Stafford slammed the entry door behind him, stomping into his cramped, dingy studio apartment, not caring what his downstairs neighbors thought. Or the sniveling, always-complaining upstairs tenants, or the entitled, pampered idiots on either side. People who expected peace and quiet at 2:00 a.m. shouldn’t live in a four-story dump like this in the first place. What do they expect in the low-rent Alphabet Soup District?
No doubt the woman who’d laughed at him in the bar lived in swankier digs. Her sexy dress, flashy necklace and rings, sculpted body, and oh-so-perfect hair all screamed money. A total Stacy, that one. Rich bitch. Middle-class, at least. Probably “worked” as a secretary at one of those big corporations, giving blowjobs to the senile silver-haired execs who could no longer get it up for their nagging wives. Young trophy wives with brawny, blond-haired pool boys on the side, too.
He should have known she’d reject him out of hand. It’s what Stacys do.
His Army buddies used to tell him: Be patient, man. Don’t chase. Let her come to you. Give her a chance to do the right thing.
Easy for them to say. The women did come to them. Walked right by Stafford and chose his mates, sitting on either side of him sometimes. As if Stafford, with his slight build and imperfect teeth, wasn’t even there. Because that’s what Stacys do. They throw themselves at the Chads of the world, or at least the Chad-lites, and ignore the Beta-grade men like Stafford, leaving them to the Beckys.
Do the right thing, my ass!
He threw his cell phone on the unmade bed, made it bounce onto the pillow, almost cascading to the floor. Tore off his shirt. Kicked his shoes off hard enough that one of them sailed all the way into the bathroom. Hit the shower curtain, leaving a black mark on it, and, fuck, ripped the God damned thing. Great. Now he’d have to replace it. Another expense he didn’t need.
Screw it. Why shower? Bitches never got close enough to smell him, anyway.
He poured himself a shot from the bottle of vodka on the counter. Almost the last of it. Sipped it, enjoyed the burn going down. One form of pain kills the other. Numbs it, at least.
He’d somehow talked himself into thinking this particular Stacy was interested. Hell, she let him buy her a drink. An expensive one, too. Some fancy-ass mixed cocktail with lots of top-shelf liquor and fruity crap he couldn’t remember or pronounce. Feigned interest in him while she drank it and scoped out the room for some other sucker. Pretended not to hear him when he asked her to dance. Excused herself to the ladies’ room when her drink was two-thirds gone, and never came back. He found her leaning all over some Chadpreet with sideburns, of all things, and laughed at him for thinking—how did she put it? Like he “owned” her. Fucking bitch.
They were all fucking bitches! Every one of them, slithering around the dance floor, rubbing their tits on Chad after Chad until they found one stupid enough to empty his wallet on her. Or who might have a big dick. None of them gave Stafford a second glance. Never gave him a chance, either. Like they said on Reddit: the best women all fuck twenty percent of the men, leaving the other eighty percent with nothing but fapfuel.
A rhyme played in his head: No dance, no glance, no chance—EVER—for romance.
Time to make a stand.
He downed the rest of his drink. The rhyme didn’t quite work, but the sentiment did. He was done with women. Done with waiting for them to do the right thing. To notice him. Give him the respect he deserved.
He was done with not being noticed.
Time to make them pay. Make them notice. Not only for him, either. For the eighty percent who suffered alone, waiting for their chance.
No more waiting.
He took three strides to the closet and yanked open the door. Removed the sleek black case and set it on the bed. Unfastened the latches and began to clean and assemble his weapon.
Tools of the trade.
Val’s cell phone woke her at 6:00 a.m. on Friday morning with an alarming message from a number claiming to be a credit bureau.
“Suspicious activity on your account,” the message’s headline read.
“Spam, or real?” Gil said, his eyes closed, head resting on his pillow. He draped an arm over her bent knee, sliding his fingers ever closer to Val’s pubes. The man woke up horny. Every. Single. Day.
“Real enough to run a check.” Panic rose inside her. She had the credit score of a college student, with loans draining most of her discretionary monthly income. She couldn’t afford to take another hit.
She googled the number of the credit bureau and found that it matched the one displayed in the message for her to call. “Looks legit,” she said and tapped the number.
A helpful woman with an unplaceable foreign accent walked her through what happened. Someone used her account to go on a shopping spree, running up bills online, at a bar, and at a few local retailers.
“But I’ve kept my card with me since 6:30 last night,” Val said.
