As the old adage went, one never sees piranhas eating each other, but they always know when others are around.
“Evening,” Koob said, letting a bit more of his accent play out as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
“Evening,” Hirsch replied, keeping his attention on Koob, his torso turned away from the window.
Just shy of forty, his body still very much resembled the one that mustered out of the military years before. Standing exactly between five and six feet in height, his dark hair was shaved tight on the sides, left longer on the top, with eyes to match.
Dressed in the same black pants as Koob, his top half was covered in a fleece pullover, a pair of oversized headphones around his neck.
“Anything?” Koob asked, striding across the expanse of the empty apartment they had acquired a month earlier.
Void of any furniture, his footfalls echoed slightly in the space, the bare wooden floors creaking beneath him.
“The usual,” Hirsch said, tracking Koob’s movements as he moved to the bank of windows Hirsch was staring through, stopping just short and folding his arms.
From their fourth-floor viewpoint, they had a complete vantage of the proceedings below, most of the flashing lights having been extinguished, the street still a tangle of first responder vehicles.
“How’d it go with the old man?” Hirsch asked, his body folded into a canvas chair, a host of equipment strewn on the floor around him.
Across one thigh lay the Walther PPK with a noise suppressor he had aimed at the door when Koob arrived.
On the other was a camera with an extended zoom lens.
“Like you’d expect,” Koob said. “He’s trying to play it cool, but underneath he’s practically jumping out of his skin wanting to get things going.”
Hirsch’s first response was a small grunt, a sound of equal parts snort and smirk, followed by, “I bet.”
To that, Koob only nodded.
Hirsch was aware of his own thoughts on the matter, there being no need to further mention them now.
“Any sign of her?” Koob asked.
“Nothing,” Hirsch replied. “Thus far, only the local cops and all the crap they bring with them.”
“Anything on the airwaves?” Koob asked.
“Neville says nothing yet,” Hirsch replied. “About a half hour ago they rolled the bodies out, didn’t seem to be much commotion about it.
“Just a few more late-night stiffs taking a ride down to the morgue.”
Going back through his memory, Koob recalled the scene as he had left it, the carnage that was strewn across the small landing in the apartment building across the street.
There might not be much movement around things now, but come morning, he looked for all hell to break loose.
Which was exactly the point.
Chapter Eleven
The weapon that Sydney Rye had lifted off the man was an older model Beretta, standard issue among law enforcement departments that hadn’t bothered to switch over to the Glock. Holding fifteen rounds, it was a decent start to what Rye suspected would need to be done in the coming days, though she couldn’t help but shake the feeling that something with a bit more stopping power might be necessary before she was finished.
What the definition of that might prove to be she couldn’t yet be certain, though if what she feared was the reason for the message she received the day before came to pass, it would be something larger than just a nine millimeter.
A hell of a lot larger.
With the serial number filed off the bottom, the rest of the weapon seemed to be in as good of condition as could be expected, the scent of gun oil present on the barrel, the slide smooth and easy on the pull.
In an ideal world, she would find someplace remote to sight in the weapon, to make sure what she was working with fired true.
But, as she knew all too well, it had been a long ass time since she’d lived in anything resembling an ideal world.
On the seat beside her sat a roll of cash with almost three thousand dollars bounded tight with a rubber band. In the glove compartment beneath her elbow were two baggies of crystal meth, the drug appealing to her none whatsoever, the potential trade value it could possess being the reason she snagged it.
That, and the added benefit of giving the middle finger to the man she had taken it from.
Not once since driving away had she been concerned about looking over her shoulder, knowing his type, that he would be too proud to ever call the cops and say he got beat down by a woman.
If someone that did what he did for a living could even consider such a thing to begin with.
The weight of the weapon balanced across her thigh provided little comfort as she sat parked on a quiet side street in an area the map on her RoamZone cell phone referred to as Franklinton. In the seat behind her, Blue had raised himself into a vertical position, his hot breath rubbing against her bare shoulder as he sat panting, staring out through the front windshield, both having their worst fears play out for them in real time.
From where they were, it was impossible to get a clear view of what was taking place, though the pulsating strobes of light that had died out a few minutes earlier and the amassed collection of cars blocking traffic made it pretty clear.
Never had Rye been one for coincidences. For a long time now she had been familiar with just how vindictive a bastard the world could be.
There was no way that the frantic note she’d received didn’t now directly correlate to the show she was forced to sit and watch.
All that remained was determining how bad things had gotten, if her vacation had potentially cost someone their life.
The mere thought of such a thing caused Rye’s fingers to curl up into a fist, her nails digging into her palm. Squeezing tight, she relished the feeling of pain passing through her skin, looked down to see the striations in the back of her hand bulging, veins running along her forearm.
The first time she had met Nora Heatherington, the girl reminded her a lot of herself.
Or rather, the way she used to be.
