Got Thrills? A Boxed Set (A McCray Collection)

by Carolyn McCray

  “Where are we going?” Trey asked, but there was no response from the detective as he stepped out of the Laundromat and into the street, causing at least one car to slam on its brakes to keep from hitting him. Trey rushed out, holding his hands up in an apology to the irate driver who had failed to get Darc’s attention with his swearing. “Sorry, dude! Working a case!” Trey flashed his badge.

  Okay. Apparently, babysitting included bodyguard and chauffeur services, as well. Whatever. Trey would take care of the brainiac until this case was over, then he’d hightail it back to vice, no matter what that crazy captain had to say about it.

  He’d pick drug dealers and strippers over this any day of the week.

  * * *

  Darc had not said a word to Officer Keane since they got in the car. On the inside of Darc’s mind, the glowing paths of light were overlaid atop a map of Seattle, telling Darc where he needed to go. When the lines indicated they were to turn left, Darc pointed left and Keane dutifully turned the wheel.

  The fact that Darc was not speaking had not kept Officer Keane from emitting a steady stream of words. Darc was beginning to believe that his temporary partner might have some sort of disorder. So far, the man had touched on baseball, bacon, the original Star Wars trilogy and his thoughts on plastic surgery. But now it seemed that Keane had turned his attention back to the case at hand.

  “So… are you going to tell me where we’re going and what we’re doing there?”

  “There should be no need to inform you of our destination,” Darc replied, breaking his silence. “A good detective would know without asking.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not a detective, am I?” For a man who was in the middle of driving, Officer Keane used his hands more than seemed prudent. “Besides, this is my first homicide. I don’t know what freaky stuff you guys do. Give me meth labs and sleazy C.I.s. They make sense. Serial killers don’t.”

  The glowing lines of logic flashed red, violated by Keane’s statement. “That is not accurate,” Darc corrected the vice cop. “The consumption of mind-altering chemicals causes those involved in that industry to be highly volatile. In contrast, with serial killers, once their modus operandi is identified, much can be known about them with little to no contact.”

  “Seriously?” Keane turned in his seat and looked directly at Darc. The vice cop appeared unconcerned with basic driving safety. “That doesn’t seem right. I mean, what do we know about Hairless Harry? He’s got a thing for trimmers and he’s like the only guy who understands Roman numbers. That’s not a ton to go off, dude.”

  Darc could see no benefit from continuing this conversation. “I have no desire to explain profiling to an officer who works vice.”

  “Oh, I know profiling. Last time I checked, we’re not supposed to do it. Racist, dude. Totally racist.” Trey looked over at Darc and grinned, apparently reacting to Darc’s scowl. “Kidding. Man, you’ve gotta lighten up.”

  Pointing left down another street they needed to turn down, Darc refrained from commenting. As they made the turn onto the brick street, Darc could feel the texture of the road change underneath the wheels of the car. They were entering into Pioneer Square, an older area of Seattle that boasted beautiful architecture, creative personalities, and a colorful collection of homeless denizens.

  As they pulled up to the address of the victim’s apartment complex, which the M.E. had found in the wallet in her purse, Keane stopped the car and locked the doors to the car before Darc could get out. The glowing lines were urging Darc up and out of the car, toward the old and shabby building in front of them, but it was clear that Keane had another idea.

  “Okay, here’s the deal, dude. You don’t want me here. I get it.” The vice cop raised his hand to stop Darc before he could interrupt. “I’m not so sure I want to be here either, but I am, so I at least want to know what’s going on.”

  “The likelihood that you could assist me in this investigation is minimal. I calculate the percentage as somewhere between five and seven percent.” They were wasting time here. The gleaming tracks of light in his mind beckoned to Darc, coaxing him out of the car.

  “Yeah, I get that. But according to your captain, it’s either me or him, and I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be as easy for you to walk all over Merle.” Keane shrugged, his face complacent. “Your call, dude. You fill me in, or you deal with mister big-and-beefy-boss-dude.”