“Someone may have forged a copy,” the woman explained. “Thieves often can use just the number itself, if they know the expiration date and security code.” They reassured her that the activity wouldn’t affect her credit score. Another half-hour on the phone with the issuing bank’s 800 number got the charges reversed, card canceled, and a new one issued.
“What a royal pain in the ass!” Val said when she found Gil in his kitchen making coffee.
“It takes serious balls to rip off a cop,” Gil said. “Do you think it’s someone at the dojo?”
“I can’t imagine they’d be that stupid. Daisuke himself is far too honest.” Val scrambled some eggs and turned the heat on the stove under a frying pan. “Besides, a few of the charges posted the night before—oh, wait. That’s the first night I left it there. But someone else could have boosted it—an employee at the restaurant where I met up with Beth on Tuesday, maybe.”
“What a way to start Friday the Thirteenth.” Gil shook his head.
Val rolled her eyes and chuckled. “I’ve never known you to be superstitious.”
“I’m not. But it’s an interesting coincidence.”
Val shook her head. Most superstitions were exactly that—coincidences. Despite what her uncle always said about coincidences. “The worst thing,” she said, “is that I won’t be able to call my bank until after lunch. I’m supposed to spend the morning in a forensics workshop.”
“I thought that wasn’t until next week?”
Val whisked the eggs around in the pan, fluffing them as best she could. “A spot opened up at the last minute and Petroni wants me to take advantage of every opportunity to gain some investigative skills. This one’s a crime scene 101-type of thing—fundamental concepts and practices, although it focuses on gun-related crimes. I need it to get into the hands-on labs later.”
Gil grinned at her and flipped some bacon in another pan, standing close enough for their hips to touch. “You’re already ahead of me, then. I’m on the waiting list for those classes.”
“It’s not a competition.”
“The hell it isn’t,” Gil said, hip-checking her away from the stove and sliding bacon onto their plates with a pair of tongs. “No way I’m letting you make detective before me. One strip or two?”
“Half of one,” Val said. “That stuff is ninety percent additives and preservatives.”
“And a hundred percent delicious.” He snapped the slice on her plate in two and ate the other half. “I’m surprised Petroni’s letting you wander from your desk for half a day. I thought she wanted you tethered to this case, especially with Grimes out.”
“She says the classes will speed up my process by ‘adding to my toolkit.’ Eventually, anyway.” Her mood dimmed, though, with the mention of Grimes, reminding her of the horrible news he’d received about his son. “Will you check in on Bobby this morning for me and let him know I’m thinking about him?”
“That I will.” They ate at the counter, side by side, washing down the simple breakfast with the strong coffee Gil had brewed.
She nibbled at her food, her appetite disappearing at the thought of what her work partner was facing. The Big C—and not him, but his kid. Certainly worse than a stolen credit card.
“We’d better get showered and dressed,” Gil said after a few long minutes. He wrapped an arm around her waist, his hand slipping down onto her ass.
“You first,” she said. “I haven’t finished my breakfast.”
“Saves time if we shower together.” Gil flashed a wicked grin.
“Not if you don’t settle down, randy boy.” She yanked the waistband of his sweatpants, let go. It snapped back on his impressive erection, and he howled in mock protest. “Go on, I’ll clean up here.”
He protested a moment more, then padded away, peeling off clothes as he walked.
She stole a glance at his retreating form, appreciating his fine physique. Before Val and Gil started dating, Beth once described him as “a white Dwayne Johnson, with hair.” At the time, Val dismissed the remark as exaggeration.
Not today.
By the time he reached the bathroom door, he’d stripped down to only boxers, revealing a broad set of shoulders tapering down his muscular back to a trim waist. Temptations rose to run after him and accept his invitation to shower together. Something they’d never done, mostly out of her own shyness about her body. He’d often suggested it, though he never pressured her about it—always left it open as a suggestion, left it up to her to accept if she felt comfortable.
Her practical brain always stopped her. Showering together would certainly lead to some very enjoyable yet time-consuming activities, and she’d be late—
She caught herself mid-thought. Late for a workshop? So what?
She’d told Gil that she loved him and wondered what would change from that. Part of that needed to be her own behavior.
She peeled off her clothes and ran into the already-steaming bathroom.
Preparedness. That, Stafford’s Army mentor had drilled into him, superseded all other traits in importance in a good soldier.
That and, of course, loyalty. Which he would demonstrate today. Total fidelity to the cause. To his Beta brothers.