Wide-eyed and innocent, the girl had seen the world through a veil of optimism that made her instantly endearing.
And drew a target on her that was easily visible to anybody with even a passing knowledge of what to look for.
It was only through extreme luck and circumstance that she had gotten onto Rye’s radar, the entire affair a meteoric sort that began and ended quickly, with untold stories all crammed into the short time between.
Just sitting and thinking about them, recalling each of the instances, caused the acrimony within Rye to raise. Keeping her hand clenched tight, she held the position just short of puncturing the skin before releasing, pushing her breath out with it.
There would be a time for rage. The opportune moment to let it out, to aim it where it belonged and unleash every bit of what she’d been thinking the last eighteen hours.
That time was just not now.
In the meantime, there was work to be done, planning that needed to be undertaken.
She and Blue were both running on the better part of a day without sustenance or rest. Her weaponry was pathetically thin, and she was in a city she’d barely even heard of, entirely dependent on her phone for any sort of geographic information.
All that she would get to soon enough.
But first, she needed to track down the medical examiner’s office and determine if she was looking for her friend, or her killer.
Chapter Twelve
The third floor of the 8th Precinct was completely deserted as Reed and Billie ascended, the combined sounds of their feet scraping against the stairs the sole sound. Overhead, staircase lighting was the only form of illumination, the open spaces to either side sitting shrouded in darkness.
Which was fine by Reed, his thoughts back at the apartment complex, not particularly in the mood for conversation.
Arranged in the same fashion as the first floor, they walked t
hrough an open expanse as they stepped away from the stairs, the glowing lights of frosted panels in a center doorway pulling them forward.
Pushing through, they found the back half of the building only nominally more occupied than the front, the tile floor and painted gray walls containing just a single person. Leaning against the wall before them, he stood with his hands thrust down into the front of his uniform pants, his head angled toward the floor.
At the sound of their arrival, his eyes went wide for a moment – as if he had been caught in a compromising position – before recognition set in and his features relaxed.
“Detective Mattox,” Officer Adam Gilchrist said, using his hips to push away from the wall.
“Officer,” Reed said, extending his hand before him.
Matching the grip, Gilchrist pumped twice before releasing and turning to the side, light spilling out from a pane of one-way glass beside him.
Through it, a single woman could be seen, her cheeks red and puffy, her strawberry blonde hair standing at odd angles around her head.
“Eva Cantwell, I presume?” Reed said, pointing with his chin, his hands deep in the front pockets of his hooded sweatshirt.
“Oh yeah,” Gilchrist replied. “I know, because I’ve had to endure her asking at least a hundred times if I know who she is?”
Feeling one corner of his mouth rise into a smile, Reed let the look linger for an instant before dropping it back into place.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said. “I hear you did a good job diffusing things at the scene, though. We appreciate it.”
A tinge of red rose to the young man’s features at the praise, his head dipping slightly in acceptance.
In his mid-twenties, he was just in his second year with the department. Paired up with Derek Greene as his training officer, the two would be together for the remainder of the year before he was reassigned, a pre-determined arrangement Reed wasn’t sure either one wanted to see happen.
Nor did he, if he got right down to it.
Prone to the occasional rookie mistake, never were they caused by a lack of effort or compassion, a fact that he couldn’t help but respect in the young man.
“Things at the scene were wrapping up when I left,” Reed said. “We can handle her if you want to head down, or you’re welcome to stick around here. Your call.”
Without waiting for a response, he shifted his attention to Billie and said, “Down,” his partner lowering herself to her haunches beside him.
Moving for the door, Reed rested a hand against it before cocking his head to the side and raising an eyebrow. “She say anything useful I should know about?”
Pursing his lips, Gilchrist shook his head slightly. “Just a whole lot of telling us how we should be doing our job.”
On the spectrum of things, it wasn’t the best Reed could hope for, though it was certainly a far cry from some of the worst he’d encountered over the years.
At least she was just telling them what to do.
Others preferred to stand and take pop shots, calling them pigs or telling them to go find a donut somewhere.
As if he could even remember the last time he’d had a pastry.
Nodding in response, Reed pushed his way inside the room, feeling the cool draft of the space wash over him. As he did so, the woman jerked her attention toward him, her mouth open to make a comment.
Apparently not expecting to see him, a crease appeared between her brows, a bit of confusion flooding in.
“Who are you?” the woman snapped.
In her early forties, signs of aging were just beginning to take hold, squint lines forming around her eyes and on either side of her mouth.
“My name is Detective Reed Mattox, I am the lead investigator on this case. I apologize for leaving you here for some time, but I needed to be there for the full processing of the scene while it was still fresh.”
“Some time?” the woman replied, sarcasm evident in her tone. Raising her arm, she looked down at a bare left wrist and asked, “Is three hours what you call some time?”
