Chapter One 

“Jesus, Crash. What the hell was that?” 

It was a rhetorical question, so Derek shook his head at the patrolwoman and got into his car. That, was a woman in her late sixties who’d been strangled to death. It wasn’t something anyone ever wanted to see, and he wasn’t surprised that Leslie was still putting it together in her head. He was too. 

Leslie had offered to drive, but he was glad he hadn’t let her; the steering wheel gave him something to do besides crack his knuckles and wring his goddamn fingers. She put on her seatbelt as he pulled away from the curb, and he rolled his eyes. Sure, it was the law, and maybe he hadn’t earned the nickname “Crash” for his pristine driving record, but it was only eight blocks to the precinct. What could possibly happen? 

Leslie looked over at him. “You’ve got to be tired of this.” 

He could feel her eyes on his face but didn’t look away from the road. “Tired isn’t the right word.” Angry. Worried. Baffled. Stressed. Nervous. Sleepless. Lots of words came to mind. Tired didn’t begin to cover it. This was murder number three in as many months, and he was livid. The problem was he had no idea what he was going to do about it yet. He had to do something, obviously. As the detective assigned to all three cases, everyone was looking to him for answers. 

But he didn’t have any. Not one. 

He wasn’t going to admit that because he wanted to keep his job long enough at least to get his one-year performance review. Plus, he was pretty sure half the precinct already thought he was an idiot, so he kept his cards close to his chest and hoped to hell someone on his team would find him something he could sink his teeth into this time. 

Something other than “this one was strangled too”. That was just terrifying. Three people, all strangled, but with nothing else in common? That was a nightmare. A serial killer shaped nightmare. 

His nightmare. 

His phone buzzed, and he resisted the urge—manfully, he thought—not to roll down the window and toss the fucking thing out into the street. 

His mind was racing, dealing with images of the swollen, black tongue and missing wedding ring of his latest vic and the inevitable horror that came with knowing he had to tell the family. He didn’t have the time or the capacity to deal with distracting emails or calls on his phone. 

Especially while he was driving. Leslie might have kittens. 

“You’ll call—” 

“I’ll contact the family. I’m on it. You want me to be there again?” 

“Please.” Hell, yes. He had to be the bearer of bad news, he accepted that, but Leslie would cover the awkward things like hugs and Kleenex. Somehow she always managed to find words, good things to say. Better things than, “I’m so sorry,” which was all he ever seemed to be able to muster. 

He was sorry, though. Genuinely. He was drowning in regret that he hadn’t found the asshole responsible for the first murder, let alone the second, and now there was a third. He had no intention of giving bad news to a fourth family. 

He pulled into the garage and parked in his reserved spot. “You’ll—” 

“I’ll text you when they’ve arrived.” Leslie never let him finish a sentence. Just as well, he didn’t much feel like talking. He needed to think. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket as they got on the elevator, reminding him he had messages waiting. Who the hell emailed anymore? His team would have texted. His friends texted. Oh. Maybe it was his Verizon bill. 

When he clicked the button, though, it was a familiar name. 

Matthew Herrera. 

Asshole. 

The son of a bitch had worked a couple of high-profile cases ten years ago, had a breakdown, and had disappeared into the desert. Until now. Now the bastard was crawling up his dick like a Brazilian fish. 

Back when Herrera was relevant, Crash might have had more interest in whatever the profiler had to say. But ten years later, after radio silence, after the country had forgotten Herrera even existed, he just skimmed the emails, humoring the guy and pretending to have patience like he did with Mrs. Rosen down the hall when she told him about everyone that came and went in the building while he was gone all day. 

He’d nod and smile, say thank you, and disappear into his apartment before his takeout Chinese got cold. 

This time he didn’t even skim. He hit delete. He had more important things to do than to give time to a desert-dwelling, nosy hobbyist. The asshole was crazy, and when he found out which joker in the department gave out his email, he was going to hit someone. 

Hell, maybe he’d just start socking pricks in the mouth until someone confessed. 

Good idea, idiot. Maybe one of them will knock some sense into you. 

“I’ll text you in a bit, detective. Get some coffee. You look like shit.” 

Derek blinked at Leslie, only just realizing they’d stepped off the elevator. Wow. “I’m fine. Thanks, Leslie.” 