Stafford prepared—always—with meticulous precision and thoroughness. He’d scoped out all three target sites, as the Cell Captain had demanded. Then he’d established clear criteria, and chosen the best of the three: the one with ideal angle and range, frequency and desirability of targets, and escapability. He’d found the perfect spot to establish his base of operations. Assembled his clothing, down to the detail of wearing extra socks inside oversized shoes to disguise any accidental footprint. Cleaned and checked his weapon multiple times. Brought an overabundance of ammunition. Planned and rehearsed the mechanics of the job, every logistical detail. Trained, over and over, at firing ranges, in simulators, and—to establish the feel of pulling the trigger against living flesh—in the wild. He’d risked a poaching citation over that, but determined it worth the risk. Besides, who cares if the world is short a few rabbits or squirrels? He’d thought it would prepare him for live action—and it did.
Just not in the Army.
He’d parked in the perfect spot, twelve stories below, ready to pull into traffic and weave through the maze of city streets. Mapped and driven the optimal path multiple times, with backup routes in case of unforeseen delays. He’d obscured and altered the identifying numbers on his delivery truck, a white cargo van that resembled thousands of others that ran regular routes this time of day. Even the weather cooperated, bringing blankets of clouds overhead and no rain. Ideal for the ambient lumination he needed, keeping the sun out of his eyes and minimizing the risk of someone noticing the glint of reflective light off his scope.
He’d set up the lightweight tripod that kept the barrel extra steady. Then he rested the butt end of the rifle against his shoulder, his body in a tight crouch for maximum stability. Filled the magazine to capacity, with a spare clip at the ready if needed. It shouldn’t be, but best to prepare.
Activity below on the plaza in front of the clinic caught his attention. Peering through the scope, Stafford zeroed in on the identifying features of each potential target. He would select several options, some male (the abortionist doctors) and some female (murderous would-be mothers). He’d familiarized himself with both on previous visits.
Potential target number one: long-ish hair, done in a feminine style. Body type: luscious curves, especially at the hips. Clothes: stretch pants and shirts to accommodate the mother’s expanding form, with comfortable shoes. Purse.
Check. A definite candidate.
A second, male figure hustled from the door toward the woman, one that fit a second important profile. Gray hair, cropped short, balding on top. Posture: a middle-aged man’s boxy stoop. Dressed in a dark suit, covered with a white robe. A stethoscope dangled from his neck.
Check. One of the murderers. Not the bitch who opened her womb to allow her baby to die—the abortionist who would destroy that life with forceps and suction.
Stafford readied his weapon, following their quick, irregular movements, calculating: which target first? He might only get one shot before the other reacts, too fast for him to recalibrate. He could pull the trigger fast enough, and his semi-automatic rifle would eject the spent shell and reload from the magazine. But after the first shot, they still could move out of the narrow range of vision provided by the high-powered scope.
Stafford followed their path to the front of the building. At the entrance they paused, the doctor holding the door open for his patient. He counted the duration of their halted progress: one, two, three, four seconds before they disappeared inside. A four-second window during which he could open fire, sacrificing their lives to save the lives of countless unborn human beings down the road.
His Cell Captain would be so proud.
The door closed behind them, and they disappeared inside.
Stafford drew a deep breath, exhaled. Recalled his training on that front: always exhale before firing, for maximum steadiness. He hadn’t done that following the first two potential victims. He’d remember when the moment came.
He sat back, taking pride in the care he was exhibiting with this effort, proving his former superiors wrong. The ones who’d spent months, years, training him, mentoring him, preparing him to become a lonely purveyor of death to the enemy. Only to determine that he wasn’t Army sniper material, after all. That he wasn’t “stable” enough. That he lacked sufficient patience.
It wasn’t his shooting. He’d scored in the top ten percentile at the range. Yet that wasn’t enough for them. “Anyone can hit an inanimate, lifeless target,” his trainer said. “Pulling the trigger on a live human being? Flesh and blood, that moves, and thinks, with a mother, a father, a wife and children? One that dies, if you do your job? That, son, is a whole different animal.”
Something told them he wasn’t sniper material. That faced with the task of ending a life, he’d flinch, or miss, thus compromising the mission.
They were wrong.
He’d show them how patient, and stable, and ruthless he could be. Today, he would prove it.
Another potential target moved into view.
Being late turned out to be only the start of the trouble Val faced in keeping up in the forensics workshop. Maintaining focus on the dull lecture represented an even greater challenge.
