounded the corner and made her way to the elevator.
She stifled a grin as she hit the call button. Kent’s complaints about how Downton was nothing more than a British soap opera had all just been invalidated in one moment. Next time he said anything about it, she had her answer ready.
Now, to find the cellars.
The layout of the buildings had to have changed over the years, but cellars must be on the lowest floor, right? And since no one had raised the alarm yet, she guessed that either there was no severed torso to be found, or that it hadn’t been discovered yet.
She was hoping for door number one. That was the one that let her go back to her sightseeing without more involvement in this stupid Ripper case.