Fine. Just another body to deal with. No big deal, right? 

Coffee was the right answer though, or part of it, and he got himself a cup and took it back to his office. Then he pulled a pack of Camels from his top drawer, flipped open the lid and inhaled, deep. The tangy scent of the tobacco was just enough to make his hands stop shaking but not enough to make him not want to smoke. 

Dammit. 

He tossed the pack back in the drawer and shut it tight. 

His email beeped again, Herrera’s name popping up. 

Delete. 

Fucker. 

He was going to have to block the bastard. 

He could solve this mess on his own. He and his team would figure this out. He sure as shit didn’t need some has-been playing armchair quarterback. Right? 

Right. 

Maybe. 

He glared at his phone as the familiar voice of doubt rattled him, made his fingers itch. 

Maybe you can do this. Or maybe you’ll fuck it up in spectacular fashion. 

He told that voice to shut up and was rewarded with a you’re a hack and you know it headache. 

Oh, fuck it. 

He reached for his phone. He’d just read this last one. One more just to prove to that bitch of a voice that he didn’t need the help of a lunatic recluse. 

He took her wedding ring, didn’t he? Did he choke her with Gene Harris’s tie’? The text shocked the shit out of him. Who was feeding this fuck information? and STOP IGNORING ME! 

What the actual fuck? The names of the victims were given to the press after he’d notified the family but the details—like the wedding rings—were not. His thumbs hovered over the screen for a millisecond as he debated whether to respond. 

When I find out who is leaking shit to you, I’m going to have their ass arrested. And yours. You know, I might just have your harassing ass arrested on principle. Go the fuck away. 

He hit send without thinking about it. He did a lot of shit without thinking about it, impulsivity was his greatest weakness, and also his greatest strength. Some people called him stupid, some people called him brave. That was cool; he’d understood from a young age that they were the same thing. 

He was so over this New Mexican hermit, but that doubting voice told him to text the ME next, so, also impulsively, he did. 

Angie, was there a wedding ring in Mrs. Cohen’s throat? Was it Gene Harris’ ring? 

Before Angie answered, his phone beeped, the New Mexico number popping up again. I’d love to see you try, detective. I’m helping. 

Motherfucker. 

He got three-quarters through with a scathing answer when Angie answered him. Ring yes. How the fuck would I know whose it is? Man’s. Big. 

He stared at Angie’s text, then sent her a thank you, followed by kissy lips and a middle finger. 

The simplest answer was usually correct. But what was the simplest answer? Herrera had hacked something? Herrera was in on it? Herrera had made a lucky guess? 

He tapped Herrera’s last text and dialed the number, waiting for the asshole to pick up. Helping, his ass. 

“Menos mal.” Deep and growly, obviously pissed—Herrera had a voice meant to be listened to. “I’ve been waiting for your call.” 

Waiting for…for fuck’s sake. It was like he’d been summoned. Arrogant prick. Derek didn’t bother trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “What do you want, Mr. Herrera?” 

“I assumed it was what you wanted, no? To find this asshole.” 

“I want to know where you’re getting your information so I can plug the leak, and then I want you to stop contacting me.” 

“Fine. I’ll speak to Detective O’Reilly. I assumed as you were trying so desperately to fill Martin’s shoes, you might be willing to listen.” 

“Desperately—who the hell do you think you are?” Oh, this guy was lucky New Mexico was a longer reach than his arm. “There’s nothing to listen to. You’ve been driving me batshit with your lunatic emails.” 

But… 

“I’m not fucking desperate.” 

But Herrera knew about the ring. 

He took a deep breath, swallowed his pride and lowered his voice. “The ME found the ring, but we don’t know who it belongs to yet. Tell me how you know about it.” 

“Because I pay attention. Case number 259313. Vivica Reyes. Found dead from manual strangulation with Andy Lipinski’s ring in her throat.” 

259313… 259313… 

Derek pulled out a pen and scribbled the number on his palm. 

259313 Reyes Lipinski 

“I’ll look into it.” That case was forever ago, and wasn’t the killer still in prison? “Are we done?” 

“Until you find a young woman dead in a laundromat strangled with one of Mrs. Cohen’s scarves. Absolutely.” A dark chuckle sounded. “Good evening, detective.” 