  The logic strands swirled, assimilating the new data. It did not take long for a pattern to emerge. “Understood. The victim’s name is Abigail Lockwood. She lived here, in this apartment complex. Time of death was determined to be between 1:30 and 2:00 am. The M.E. found skin under her fingernails and is processing it for DNA. She showed all the other markers of Hairless Harry’s M.O.”

  “And what’s the profile we’re looking for?” Officer Keane asked, surprising Darc. The glistening ciphers representing the vice cop’s chances of contributing to the case rose from between five and seven percent to between ten and twelve.

  “Male, 25-30, intelligent, with a background in history, literature or languages. Someone detail oriented and well organized.”

  Keane nodded his head. “Cool. Let’s go.” He unlocked the door to the car, and the two of them headed up to the apartment complex’s entrance. Darc noted the aging lettering of the sign outside that proclaimed there were units available for rent. It was not an upscale residence.

  Glancing at the call box, Darc found the button for the manager and pushed, leaving his finger there for several long seconds. Moments later, a voice blared from the ancient speaker, distorted and cracking. “Yeah?”

  “Seattle PD. We need to talk.”

  * * *

  Trey watched as the greasy-haired man with the bad comb-over jangled his way through the mess of keys he held clutched in his fist. The manager, Mike, had appeared forty to Trey when he’d first seen him, but looking closer, he was probably closer to his early thirties. The balding thing aged him.

  “So… did you know Abigail?” Trey asked, hoping to glean some additional information about their victim. Or at least break the silence that had reigned since they had met the taciturn manager.

  The man grunted, shaking his head. Apparently, Mike wasn’t much for chit-chat. He found the right key, turned it in the lock and pushed the door of the apartment open. Trey entered after Darc, looking over his shoulder at the manager, who was looking around the apartment, seemingly rapt. Weird.

  Trey turned his attention to the apartment. It was somewhat sparse, with a couch and loveseat set that looked like it had seen some use surrounding a flat-screen television in the main living space. There were some posters plastered on the walls for what looked like local Seattle bands. Some blank spaces interspersed amongst them indicated places where several had been taken down.

  The bedroom off to the side was about the same. A nice bedroom set that was at least five or six years old. A frilly coverlet that was starting to fray at the edges. The entire apartment spoke of someone who was not poor, but who was not swimming in money by any means. Trey opened up one of the dresser drawers.

  “Darc. Take a look.”

  As Darc moved to Trey’s side, Trey pulled out the photos he had found scattered in the drawer. There were pictures of groups of girls out drinking, at what looked like an office party, several dressed up for Halloween. But the ones that had grabbed Trey’s attention were of a blonde girl and a guy, where the guy had been scratched or marked out in every single one.

  “An ex-boyfriend?” Trey asked.

  “He was a jerk.” The voice jolted Trey, causing him to spin around to face the manager, who was looking over his shoulder at the photos. His eyes were distant, and his face was a mask of anger.

  “Wait. I thought you said you didn’t know her.”

  His eyes darted up to Trey’s, an expression of what looked like fear crossing over his features. “I didn’t. I don’t.” The manager backed away a step. “I would just see them talking in the halls som
etimes. He wasn’t very… nice.”

  “There are no male toiletries in the bathroom,” Darc said, joining in the conversation. “If he lived here before, he no longer does.”

  “Moved out. Two or three months ago,” Mike growled, his tone accusatory.

  “Any idea where he moved to?” Trey probed.

  “No. Sometimes I see mail for him on the box downstairs. No forwarding address.”

  Trey turned to Darc. “We could track down where he is.”

  “There is no need. The probability that the boyfriend is involved is statistically negligible.” Darc had already turned to focus on a stack of mail on the kitchen table.

  “Fine. I’ll keep checking through the bedroom.”

  As Trey moved around to the side of the bed to get a look at what might be underneath, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. The manager, still standing next to the dresser, jerked his hand out of one of the drawers that had remained open from Trey’s search. A flash of something white that was quickly hidden.

