CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jake smacked the Send key, then shot a jaundiced eye at his in-box’s counter. Two solid hours of paperwork and e-mail had done little to reduce the overflowing number of demands for his attention. Only a masochistic idiot—or a power-hungry fool—hungered to perform police paperwork. He’d never quite forgiven himself for joining the competitors for this job, even if it had kept Cosby out of the seat.
No flashes from his telephone to announce a breakthrough on the Williams case, or anything else on his plate. Nothing but biting his nails, kicking red tape, and booting another request for help into thin air whenever he thought it might work.
He could send another e-mail to the lab—and get his ears chewed off.
He drummed his fingers on the table. He should have picked up some peanut brittle if he truly wanted a bribe. Maybe at lunch.
But Astrid should call soon. He grinned, warmed by anticipation for more than the case.
“Jake.” A boxy female sat down beside his desk with more emphasis than grace. “I need to talk to you. Don’t bother standing up; neither of us has time.”
“Good to see you, Lieutenant.” Jake rapidly locked down his computer.
She shot him a filthy look from underneath Belhaven’s cheapest haircut.
“Magdalena,” he corrected quickly. She tolerated formality from nobody.
Her clothing was immaculately clean, thanks to the early hour and her lab coat, and virulently polyester. It had probably originated at a store more frequented by the town’s indigents than its cops. Unlike other women, she never talked about shopping, only family and work.
“Care for some coffee? Or would you prefer tea? We just added some new decaffeinated green to our stash,” he added, remembering recent gossip.
“No, not now, I’ve got to see the district attorney in a few minutes. But I wanted to get this to you right away.” She shoved a folder across his crowded desk.
“The Williams case?” He grabbed the anonymous rectangle. “Anything interesting?”
“I personally did all the work.”
“What the hell?” Belhaven spent a fortune on its CSI, and nobody ran a tighter squad than Lieutenant Baldwin. She had plenty of grunts to do the dirty jobs.
She kicked his door shut with her heel and leaned forward.
“The car’s a complete loss so far; nothing there except the victim.”
“Looked like the perp was wearing gloves, according to the traffic cam.” Jake lowered his voice to match hers.
“Well, if you saw that much, it’s more than anybody else did, even with computer assistance. The FBI couldn’t blow that video up.”
Jake frowned and tried to think back to the traffic control center. Williams had been standing . . .
Magdalena cut into his thoughts.
“No sign of the victim on the mask. Heck, there’s no sign of anything on its outside—it’s just a plain wool ski mask.”
“Plain wool ski mask?” Jake felt as if he was feeling his way through a fog, where every word only made the mist deeper and deeper.
“Yes, a solid black wool ski mask. Pure, virgin wool with absolutely no trace of any other products or markings.”
“But I thought . . .” he stopped. Hadn’t there been Nazi insignia on it? Had he described that on the evidence report or simply let Reeves in the evidence locker write it up?
“That’s the way it came in, Jake, just like the tag says. Now the good stuff”—she thumped the table—“is all inside the mask.”
“Good stuff?” Hope, quick and bright like the scent of a day’s first true meal, stirred inside him.
“Yup. Lots and lots of skin and blood cells, plus a few hairs.”
“Enough to type?”
She snickered. “More than enough to let every court between here and the U.S. Supreme Court retest!”
Hope bloomed into full glorious life, richer than a Thanksgiving dinner.
“Have you run the DNA yet?” he asked.
“Who do you think I am, a magician?”
Astrid could do it.
Jake yanked himself back to reality. “You’ve pulled off wilder feats,” he wheedled.
“Maybe.” Magdalena’s freckled, homely face crinkled into a smile. “And maybe not. But I did call in a few favors. Quick look hasn’t found a match so far.”
“Damn.” Hope faded but refused to disappear. DNA tests took longer than birthing a brat, as the chief said. Maybe a hit would turn up.
“At least you can be sure that it’s the killer’s, since it’s all on the inside.”
“Cool. That is truly cool.” He leaned back in his chair and shared a grin with one of his best friends in the department.
