Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know it yet, as in I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law, but it’s him.” I can tell Jay’s not convinced. He’s old school and always reluctant to use the ‘s’ word because of what it means, which is usually federal investigators, tasks forces and a lot of fucking press. But I don’t care about any of that shit. I just want to catch this asshole.
“Jay,” I begin, digging in like the stubborn ass I’m known in the department to be. “The kill methods aren’t exactly the same, but his modus operandi is already showing itself.”
Jay stands and removes his gloves, swiping his overgrown wavy hair from his face. “Explain.”
“This time he exposed the organs, sure, but the cuts are similar in type. Very sharp and precise cuts, which I’m sure Dr. Montgomery will confirm.” Chris Montgomery is the medical examiner, and he knows this killer almost as well as I do.
“Lots of crazy assholes with a fetish for knives, Frankie. You find a connection between the victims yet?”
I sigh, my frustration mounting. Is Jay going to pull rank on me and take the case in a different direction? Victimology isn’t my strong suit. “Not yet, but I’m still digging.”
I’m not sure how far back I’ll have to go to find out what connects these—now three—guys, but I know I’ll find it. I’m going to be the one to find this fucker and bring him to justice or put a bullet in his head to stop this mess.
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Frankie.” Here it comes. Jay pulling rank on me. I'm anything but a rookie, but the lead detective has the right to make the important decisions. “You want it to be the same guy, but we don’t have enough proof it’s a serial.”
I’m hungry, grumpy, and in desperate need of another cup of hot coffee. I’m also determined to prove to Jay that I’m right.
“Look,” he says. “You want another notch in your belt. I get it. I’ve been there. But we need the evidence.”
“You’re right,” I say reluctantly, “but I’ll get there.” Now I have even more motivation. I’m going to prove to Jay that I’m right and this creep is a fucking serial killer. He forgets I have my father’s DNA in my blood.
“Finally,” I growl when I spot the two blue vans that mark the arrival of the CSIs. “Where the hell have you guys been?” I ask when they approach the scene.
“Traffic.” Nate, my ex, answers with a casual shrug and a smirk that only pisses me off even more.
“Bullshit. This is the one time of day there is no traffic in this fucking city. It’s raining in case you haven’t noticed, and we need to get this shit collected and logged.”
“We don’t work for you, Frankie,” he growls in a familiar refrain that’s funnily enough, exactly how we ended up fucking and then in a relationship for a year longer than we should have been.
“No, you work for the people of Los Angeles, same as I do, and the rest of us managed to make it out here in a timely manner.”
He shrugs again as if this is no big deal. “I’m here now.”
Asshole. We had the same stupid arguments over the two years we were together, and he’s still the same irresponsible jerk I kicked to the curb six months ago.
“Good. Do your damn job,” I snap, annoyed that he’s late and so nonchalant about it. And to top it off, Nate’s panty-melting smile, which used to turn me on, now makes me want to throat-punch him.
“I’d love to. And maybe after this, we can grab breakfast at that diner you like. Talk?”
Did I hear a purr in that invitation?
I scoff. “There’s nothing to talk about, Nate.”
Undeterred, he presses on. “I think there is. You know I do.”
“I know you think there is, but there isn’t. You can take your wandering dick elsewhere.” I turn away, my stomach growling for more than just food.
“Forget him,” Jay says in a low voice. “He’s not worth it.”
“I know, but I’m cold, tired, and hungry. And this fucking serial murderer is pissing me off.”
“We don’t know it’s the same guy,” Jay reminds me.
He’s right, we don’t know for sure. “It is but the only way to prove it is to find evidence that points to one killer for all three victims.” My gaze scans the area that surrounds the St. Jude Fountain. The park is in the middle of downtown Los Angeles, but there are only two direct paths to the fountain. “The killer would need direct access if he’s carrying a body,” I say half to Jay but mostly to myself. “The north entrance leads to a bank, and he’s shown himself too smart for such a rookie mistake.” The guy is good at avoiding cameras, leaving evidence or any other ways we could potentially identify him.