'Los shot her a glance and she shrugged helplessly.
"Yep," 'Los replied. "Along with the fact that the sexual violation mentioned was done with a chess piece. With all due respect, Cap, it makes sense."
He glared at ‘Los. "I don't know if I told you two this, but I could be on a cruise right now. On the Caribbean. Watching a fucking Tony Bennett impersonator sing while I sip a drink sure to give me diabetes out of a pineapple. Instead, I'm listening to you pitch me a theory that sounds like the opening to a bad joke. 'A pawn shop owner and a priest walk into a bar—'" He let out a single bark of laughter that morphed into a groan. "I'm not even telling the wife about this. The I-told-you-so's are going to be endless."
He was starting to crumble. She could see it. If only he would hurry the process along…
She risked a glance at the wall clock and cleared her throat.
"Sir, I know this is a bit of a surprise, but we cannot stress the importance of acting quickly and decisively. We need your support, here, and we need it fast. Two people were killed a day apart. More deaths are imminent, and if we don't figure out his next move before he makes it—"
"God dammit," Satterfield grunted. "Fine. Give it to me again. Everything you've got," he said as he picked up a pen and dragged a notepad from his desk drawer.
They went over everything they discovered and how they believed it all tied together. He’d even grudgingly handed over his pad for her to draw a mini replica of their Midtown streets chessboard, when Lucky’s phone buzzed indicating she’d received an urgent email. She lifted it from her lap, instantly straightening when she saw the sender.
Her heart started to pound as she skimmed its contents.
The results from the Walsh crime scene from the lab. No match on any of the prints found at Mel’s store or from the knapsack, but they removed the blood from the sticker underneath the wood base. It was typewriter ink, not laserjet printed, and there was an image attached.
A sizzle rolled through her as she waited for the attachment to load onto her screen. A few seconds later, a picture of the sticker filled the screen, with the characters cleaned up and clear as day. Not B4.
E4.
Dimly, she heard ‘Los still talking to the Captain as she quickly opened a browser and did a search. She tipped the phone toward them so they could all see it at once.
“From the lab,” she murmured, breathless. “This is the sticker off the wooden base Mel Walsh had been skewered onto.”
‘Los frowned. “E4…could be a military thing. A corporal in the army, or a petty officer in the Navy.”
She shook her head and clicked over to her open browser.
“E4. The most popular opening move in chess,” she said, buzzing with a rush of adrenaline.
Satterfield dropped his head to his hands with a groan.
“Son of a bitch.”
27
“That everyone?”
‘Los glanced around the large conference room and nodded. “Looks like it.”
“Okay, then let’s get started,” Satterfield muttered. “First off, none of this leaves the room. We are working with the Mayor’s office and the Commissioner to set up a press conference, at which time select details of this case will be released to the public. It is crucial that our man does not get wind of what we know and what we don’t. Not. A. Fucking. Word. Not to your wife, or your buddy at McDougal’s, not to your pastor. Understood?”
All present nodded, but, given his warning glare, it wasn’t like they had much of a choice.
Lucky glanced around the room and took in the faces with a note of grim satisfaction. She had to give it to Satterfield. Despite his initial reluctance, once they’d gotten one more piece of solid evidence to support their claim, he dove right in. Half a dozen detectives and beat-cops were present, including Flynn and Stevens. Not to mention Abbott and Fielding from IT, plus, a brilliant civilian crime analyst employed by the NYPD named Maryanne Ivanoff. The entire team’s current cases had been reassigned, and a meeting had been on the books an hour later.
While she personally wasn’t a fan of Flynn, for obvious reasons, he was a solid pick. Dogged, determined, and smart in his way. All in all, the group the Captain had put together on short notice was crackshot, as far as she was concerned. It was a good thing. The clock was ticking and they needed all the help they could get.
“Strickland, Figueroa, why don’t you get everyone up to speed?” Satterfield said, waving them to the front of the room where he’d been standing next to a large board with a computer-generated printout of the one she and ‘Los had created at her apartment the night before.
They made their way to the board and turned to face the room that watched in rapt attention. They’d all been around long enough to know this was something big.
“Luck?” he murmured with a nod.
She cleared her throat. “At this time, we’re fairly certain that Mel Walsh and Bishop Moncrief were murdered by the same person. We are also fairly certain that the perp will strike again, and soon, if he hasn’t already. In a nutshell, all the evidence we have to date supports the theory that we have a serial killer on our hands.”
A low murmur rolled through the room and everyone sat up a little straighter.
“Last night, we identified a pattern that indicates our man is likely using the grid-like layout of the streets in Midtown as a chessboard. Each block is a space on the board. And the pieces? Are our victims.”
She could almost feel the sudden tension in the room as her words sunk in.
“The pawn store owner and the Bishop. Holy fuck,” Stevens muttered.
Holy fuck about summed it up.
For the next few minutes, she and ‘Los walked them through the basics, where each victim had started, where they ended up and the path they likely took to get there as the team furiously took notes.