Part of the problem was the instructor’s presentation. The man leading the class, a retirement-age detective from the South Precinct, spoke in a soft, slow monotone, his deep baritone voice sleep-inducing. Having arrived late, Val had to take a seat in the back of the room. She understood minutes into the session why people crowded the front rows: nobody else could hear the man.
The second problem: most of the material was too basic, at least the first half. Assessing and scoping a crime scene, preserving and documenting evidence, how to avoid contaminating a scene, and so on. She’d learned all of that and more in her courses at UConn, at the police academy, and on the job.
The third problem was the choice she’d made to join Gil in the shower. Gil made it an exquisite, romantic encounter, making her regret her prior shyness about it. He’d caressed her body with tenderness, mixing soft, soapy fondling with exploratory kisses, pressing close against her while rinsing her skin with the hand-held shower head. Then, in an inspired move, he used its massage setting to pleasant effect in her sensitive areas. He even washed and conditioned her hair, doing so with what felt like a practiced hand.
Which reminded her: he was her first love, but she wasn’t his. She wondered if her response satisfied him, or if he expected more. Should she initiate more? Or did he prefer a more passive lover?
The hell with passive. She took over the shampoo bottle, massaging his scalp with foamy suds while he helped by lowering his mouth to breast-level. Such a considerate man. And he didn’t seem to mind her taking the initiative—
“Miss Dawes?”
The lecturer’s sleepy baritone stirred Val out of her reverie. She startled, noticing all eyes in the room turned toward her. “Yes, Detective Parker?” Val’s face reddened.
“It’s Parkinson.” The old man frowned, his fluffy white eyebrows converging into a giant V behind his thick black-framed glasses. “What I asked was, would you care to take your turn sharing your own relevant experiences with the class today?”
Crap. She had no idea what anyone else had shared or even what topic he had just covered. “Of course,” she said. “Did you have any particular type of case in mind, or—?”
“Something pertinent to the material, I would expect.” Parkinson sneered. He leaned his fragile, lanky body forward, his elbows resting on a lectern. “Which, I can tell, held you in rapt attention.”
Val’s blush deepened and her mind raced, hoping that something, anything, had sunk into her conscious brain during her daydream.
She drew a blank. Nothing.
Parkinson glared at her. Several participants in the class—all of them older, more experienced cops, almost all male—stared at her with expressions of pity or disdain. “Fucking prima donna,” someone muttered. “How’d she get into this class?” another man whispered.
Screw it, then. Val sat straighter in her chair and went with her freshest crime scene memory. “Yesterday, I helped respond to a report of an armed man downtown,” she said. “The lead detective established a complex crime scene—the area with the threatened victims and the shooter’s perch. My responsibility was to interview witnesses on the ground. We cordoned off the area, took contact information, and obtained descriptions of the alleged gunman from each witness.”
Parkinson’s eyes raised, and most of her classmates turned away, some with expressions of surprise and newfound respect. The only other woman in the class, a forty-something gal in the front row with fire-engine red hair cut to a chin-length bob, gave her a thumbs-up.
“Excellent example,” Parkinson said. “Textbook procedure. I’m surprised you bothered to take this refresher course, Officer.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“I’m hoping we’ll cover some new material,” Val said before she could stop herself.
“Me, too,” mumbled the red-haired woman, loud enough for Val to hear.
Parkinson’s annoyance showed on his face, and Val knew she’d overstepped. But dammit, he deserved to be shown up after trying to embarrass her.
“Officer Dawes’s example is an excellent segue to the second half of our workshop, a practical of sorts focused on collecting evidence at shooting-related crime scenes,” Parkinson said. “That will begin right after the break. Take five. And be prompt!” He glared at the two women. “We have a lot to cover, and I’m starting whether or not you’re back in time.”
Val hustled to the ladies’ room behind the red-haired woman, who walked at a brisk pace.
“Hey, Dawes,” the woman said as they reached the restroom, “great work in there. I can see why they tapped you for the WAVE Squad. Gotta admit, I’m jealous—I applied for a detective spot on that team.”
“Thanks.” Val held the door open for her and read her nameplate. J. Morgenstern. “I admit, he caught me napping a bit. I lucked out, picking the right example.”
“That’s not luck. That’s intuition.” Morgenstern stood before the mirror and adjusted her suit jacket, then touched up her lipstick. “In other words, brains. You can’t teach smart, kid, and you’ve got it.”
“Thanks, Detective.”
“Jan.” Morgenstern extended her hand. “Can I call you Valorie?”
“Val. Please.” She accepted the handshake. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you take this seminar? It seems pretty basic for someone with your experience.”