“Gotta get going now; I have to talk to the DA about the Tunner case.” Magdalena shoved her chair back and stood up. Her success rate in courtrooms was equaled only by that in budget battles.
“By the way, why did you do all the work?” Jake reached the door before she did but didn’t turn the knob.
“My staff got headaches every time they worked with it.” For the first time, Magdalena frowned. “We tested it for every chemical we could think of.”
“That’s why you know it’s pure wool.” What the hell happened?
“Exactly. It’s as organic as it could be, but we still had to use the isolation chamber.”
“Shit, that’s too bad.”
“We needed the practice. Damn thing was so tightly knitted that it was tricky sampling the wool itself. But you learn to manage.”
“Are you okay now?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I came on late, so I only worked in the isolation chamber.” She shot him a no-nonsense look and he quickly opened the door. “The mask is locked up again in the vault, workload’s off the charts, and everything’s back to normal. What could be better?”
“Nothing at all.”
Except knowing for sure whether magick had been used on that mask.
Viper stepped into his living room with sweat pouring from his brow. A few seconds allowed him to mop his face and reassure himself that nobody had disturbed any of his tells. Nobody ever had messed up his lair, but a wise man never took that for granted if he wanted to live long and prosper.
And Viper intended to live very long indeed.
Shower, news, stocks, food—in more or less that order. Then he’d see about new clients.
A lesser man would kill that cop who’d wrecked the last hit. But not him. At least, not unless he could figure out a way to do so that wouldn’t trigger any suspicion.
After all, murdering cops was the fastest way to shorten one’s life—and one’s enjoyment of retirement.
He smiled, his good humor restored, and buried his face more deeply in the towel to scrub himself clean.
His cell phone rang and he automatically flicked it open.
Realization attacked him an instant later. His gut cringed, faster and colder than being brushed by a cobra’s poison in an equatorial jungle.
The prepaid cell phone had rung, the one he’d purchased yesterday that only he knew about. He’d bought it to place calls for his business, not to receive calls.
Whoever it was knew he’d answered.
He gritted his teeth and glared at the display, ready to brazen out his presence.
“Yes?” he snarled.
“You are a fool,” the all-too-familiar voice barked in those hateful, almost guttural tones.
Viper’s gut knotted, worse than any time he’d awaited the French Foreign Legion’s unpredictable and always unpleasant discipline.
“Mr. Big,” he stammered.
How did he find me?
Control yourself, you fool, he reminded himself. You have completed his jobs so far.
But the last three assassins who took Mr. Big’s money and didn’t complete their tasks all died within a month.
“You lost the mask,” Mr. Big commented, remorseless as a grenade. “Or should I say, you threw it away?”
“Sir, you didn’t say anything about what I was supposed to do with it,” Viper protested desperately. Merde, now his brow dripped as if he was still running.
“Did I give you permission to dispose of my property?” The icy tones cut with a scalpel’s bitter precision, able to separate bone from flesh before a man stopped screaming.
“No, sir—but I couldn’t breathe inside the wool,” Viper blurted.
A brutal hand clamped around his throat. He choked for air and clawed at the invisible attacker, but found nothing to fight.
A heavy silence fell, broken only by his lifeblood drumming in his ears.
“An allergy attack?” Mr. Big seemed transfixed by a new vision of torment, like a cat contemplating a bird’s broken wing.
“Yes, sir,” Viper wheezed. His vision blurred.
“Very well. You are forgiven—this time.”
The hand vanished and fresh air rushed back into Viper’s lungs. He gulped it down greedily until the stars slowly faded from the room’s edges.
Rage swelled against the unknown bastard but he fought it back. He had the money, after all, plenty of it from Mr. Big’s first—and so far only—hit.
Looked like this was when he’d break his rule about going against clients after the hit was over.
“Remember that lesson before you dare to fail me twice.” Mr. Big’s harsh voice underlined how much stronger the next treatment would be. “I will call you when I need you again. And, worm—don’t bother to get a new phone: it irritates me.”
An empty line’s vicious buzz told Viper exactly how alone he was.