“We need boots on the ground, conducting interviews with the families to determine if either or both men had a knowledge of or connection with chess or one another. The detectives can manage that piece. Then, we need people to go over the prior interviews, videos, case notes, and M.E. reports with a fine-tooth comb with the new information we have in mind and see if anything pops in a different way. Flynn?”
“Yup. Stevens and I can do that,” Flynn said with a curt nod.
“Last, we need IT to work with Maryanne to determine if there have been other related crimes that we’ve missed. Fielding, that will be you. Once that’s in the works and rolling, you will join Abbott in working the chess angle. Put what we know into some sort of program or whatever wizardry you two do to hopefully present us with the most likely potential next moves based on the information we have. If we can extrapolate and get ahead of him, we have a chance of stopping him before he kills again. Mel was killed Sunday night, then the Bishop on Tuesday. If there isn’t another body out there waiting for us to find it already, then it’s likely there will be one coming tonight. We need to find him, fast.”
Lucky set down her water and surveyed the earnest faces in the room.
There were low murmurs as the others stood and grabbed their notebooks, and Lucky could feel the hum of energy in the air. It was a big case. One that could make or break careers. But more importantly, they weren’t just trying to figure out whodunnit. This was one of those rare occasions where they could actually stop him from doing it again. If they did their jobs well, there was a chance that lives could be saved.
It was a heavy burden, but also a catalyst like no other.
“That’s it, then,” the Captain said grimly. “Get on out there and let’s nail this bastard.”
28
She and ‘Los hadn’t been at their desk for twenty minutes, going over their own notes, when they got the first call from one of the team members.
“Strickland.”
“Got a hit right off the bat,” Fielding said without preamble. “Call came in last night from The Luther hotel on 54th, which sits squarely within what we’ve identified
are the board limits. White, male victim was discovered in one of the rooms and was ID’ed as Brandon Ryland. Moonlights as a drag queen. There was even a witness who saw the suspect leaving the scene. I’m putting together an email with the report and a bullet point of the details and will ship it to you in the next ten minutes.”
Her wheels started turning as she dissected each word. “You said ‘moonlights’. Present tense.”
“Yup. Not sure if his moonlighting days are over but, as of right now, he’s alive and in intensive care at Mount Sinai.”
A rush of elation coursed through her. She snatched a pen from her desk and scrawled down the info, her hand shaky. She tried to stay calm. Too much hope was never good. Maybe this one was a coincidence. Violent attacks on people in marginalized groups were so common, the crimes required a dedicated task force. And the victim in this attack had survived. If this was their man, had he left Brandon alive on purpose?
She had a million questions that needed answering.
“Thanks, Fielding. Good work.”
She disconnected and turned to ‘Los.
“We need to go to Mount Sinai.”
Lucky stared down at the man on the hospital bed before her and tried not to react.
It physically hurt to look at him.
Not because he was a mess. She had seen far more grisly injuries. But something about his face hit her right in the chest. The straight, Roman nose. The angular cheekbones. She’d seen a picture of him in happier times on the ride over, and even his easy smile reminded her of Brad.
Brandon Ryland, AKA Vanity Mansfield. His mother was from out of town but had flown in on a red eye early this morning and was in the waiting room, ready to speak with them.
Lucky glanced down at the open file folder in her hand and scanned the front page again. The scene had been processed overnight by the officers on duty, with a follow up from the Hate Crime Task Force. They had a good amount of information at hand, and even better, they had what could potentially be game-changing DNA.
Brandon Ryland had put up a hell of a fight. With a lacerated spleen, internal bleeding that had required surgery, and a head wound, he was still listed in critical condition, though. Lucky just hoped he still had some fight left in him.
She looked down at him again and swallowed hard. Remnants of bright red lipstick were a garish smear, half bleeding across his face like a child after a popsicle on a hot summer day. False lashes hung, intact on one side but hanging by one tiny tack of glue on the other, looking like a spider descending from his receding hairline. The dishwater blond locks were longish, but sparse and still dotted with a few clips that had clearly held a wig in place. In person, he resembled her brother even more, with one, major difference.
Despite the closed eyes, pallor of his skin, and slow, low cadence of his breath, Brandon Ryland was still very much alive.
“Assuming all goes to plan and we get an ideal outcome, it could be days before he regains consciousness, Detectives,” the doctor informed them. “And even then, I wouldn’t hold your breath as far as meaningful testimony. With this type of trauma, he might not ever remember anything useful from last night, or even the day of the attack.”
She had little doubt. The human mind was the world’s greatest computer. If the data was too hard to process, sometimes it just hit delete. It could be a blessing but also a curse.
Either way, they would deal with it. Because now that they’d caught his scent? She and ‘Los were going to hunt this bastard down like a pair of bloodhounds. She never felt more determined.
We’re going to get him, Brandon. I swear it.
“We should go ahead and talk to the mother,” ‘Los said softly.