Knowing better than to wade any deeper into the matter, to give the woman anything she might be able to grasp and run with, Reed instead shifted directions.
“I understand you are Lynda Cantwell’s daughter. I am very sorry for your loss.”
“Are you?” the woman replied, her face twisted up slightly as she rocked back in her seat, her focus rolling to the side. “Or are you just sorry about the shit storm that is about to hit this place because of it?”
Again, Reed refused to rise to the bait, knowing nothing good could come from it.
“I know this must be a terribly difficult time, so I promise to be brief,” he said.
Across from him, Eva snorted, though managed to refrain from comment.
And just as Reed had been forced to do a hundred times before, he tried to reserve judgment on the lady, knowing that there was no predetermined way for people to react in such a situation.
It’s not like you could tell people the proper way to grieve.
“I know there has been some controversy surrounding your mother in recent months,” Reed began, “but did she ever mention anything in particular? Anyone that had been especially aggressive? Any fears or concerns she might have been having?”
Jerking her attention back to him, Eva smirked, her head rocking back slightly. “Fears and concerns? Are you kidding me? Have you seen this shithole little chunk of town?”
Pressing his lips down tight, Reed forced himself not to comment, not to point out that what she called a shithole, he worked in every day to try and improve.
“Yeah, she had concerns,” Eva said. “We all did. Everybody tried to convince her not to move down here, but she wouldn’t hear about it. Kept saying she refused to have her final legacy be getting forced out of office.”
For the first time since stepping foot into the room, Reed felt like there might be some small hint of genuine emotion behind the woman's comments, a sheen of moisture appearing in the corners of her eyes.
“Three or four times a week my brother or I would pop down to check on her, would call on the other days to make sure she was okay, to see if she wanted to come stay with us, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
“My mom was on a mission, and when she got that way, there was nothing you could do to stop her.”
Chapter Thirteen
By the time Reed led Eva Cantwell out the front door and to her car, more than two hours had slipped by. Most of that time had been spent either placating the woman or listening to her take not-so-thinly veiled jabs at anything she could think of, Reed or his employer being the primary beneficiaries.
What had started as an ironclad belief that the victim and their families were never to be blamed, that ill will could not be harbored in the wake of a tragedy, ended by getting the most serious strain it had ever received.
Twenty more minutes, and there’s no telling what Reed might have said. Or if he would have said anything, giving Billie the hand signal to do her worst.
It’s only so many times a man can be called an incompetent ass before he has his fill.
Taking in one last pointed barb, Reed didn’t bother to wait for Eva to climb in her car and drive away, instead turning and heading back inside the moment she hit the parking lot. By his side was Billie, again sensing his demeanor, her own set to mirror it.
Much as it had been hours before, the interior of the precinct was largely void of life. Besides himself and his partner, he knew Lou would be at the dispatch desk on the second floor, the ancient man a fixture around the precinct, having come in just minutes before to start his shift.
Aside from him, the only other light in the building was coming from behind the frosted panes of the administrative suite, a glow that Reed was quite certain hadn’t been on when they first arrived.
Seeing it, every part of him was reminded of the fact that he and Billie had both just pulled an all-nighter they hadn’t planned on, had skipped most
of dinner. His sole focus was on going upstairs and collecting his notes before heading home, getting them both fueled up for the investigation ahead.
Despite that, the more pragmatic side of him knew that skipping past without at least stopping in for a status update would not be the wisest of career choices.
“Five minutes,” Reed said, glancing down to Billie, who offered nothing more in response than a slow blink.
Side by side the two pushed through the double doors, not the least bit surprised to find the glowing light radiating from Grimes’s office. Stopping just outside it, Reed tapped against the frame with a single knuckle, leaning forward at the waist.
“Captain? Got a minute?”
His head snapping up from a stack of papers before him, Grimes’s hand shot into the air, his fingers curling back, beckoning Reed inward.
“Come in. I was just about to head upstairs and see how things were going.”
Releasing a sigh, Reed walked back to the same chair he had occupied ten hours earlier and dropped himself into it.
Beside him, Billie assumed her usual position, not needing the command to know what happened next, the morning debriefings a regular part of their patrol.
That, or she was beginning to feel the same exhaustion as Reed.
“How bad?” Grimes asked in opening.
Whether he was referring to the scene or the interview, Reed couldn’t be certain, the answer to both being one in the same.
“Awful,” Reed replied, leaving it at that for a moment, letting it sink in, before beginning anew.
“The site was a mess, complete and utter,” Reed said. “Two victims, both female. One, a young nun that teaches school at St. Anne’s.”
As he delivered the information, a series of folds appeared around Grimes’s eyes, matching those lining the underside of his chin caused by the deep frown he wore.
“The other,” Reed continued, “Lynda Cantwell.”
There being so much more he could have added, he left any extended commentary aside, knowing the captain was already fully aware of the woman and what she represented.
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