She fell easily into the Q&A. “Someone — an unknown male — was killed and left in a dumpster between midnight and six am yesterday morning. Fact. His face was beaten, and all identifying marks were violently removed. Fact.”
She’d gotten a bottle of water out of the office fridge, but was using it more to gesture with than to drink from. I didn’t know if she was using current to keep any water from sloshing out, but it was impressive nonetheless.
“And,” she went on, “the display of the dump site was exactly the same as one that occurred thirty years ago, fact, where the only thing that was different was the race of the victim. Fact.”
“The only think we are currently aware of being different,” I corrected her.
“Right. Currently aware of. Also a fact: I saw the dump site.” She frowned. “I saw the dump site,” she repeated. “I don’t see dump sites.”
The only sound in the office was the thump of the other boot dropping. “No?”
“No. You know I don’t. I see the victims, sometimes the moment of death, sometimes the scene of the death, but not after they’re dead, not like that, in so much detail.” She set the water bottle down carefully on my desk and sank into the chair opposite me. “You think my skillset’s… expanding?” She looked horrified at the idea, and I didn’t blame her.
“That’s Wren’s area of expertise, not mine.” I’d lived this long not getting directly tangled in Talent matters, and I intended to continue that theme. “More likely it’s what she said, that the killer in the current case is Talent, maybe a seer of some kind, and that you picked up their bad vibrations, not the victim’s.” Which would also explain why poor Shadow saw the poor bastard too late to save him. It wasn’t his death-fear she was picking up, but the killer’s… what? Anxiety? Glee?
How many seers were there among Talent? Was this something she was going to have to deal with, along with the dying putting a claim on her? If so, it was a nasty move on part of the Universe and I did not approve.
The Universe and I hadn’t been on good terms for a long time now, though, and it didn’t seem to bother it a bit.
“So, another fact,” I said instead. “The vision had bad reception, hooking you into the past event as well, reason possibly because the killer was also a Talent and was projecting their own sick connection to that past crime into the current.”
She nodded, her expression a mix of resignation and hope. “Wren’s got a call in to the PUPs, see what Bonnie can get her.”
“If there’s anything to get, Bonnie will have it.” I didn’t say anything about my own calls: since nothing had come up, better to wait and see. Too many hands in the pot just got fingers burned. “So we have a seer with a muddled vision, and a dead body, killed with violence at the hands of a single perp and left in a manner that echoes the dump site of a murder three decades ago. But it wasn’t the work of the original killer.”
“You’re sure that’s a fact?”
She wasn’t challenging me, just clarifying.
“First, he wasn’t a Talent. Second, I went to his funeral,” I said. “Full honor guard and bagpipes.”
Her eyes widened. “A cop?”
I don’t know why she looked so horrified. She should have gotten over any idea of cops as better-than-average long ago.
“A cop,” I confirmed. No need to name names, the dead were dead.
Ellen licked her lips, rubbed the back of her hand across the tip of her nose, then finally asked, “Can ghosts… can they kill?”
“Not like that. Not with that kind of physical violence.” And I’d only heard rumors of ghosts who had enough oomph to interact with Nulls at all. There had to be an impressive level of unfinished business to tether a spirit to the physical world, once the flesh fell away. Or so I’d been told. “It wasn’t him, Ellen.”
I’d trained her too well, to accept reassurances that vague. “How do you know?”
“Because if it was, he would have gone after me, first.” Nothing personal; he’d just been that kind of a bastard, and my outliving him would be proof that I wasn’t entirely human. And that was all he would have needed while he was alive, much less dead.
“Oh.” She pursed her mouth, digesting that.
I shook my head, and rubbed my own nose, which was starting to itch. “Look, it’s late — hell, it’s gotten past late and around again to early. Go home, get some sleep. Or kip here if you’re too tired to slog home.” We didn’t have a sofa in the office, but there was an air mattress I knew firsthand was reasonably comfortable.
“But — ”
“The dead are already dead, Ellen. I’m more worried about you right now, and I know firsthand what happens to overtired Talent.” More to the point, what happened around overtired Talent, but she took my point.
“Yeah, okay. And no. You might be able to sleep on an airbag but I prefer actual padding and a pillow.” She stood up, stretching to her full height — which was a few inches more than mine, not that she lorded that over me more than once or twice a week. “Regroup in the morning?”
“Wren and Didier might have something for us by noon, so let’s say 11?” I could and had gone on no sleep for a few days, if I needed to, but six hours of shuteye was optimal if I wanted brain cells. “Back here, unless we get a call — ”
The phone rang.
We both stared at it. “Phone calls at 2 am are never good news,” but I answered it anyway.
“Sylvan Invest — what happened?”
Phone calls from Scott at 2am were only ever bad news.