Lucky spared Brandon one last glance and crossed the room toward her partner, nodding to the uniformed officer stationed outside Brandon’s doorway.
He led the way down the hall and then hung a right into a tiny waiting room, empty save for a woman seated in the corner, head bowed, hands folded in prayer.
‘Los cleared his throat and she looked up.
“Oh, hello there.”
Lucky could’ve picked her out of a lineup. She had the same great bones her son did, high in the cheek and fine around the jawline. But even if not for the resemblance, the swollen eyes, puffy lips and posture—slumped over like a marionette with its strings cut—would've tipped her off. She was a mother, broken. Something Lucky had born witness to for over a year before her own had bid this world goodbye to join her son.
She turned her gaze to the file folder on the table in front of them and let ‘Los make the introductions.
"Mrs. Ryland? I'm Carlos Figueroa, this is my partner, Ella Strickland. We're so sorry about what happened to your son.”
She was a large, statuesque woman, but she looked remarkably fragile. Lucky got the sense that hadn't been the case a week earlier.
"It's Miss, actually, but call me Nancy. I haven't been Mrs. since Brandon came out and his father decided to disown him.”
She seemed like she was about to say more, but then tears filled her eyes and she covered her mouth to stifle a sob.
"I'm sorry. This is still such a shock to me. He was so happy, getting to live his dreams, and loved New York so much." Her shoulders shook as she continued. “After having such a hard time in high school, and for years after, it seemed like he'd finally found peace here. And then, this happens. How is that fair, Detective? How come one person gets such a heap of pain?"
Her anguished gaze searched Carlos's face for answers, but there were none.
"I don't know, ma'am. But what I do know is that we are going to do everything in our power to catch the person who did this and bring them to justice."
The conviction in his voice rang through loud and clear, a fact which seemed to center the grieving mother for the moment.
"Yes. That's a start. What can I do to help?" She leaned in, crossing her arms over her belly, hungry for direction...some purpose to give her something to think about besides her son fighting for his life.
"Did Brandon tell you anything about a new lover or friend?" Lucky asked.
Nancy frowned in thought, but then shook her head. "I was trying to come up with a list of suspects on the flight here. His last boyfriend moved away for work. They tried to do the long distance thing, and it fizzled. No big blow out. No broken hearts. As for work, with all the big personalities, you'd think there’d be lots of drama, but there really wasn't. Or, if there was, he didn't tell me about it. The performers all got along pretty well, for the most part. Brandon hated his day job, though. His boss was a real prick. Mocked him for the drag shows and definitely had a chip on his shoulder about Brandon being gay. It wouldn't hurt my feelings if you made his life uncomfortable by bringing him in for questioning. Prick. Curtis Martin is his name."
‘Los jotted down the boss's name and the name of the company. They'd call him, maybe ask him the same questions they were asking Brandon's mother, due diligence and all. But Lucky already knew in her gut he wasn't their guy.
"How often did you and Brandon speak?" Lucky asked.
"A few times a week, at least. And we would text in between. It was one of the things I was most grateful for and proud of."
"Why is that?" Carlos asked.
"Boys never remember to call their mothers often enough, do they, Detective?"
‘Los had the good grace to flush, and a ghost of a smile passed over Nancy's lips. Lucky could see the second she remembered her child was in a coma just a few doors away. The flicker of devastation in her eyes...the smile sagging as she stiffened, steeling herself against the blow.
Lucky tamped down the rush of emotions and tried to focus. "When was the last time you spoke with him?"
"The morning before the attack. He called to tell me he'd gotten an email from an agent who wanted to talk to him about Vanity. He was very excited."
Lucky’s nape prickled and her eyes locked with ‘Los’s for a second before he leaned in to take Nancy's hand.
"Why would an agent want to hurt my son, Detective?"
An agent wouldn't. But a serial killer pretending to be an agent? That was a whole other story.
"Did Brandon mention his name at any point? This agent?"
"He might have, but I don’t recall it. Brandon said they corresponded by email. If you check his inbox, I'm sure it would still be there.”
No phone had been recovered at the crime scene, and the assumption had been that his attacker had taken it. A warrant for data from the phone carrier was in process, but getting a look at his home computer or laptop might offer some clues in the meantime.
"Can you take us to his apartment?"
"I can. I always stayed with him when I came to the city, so I have the key. He has a laptop. I'm sure his email is logged in there and you can see for yourselves."
She pushed her chair from the table and stood. "I came straight here when my flight landed and I have to go there to drop off my things and take a shower anyway. You can give me a ride, look around and see if you find anything that could help, and take the computer if you need to."
Lucky thanked the woman, and they made their way to the exit.
It wasn't until they climbed into the car a few minutes later that Lucky realized her hands were trembling. She could sense it, like they’d caught the trail of a fat partridge. They didn't have him yet, but they were getting closer. Every cell in her body knew it and strained to get closer, still.
Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland) Page 18