  “Hey!” Trey came upright in a heartbeat. “What have you got there?”

  The manager blanched, his face slack. “N…nothing.”

  “You just pulled something out of that drawer and put it in your pocket.”

  “No… no, I…” the man stammered.

  Trey sighed. “Look, dude. Are you going to show me what it was, or am I gonna have to pat you down? ‘Cause that won’t be fun for me or for you.”

  Mike looked from side to side, looking like he wanted nothing more than a way out of the conversation. Finally, when Trey moved toward him, the manager backed up and put a hand into his pocket. It came out clutching a pair of white panties.

  “Um, Darc?” Trey called out. “I think we might want to take this guy down to the station for a little talk.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Darc looked through the one-way window at the suspect. Michael Jensen, age 32, former Latin teacher at Seattle Prep, a private Jesuit high school. He had been dismissed for “inappropriate behavior” with a student. His sheet contained three charges of peeping and one of public exposure. There had also been a charge of stalking that had been dropped.

  He fit the profile perfectly.

  Not only had the manager known the victim, but upon a search of his rooms, they had turned up photos of Abigail that she clearly hadn’t known the suspect had been taking. And all of the killings so far had taken place within a twenty minute walk of his apartment complex.

  Something was troubling Darc, however. The lines of logic in his mind refused to come together completely. It was a near thing, but one of the strands was refusing to cooperate. Without the lock on those threads of reasoning, Darc could not be certain that they had the right person.

  Opening the door into the interrogation room, Darc was surprised to find Officer Keane pushing in behind him. “I do not need you for this,” Darc intoned.

  “Dude. Partner, remember?” Keane said as he plopped himself down across the table from Michael Jensen. The suspect lifted his head to look at the two lawmen now in the room with him, his demeanor both sullen and nervous. Or that could be boredom. So difficult to tell with gray emotion.

  That was part of the issue here. Their killer was organized, intelligent, savvy. Michael Jensen seemed to be none of these things, but Darc could not be sure. The lines inside of Darc’s mind sparked and spat, snaking away from him as he tried to grapple them together.

  “Michael Jensen,” Darc began, opening up the man’s file. “You were dismissed from Seattle Prep for unbecoming conduct. Would you like to tell me what happened?”

  “Idiot nuns. They thought they were so superior.” The manager spat his words out. “Refused to even listen to what Megan had to say.”

  Trey held up a hand, cutting off Darc’s next question. “Dude. You like football or baseball?”

  “Um. Football.”

  “Huh. Chinese or Italian?”

  “Italian, I guess.” The manager was clearly confused by the vice cop’s line of questioning. No more so than Darc.

  “About the stalking charge against you that was dismissed, who was that?” Darc redirected the man’s attention to the file in front of them.

  “One of the residents at an apartment I managed before this last one.” Michael shrugged, his expression pinched. Irritation, or thirst? “I took a picture of her. She freaked.”

  Keane leaned in toward the suspect once more. “Sushi, tapas or dim sum?”

  “I don’t know,” the manager answered, a frown on his face. “I’ve never had any of those.”

  “Right. You like summer or winter better?”

  “Summer.”

  “Game of Thrones or Twilight?” Keane pressed.

  “Twilight, I suppose.”

  The vice cop sank back into his chair, seemingly satisfied. Darc stared at him for a moment, waiting to make sure he wouldn’t interrupt again. When Keane just smiled up at him, Darc continued.

  “Can you tell us where you were last night between one—”

  “Market and 5th,” Keane blurted out.

  The manager started, causing his metal chair to scrape across the tile. His jaw hung open. Either the man was shocked, or he was suffering a stroke. Darc swiveled around to face the vice cop. “What did you say?”

  “That’s where he picks up his prostitutes. Along the Track.” When Officer Keane saw the look on Darc’s face, he pointed at their suspect. “Look at him. He’s got ‘John’ written all over him. And not just every once in a while. My guess is he’s a regular.”