“Yeah, all right. Yeah. I’m on my way. Thanks, man.” But he’d already hung up.
“They found another body,” she said.
“They found another body,” I confirmed.
Thirty years, nothing. Now two dead bodies with the same probable cause of death in twenty-four hours.
Ellen’s skin had taken an unhealthy, ashen look. “Boss… is it a good thing or bad, that I didn’t see this one happening?”
Honest to god, I didn’t know.
oOo
“Another day, another dumpster.” The uniform who’d been told to show us to the scene had at least a decade under his badge, and the attitude of someone who’d retire out of a squad car, not behind a desk. But he was honest enough, and didn’t give back any gruff about Ellen tagging along, or make a snide comment about private dicks. I’d heard them all before, even made a few myself, but two in the morning, when you’re stone cold sober and standing in a dingy Queens alley over a body that’s only a few hours dead…. Yeah, not the time to appreciate dick jokes.
“White, from the shape of his gut I’d say mid-forties. Face, feet and hands disfigured.” The uniform’s tag read Miller, B, and he recited the info like he was reminding himself what to buy at the supermarket.
“Bald,” I noted, looking over the edge before a tech shot me a glare for getting in their way.
“Yeah. Or his hair got bashed off.” Miller smirked, and got the same wattage of stare from the tech, who was getting awfully possessive of the body. I moved back a little, bringing Miller with me.
“Two in two days. You boys are going to start catching some heat on this.”
Off to the side, Ellen jerked, like she’d been poked with something sharp, but she didn’t say anything, so I didn’t call her on it.
“Maybe. First guy, not in the system, nobody’s come looking for him. Bet you my first year’s retirement this guy’s the same.”
“No bet.”
While we were talking, Ellen had moved closer to the dumpster. She must be taking lessons in sneak from her mentor, because the tech barely glanced at her before going back to work.
She hovered a minute, her hands lifted just a little over her hips, like she was trying to resist the urge to touch something. I watched her indirectly, keeping my focus on Miller so he kept his focus on me.
“Think there’ll be a third?”
I shrugged. “Depends on how bad the weather gets.”
The crazy rises when the temperature rises. More accidental deaths in winter, fewer spree killings. Historically, anyway. And Ellen had said it was warm, in her last vision.
Speaking of whom, Ellen had turned away from the dumpster. I could see her face in profile, like the bas relief of a coin or some ancient Egyptian sculpture, giving nothing away except a regal sort of sternness. But if you knew what to look for, the stress lines were there.
“Good luck,” I said, not meaning a word of it. I didn’t want the NYPD anywhere near this, out of sheer self-preservation. Fortunately, Miler was probably right. Nobody would raise a stink about these victims, and the cases would get back-burnered until they were ice cold.
Just like the first one. Nothing had really changed.
Milled just grunted at me as we left, but other eyes watched us until we were under the tape and back in civilian territory where we belonged. Scott may have vouched for us being there, but we weren’t wanted.
If I let that bother me, I’d never get any work done.
“You all right?”
“I was looking for trace.” Ellen licked her lips, then rubbed the back of her hand against them. “If the killer had been Talent, there might have been something left on the body.”
That sounded like a PUPI-trick. Useful. “And?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Maybe they washed it off, Bonnie says it can be done, but killing with current usually needs a lot of… passion. That’s hard to scrape off, after.”
“So maybe we have the world’s first dispassionate Talent killer. Lucky us.” I was only partially being sarcastic. “Or they were in such a cold rage that their core just locked down.” It could happen, theoretically, and if it did we’d have no way to know. You can’t prove a negative, only presume it. “But something’s got your brain twisted around. What?”
“What you said, back there.”
I nodded, although I wasn’t sure what I’d said, specifically.
“It’s what I heard you say in the first vision. You were here. So I got that much right. But I saw the last murder, not this one.” She didn’t look at me, but studied the street in front of us, frowning slightly. An early-morning jogger went past, swerving out of our way without missing a step. “Why didn’t I See this one? And why did I feel him, in that last vision, and not the earlier ones?”
“Maybe because it was invoked? You were reaching out, not letting it come to you, and that made the difference? We’re not going to do that again, either,” I added, before she could say anything. “If you felt him he might have felt you, and that’s a no-go.” I used my no-argument voice, and she nodded once. “The visions are all screwed up, we got that. You’re seeing past tangled in future mixed with now, and trying to untangle it’s probably impossible, except after the fact.” I didn’t want to tell her how often that was true with any case. “So that’s what we’re going to do, take what we have, and see what it tells us. Old school Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Three minutes later, an Outerboro cab prowled down the street, and slowed in front of us. Ellen stepped off the curb, and I followed. There weren’t many Talent cabbies, but if one was in the area, having Ellen ping them was a hell of a lot faster than trying to flag one down in a residential neighborhood, or summon one via an app.