There was no way Herrera could know that. The scarf was an educated guess he could have made if he thought about it and the laundromat? A total fabrication meant to try to impress him. It was a load of insane bullshit. 

He noted, however, that neither of them had hung up the phone. 

Bottom line, he didn’t want to find another dead body at all. Anywhere. Woman, scarf, in the laundromat, in the billiard room with the candlestick, whatever. Right or wrong, he didn’t give a shit. He couldn’t afford to. It just needed it to not happen again. 

“How long do we have?” 

“Six days, if he stays to type. It’ll be close. Six block radius. Did you find any threats at the other scenes?” 

Fuck, he wasn’t going to sleep at all. “Nothing obvious, but we’re still sifting through things. Some personal items and their cell phones are missing. Six days. Six days? Are you sure?” 

“Cell phones… All smart phones?” He heard mad typing, faster than he could think, for fuck’s sake. 

“Yes. None of them have been powered up since they disappeared; we’ve been watching them.” 

Six fucking days. Six days and he hadn’t even been able to put together an MO yet. He needed to get the team together. 

“So he’s younger, I’ll bet. He’s found a younger one…” 

“He who? What? Younger than who?” 

“If I knew that, Rick Adonai’s fucking partner would be in jail, don’t you think?” Oh, that hit a nerve, didn’t it? 

Adonai had a partner? He didn’t recall reading there was anyone still on the loose. “Partner? I thought that case was closed. No one ever talked about a partner.” 

“I thought so too, until Denise Lewis. Note I’ve been emailing since then.” 

Denise was the first. A young nurse, newlywed, nothing tying her to the other two but the missing cell phone. 

“Noted. But your emails are long and rambling, and I couldn’t manage to retain anything. I gave up reading them. You come off like a lunatic. You know that, right? If you had something direct to say, why didn’t you just say it?” 

I think Adonai had a partner. How hard would that have been? 

The laughter that rang out was shocking. “I said what I meant.” 

“Well, I found it esoteric and disorganized. I couldn’t follow it at all. You do much better in conversation.” The emails were insane. Long and rambling, circling around a point—if there was a point at all. 

“Things have become infinitely clearer over the last few days. Infinitely.” 

“Yeah, well. I’m out of infinite. If you’re right, I’ve got six days.” 

He had a strong team and top forensic experts on the job, but they were almost nowhere on this. If Herrera was right, he was going to have to ask for help. He was going to have to get into the killer’s head. The accomplice’s head. One more murder, and his next step would have to be the FBI and then he’d really look like an idiot. He would prefer to see this case solved in-house. 

At this point, even a lunatic’s help was preferable to none. “When can you get out here? What time is it there? Can you get on a flight tonight?” 

“That’s not an option. Sorry.” 

He blinked. What? “I’m sorry? Not an option?” Surely there was a late flight out, but…right. He was working with a nut job. Oh. Maybe it was money. “So…first thing in the morning, then? It’s on my dime.” 

“No. You do your job there. I—don’t travel well.” 

Oh. That wasn’t going to work. People here were already looking for reasons to discount him, and he wasn’t making it very difficult on them. The last thing he needed was to say he had a source in New-Fucking-Mexico that was profiling for him. He’s brilliant, but he’s lost it, and he won’t get on an airplane so… 

Nope. 

“Listen, Herrera—Matthew. Or Matty. Can I call you Matty? Listen, Matty. You need to appreciate something, okay? I’m the newest detective on the block. And the youngest. And I’m—” He sighed. He was fucking desperate, wasn’t he? “I have questions. I have to understand how you know what you know. I have to see the profile. If you’re telling me we really only have six days…” 

“I’ll send you a profile. You’ll have it tonight. Goodbye, detective.” 

Click. Well, okay then. 

Crash stared at his phone and shook his head as the dust settled. What the hell was he doing? This was no way to go about an investigation. He needed something concrete. A real starting point. Not some disjointed babble. He needed to get off the bus to crazy town. 

He picked up his phone and texted Angie again. 

Tell me you have something. 

The knock at his door interrupted him, and Leslie poked her head in. “They’re here.” 

“Thank you. I’ll be—no, I’m coming.” 

No answer from Angie. Okay. He had a job to do. God, he hated this part. 

He took a deep breath and followed Leslie.