Jan scooted into a stall, pulling the door shut behind her. “Experience doesn’t mean squat if you’re a woman trying to get onto Homicide,” she said. “That all-boys’ club hasn’t sniffed a whiff of estrogen in over a decade. I take every class I can. One, to learn everything I can. Two, it looks good on the resume. And three, it’s good networking. Which you’ll need to work on, now that you’ve pissed off Old Swizzle Sticks back there. You want him saying good things about you when he reports back.”
“Swizzle Sticks?” Val ducked into an adjacent stall.
“Parkinson likes the sweet, fizzy drinks when the old boys gather at the Blue Line,” Jan said. “Then he has a bad habit of chewing on the swizzle sticks while he talks. It’s gross as hell. But don’t call him that to his face. Your chances of making detective go from low to zero if he hears you repeating that.”
“Any other tips?” Val asked.
“Don’t raise your hand—just shout out your answer when he asks a question. It sounds rude, but he’ll like it. It shows initiative.”
They made it back to the classroom in the nick of time, although half the men still hadn’t returned. “Long lines at the shitter,” one man said with a grin.
“One of the few advantages of being the only women in a male-dominated profession.” Jan smirked. “Shorter lines for the toilet.”
Despite his earlier warning, Parkinson waited for the rest of the men to return before resuming the workshop. He showed slides of bullet casings retrieved at crime scenes and walked through some variations and peculiarities of different types. “Most weapons used in crimes are handguns, primarily pistols,” he said. “Semi-automatics are the weapon of choice for most criminals these days. What distinguishes a semi-automatic weapon? Anyone?”
As Jan had warned, a guy in front didn’t raise his hand or wait to be called on. “The ability to empty a magazine with a single pull of the trigger,” he said.
“Incorrect!” Parkinson seemed to relish the moment. “Anyone else?”
A man next to her raised his hand. Val didn’t wait. “Semi-automatics reload from a clip, but only fire one round per pull of the trigger,” she said.
“Correct,” Parkinson said in a calmer voice. “Why is this important at a crime scene?”
“So we know what kind of weapon we’re looking for,” another man said in a dull voice.
“Why else?” Parkinson scanned the room.
“Shooters who use semi-automatics tend to fire multiple rounds,” Jan said. “Which means there should be numerous bullets and casings to gather up for evidence.”
“Excellent,” Parkinson said. “You can also approximate the location of the shooter from the pattern of casings ejected by the weapon.” He displayed some shell casing images on the screen. “Most of you already know about the ridges and grooves in the bullets. That comes from the ‘rifling’ effect of the barrel—unique to each weapon. But the shell casings also tell a complex story. See these impressions at the base of the shell? Those come from the firing pin. Who can tell me which casings came from the same weapon in this photo?”
“The two on the left,” Val said, again not waiting to be called on. “Those have impressions around the rim. The others have marks in the center.”
“Very observant,” Parkinson said. “What would you conclude if you found these casings all at the same crime scene?”
“Multiple weapons,” Jan said.
“Gentlemen, the women are kicking your butts,” Parkinson said, chuckling.
“I didn’t know it was a competition,” one man said in a low voice. The guy who’d raised his hand.
Val suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. When wasn’t it a competition with these guys?
Parkinson explained other forensic details, such as breech back patterns, head stamps, and ejector marks on the bullet casings. “Taken together, these clues can provide a unique match—a ‘fingerprint’ of sorts for a specific weapon—and identify the make and model of weapon to search for. For example, weapons produced by our own local manufacturer, Smith & Wesson, yield a set of five grooves in the shell with a clockwise spiral. Colt produces six counterclockwise spirals. You can find a full database of these characteristics in the federal Integrated Bullet Identification System, or IBIS.” He flicked a website address and QR code on the screen. “We’ll relax the no-phones rule for the moment, if you’d like to record this.” Almost every student snapped a photo in the next ten seconds.
Except one. A call interrupted Val’s attempt to snap a photo. Before she could answer, a dozen other phones rang in the classroom as well.
“Sorry to cut your career-enhancing education short. We need you over at Safe Haven,” Sergeant Petroni said when Val picked up the call. “It’s already time to put your training to immediate practical use, I’m afraid.”
“What’s up?” Val grabbed her things and hustled out ahead of the others. “Another confrontation?”
“We’re way beyond the confrontation stage,” Petroni said, strain evident in her voice. “There’s been a shooting. Multiple victims. And the shooter’s still at large.”