“Where to, boss?” he asked Ellen, and she looked at me for a response.
I give them Valere’s address. If nothing else, she’ll have coffee made by the time we get there.
oOo
Sergei met them at the door. He was wearing a suit, his silk tie beautifully knotted, and an air of annoyed distraction. It was impossible to tell if he’d just gotten in, or he was just going out. With Sergei Didier, it could be either, and Ellen knew better than to ask. “Second pot’s just about done,” he told them, “and Wren’s in the workroom.”
That had been Ellen’s bedroom, for the very short time she’d stayed with her mentor. The two women had quickly agreed that a little distance would keep them from trying to kill each other, and Wren had turned the space into a heavily-warded practice room, where Ellen could make mistakes without worrying about frying the entire building.
Most times they went outside, or up onto the roof, because both of them were more comfortable there, but when winter hit, or it was too hot, Ellen could appreciate being inside.
Danny veered off into the kitchen to score a mug of coffee. Ellen went down the hallway and knocked on the workroom’s door, a sharp shave-and-a-haircut rap.
*In/safe*
Inside, Wren was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her shoulders relaxed and her eyes closed. Ellen waited, not bothering to close the door again: Danny would be coming to join them, and they wouldn’t be doing any practice runs today, anyway.
“Another body?”
“Uh-huh.” Around Wren, despite her best efforts, Ellen always felt herself revert back to the awkward, self-conscious self she’d been when she was first dragged into the Cosa Nostradamus. She’d gotten past the fear, finally, and the last lingering voices telling her she was crazy had been smothered under the reassurances of her mentor, her boss, and the PUPs, but next to Wren’s smooth-limbed gracefulness and sheer competence, it occasionally all came flooding back.
If Wren noticed, she didn’t say anything about it. “You didn’t sense anything this time? No visions?”
“No.”
“Good.” Wren opened her eyes, and looked up at Ellen. “I know you want to use your skills to get to the bottom of this, and I respect that, but you also need to stay safe yourself. No more soliciting visions, okay? Let Hendrickson throw himself into white knighting all over the city, that’s not your job.”
“As always, your concern for my welfare is breathtaking.” He was carrying two plain white mugs, and handed one to Ellen.
“Boss?” Ellen looked at him, and raised her eyebrows significantly. He sighed. “I can at least have my coffee?”
“What?” Wren looked between the two of them, then rose to her feet with the grace Ellen had just been envying. “I’m going to be needing a chair for this, aren’t I?”
“Probably,” he said, turning to let her go past him through the doorway, then following her back to the main room, where two loveseats flanked a low table, and the far wall of windows opened up to a view that probably cost more than Ellen could even imagine. Most of the time she managed to forget that Wren and Sergei were well-off — and how Wren had earned most of that money.
Wren took a seat, and Ellen sat on the opposing sofa, but Danny stayed standing.
“Hendrickson?”
“There was another murder, similar to this, three decades ago.” His shoulders were straight, his chin up, and for an instant Ellen could see the overlay of the young cop he must have been once. “Dumpster dump, identifying marks scraped off, shoeless…. Pretty much a replay except for the race.”
“And he was never identified?”
“Oh, he was identified.” Danny gave a short, humorless laugh. “The victim was… word was, he had been assaulting homeless people, just for kicks. Sexual assault on some of them. And not all of them survived.”
“But none of the survivors talked? And with no evidence to arrest, much less convict, someone laid down homemade justice?” Wren didn’t even sound surprised.
“Back then… no. Nobody was talking. And yes.” He looked at Ellen, briefly, then locked gazes with her mentor. “I knew who was behind the killing. And I knew who covered it up.” He swallowed, but didn’t drop his gaze.
“Did you help cover it up?”
“No. But I knew it was happening.” Guilt, and disgust writhed in those words. “They’re all dead now, Valere. They have been for years.”
There was something going on in the stare those two held, but Ellen couldn’t read it. Finally, her mentor dropped her gaze, and sighed. “Ghost?”
Danny’s mouth twisted like he’d sucked a lemon. “You’ve got more experience with that than I do. What do you think?”
; “It takes an awful lot of rage to keep a ghost around, plus some physical remnant for them to latch onto — usually their bones.”
“The original killer was cremated,” he said. “And the other two, the ones who covered it up… they held a lot of things inside, but not rage.” He cared about those people, Ellen realized. Was that why he’d kept quiet? Because he’d judged one man’s life not worth ruining two others?
She didn’t think she’d make that choice, she didn’t think he’d make that choice again. But she wasn’t certain of it.
The Work of Hunters Page 6