  As Darc redirected his attention to the man across the table, he could see that the manager’s gaze was darting about wildly. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He waved his hands in dismissal of what Officer Keane had said.

  “I… I don’t use hookers,” the man protested.

  “Yeah, dude. Whatever.” Keane dismissed him, then spoke to Darc. “Hey. I’m gonna call my C.I. She works that strip. She might know our guy here.” He pulled out his cell phone and hit one of the speed dial numbers. After a moment, he spoke into the receiver. “Hey, Sugar! It’s Trey.” He held his hand over the phone and whispered, “That’s not her real name.”

  Darc was completely baffled by what was happening here. Moments earlier he had been interrogating a suspect, when his temporary partner began spewing out nonsense questions and was now talking to a streetwalker. The lines of logic in his head were swirling about, all akimbo, as off kilter as he himself was.

  “So, yeah, I need a favor, baby.” Keane continued talking to his informant, ignoring Darc and the suspect once again. “Have you seen a guy named Mike down your way? Yeah. Nasty hair. Mostly bald.” He paused for a moment, listening. “Ten bucks, next time I see you. Okay, okay, twenty.” More listening, then he frowned. “Thanks, Sugar!” Keane closed his cell phone with a snap.

  “Soooo…” Keane said, looking at the manager. “You’ve been a busy, busy boy. Almost every night down there. That explains the nasty furniture in your apartment.” He turned back to Darc. “Can I speak to you outside for a sec?”

  As Darc stepped out into the hallway, the sounds and smells of the nearby bullpen asserted themselves. Someone had ordered an early lunch. The scents of garlic and oregano suggested something Italian in origin. A uniformed cop passed by, nodding at Keane as the vice cop shut the door behind him. Keane nodded back, then turned to Darc and blurted out, “He’s not our guy. Sugar says he always looks for the cheapest prostitutes he can find. She saw him pick one up early this morning at around 1:30. She was back working the streets at 2.”

  “That account seems to be much more specific than a prostitute would typically be,” Darc responded. “How certain are you that her recollection is accurate?”

  “That’s the thing about Sugar. She’s got like a photographic memory. I’ve never seen her get anything wrong.”

  “Eidetic,” Darc replied.

  “What?”

  “The proper term is ‘eideti
c’ memory, not photographic.”

  Trey waved his hands. “Whatever, dude. She remembers stuff. She’s good. We can trust her.”

  From the way that the lines of logic had settled as Trey was speaking, Darc knew he was correct. This was not their man. He turned to walk back to his office.

  “Um, Darc?” Trey called out after him. Darc kept walking. After a moment, the vice cop caught up to him. “What about our manager guy back there?”

  “What about him?” Darc was no longer thinking about Michael Jensen. He was now analyzing the tracks of color within his mind, looking for the next fragment to follow. The manager was an irrelevance.

  “Dude. We can’t just leave him there. He’s innocent.”

  “Innocent of murder, yes. He’s guilty of hiring a prostitute. You work in vice. Arrest him, Officer Keane.” The matter was of little importance. In fact, Darc was frustrated that they were still talking about it.

  “I’m not going to arrest him. We’re working a homicide. With a serial killer. That guy’s just a perv.”

  “Then let him go. I do not care.”

  “Hey!” Keane moved in front of Darc and came to a halt, stopping Darc’s forward progress back toward the bullpen. “Hold on a second.” The vice cop ticked off numbers on his fingers as he spoke. “First thing, stop calling me Officer Keane. At least as long as we’re working together. I’m Trey.”

  What Darc called this man was also of little importance. He nodded his head.

  “Second thing. Stop moving so fast. You’re like one of those speed walkers.”

  “Walking slowly is inefficient.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” Trey waved his hands, brushing away the comment. “Third. Treat me like a freaking partner, dude.”

  Curious. “Was I not treating you as a partner?” Darc asked. The question was sincere. Out of the five partners he’d had in the last eleven months and five days, three of them had said something to the same effect. That was statistically significant.

  “No! Not even close.”