Aside from trailing the detective, he worked a few financial statements and took Lena out to lunch five times in the last two weeks. Lena even noticed how tired he looked and Book fluffed it off to working on too many projects at one time.
Frank Costa.
Book paged down on the document and noticed several disciplinary warnings in Costa’s ‘jacket’ on using excessive force during an arrest. Behind these warnings were copies of psychological evaluations. Book scanned shrink’s notes. ‘Depression, aggressive temper, alcoholism’. Under the section ‘Cause’, the doctor wrote that Costa’s wife Daphne, walked out on their marriage and took his children Elliot, Frank Junior and Danielle with her; whereabouts unknown.
Book stopped reading. Costa’s a cop, he thought. He has the skills and the methods of finding his family. Why didn’t he? Maybe, he considered,there was so much damage already done, him tracking his wife and children down would have caused more harm than good. Or maybe, he thought, he thought they’d eventually come back? Keeping the rooms exactly the way they left it supported that conclusion.
He wrote down the case numbers listed on the warnings and dropped a note to his contact to see if he could hack into the police department database and send the case files for him to review. He continued moving further back into the detective’s past.
The warnings were suddenly replaced by commendations on several arrests Costa had made, his promotion to detective and the citations that led the brass to consider him for detective. Book flipped back to a newspaper clipping showing Frank Costa shaking the hand of the mayor with a grinning Desmond Fine looking on.
Would his family walking out cause the sudden turn-around from awarded good cop to aggressive bad cop? There has to be more to it than that, Book thought.
He saw the ghost window alerting him that an email was received into his Outlook. He opened it and scanned the case files the warnings pertained to:
Three family disputes where a child was endangered; a beating of a pimp. Book scanned the document and saw the prostitute involved was 14 years old. A beating of a reported pedophile.
Book returned to Costa’s biography.
His first assignment was at a precinct in Brooklyn. A chart showed that Costa had shared a room with Desmond Fine at the police academy. Photographs showed images of a young Fine and Costa goofing around with other cadets. He received decent to high marks on his tests when he entered the academy.
Book noted Costa’s discharge papers from the Marines.
Of course he’s a jarhead , Book thought as his eyes landed on a section of the paperwork. He frowned. There was something different on this sheet than the other documents he reviewed. He returned to the beginning of the document and immediately saw that Costa’s birth date was different. He compared the current police records with his military discharge papers and determined that Costa had lied about his age to enter the service. By four years. That would mean that the detective was fourteen when he began military boot camp, not the eighteen he had listed.
Why would he lie? Book asked himself.
The next page was a death certificate for a Joseph Costa. The newspaper clipping said he was a widower, a construction worker who served in the Korean War and had died in a hit-and-run accident, leaving his son Francis as the only surviving member of the family. There was a photograph of a very young Frank Costa, wearing his dress uniform, standing next to a pair of headstones. Even though the photo was grainy, Book could see the hardness in his young eyes.
The following page was another death certificate; this time for a Maureen Costa who had died in a fall. The attached obituary said she left her husband Joseph and son Frances. In the photo that accompanied the clipping Book could see Joseph Costa standing, head down, in front of a casket. He moved his face closer to the screen, peering at Mr. Costa’s expression. He wasn’t sure if the man was in shock or drunk. Standing next to the father was the son. Frank was staring at Joseph. There was nothing but hate in his eyes.
From a fall , Book thought.
He sent a note to his friend for Maureen Costa’s medical records, then got up and made another cup of coffee. When he returned to the laptop Book checked his email and found the information waiting for him.
Maureen suffered from a dislocated shoulder due to a fall. Black eye and contusions from ‘walking into doors’. A broken arm from another fall. Book closed the file having read enough. Maureen Costa was repeatedly beaten by her husband. Since this happened before laws were put into place to protect battered women, these ‘incidents’ were written off as ‘household accidents’.
Book paged down and found Costa’s medical records from when he was a child.
He had bruises around the face and stomach area, a broken wrist and other injuries that were attributed to a clumsy child.
Joseph Costa had died from a hit and run accident.
Suppose it wasn’t an accident? Book suggested.
He flipped back to Costa’s discharge papers and compared the date to the date of his father’s ‘accident’. His father’s death was two weeks after his mother’s.
Book saw Costa’s expression at his mother’s funeral in his mind. The man murdered his father who had contributed to the death of his mother.
This would explain why he lied to get into the Marines. It was his only means of escaping the abuse he suffered at home.
His mother died at the hands of his father and he wasn’t there to protect her. Book could almost hear the boy promising his mother he would be back for her once he completed basic training.
What would it do to a child who promised to protect his mother from future abuse only to find he has returned too late?
Did Frank Costa’s carefully buried rage suddenly surface and he hit his wife or his children if they suddenly acted up and disobeyed? He would not have done this in malice, but as a knee-jerk reaction.
What would it do to a man who devotes his life to protect women and children from abuse, only to have his family accuse him of the same thing?
Clearly the anger and frustration was eating the detective alive. How would you drain that psychological boil? Would you take out your rage on abusers?
The alarm in Books’ BlackBerry buzzed. It was 1:00. He promised Lena he would have lunch with her today. He would call and cancel. Reading Costa’s background made him lose his appetite.
He wondered if Fine suspected his long time friend and partner.
* * *
As the clock chimed the second hour of the day, he sliced the meat from the turkey breast and placed it on a slice of wheat bread. This was the second sandwich he made; the first was in a small zipper bag on the counter, its air pushed out giving the bag a vacuum seal.
As he reached for another slice of the meat, he heard the sound of hurried footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” a woman’s voice cried out. “Is that the right time?” she called.
“Yes, it is,” he answered over his shoulder.
“Oh, shit! Shit! Shit!” she cried again. “Magic is gonna beat the Black off my ass!”
The woman came in the doorway. She pulled the too-tight halter over her large breasts and adjusted the too-tight shorts around her hips. Her brown hair with the gold ringlets hung in front of her panicked eyes.
“Shit!” she said again. “I shouldn't've fallen asleep! Magic is gonna ... “
The man came up to her with a speed that made her inhale sharply and held her firmly by her shoulders.
“Look at me,” he said softly.
“I fell asleep! He’s gonna ... “
He shook her once to get her attention. “Look at me,” he repeated. Though the softness of his voice had not changed, there was firmness to it. She looked up at him and suddenly felt her heart slow down. She hung her head down.
“He’s gonna beat me,” she whimpered trembling under his hands. "Magic’s gonna want his money and I don’t have it and he’s gonna ...."
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The question stopped her. “Ruby,” she said looking up.
The man smiled and shook his head. “Your real name,” he asked softly.
She looked into his eyes. “Abigail,” she said in a voice filled with shame. “Abigail Meadows.”
“May I call you ‘Abby’?” he asked.
She looked down and nodded.
“Abby,” he said. “How much is this Magic expecting from you?”
She frowned as she glanced at the clock. “By this time, at least two,” she said softly.
He removed one hand to reach into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of bills. He counted off eight fifties and handed it to her. Her eyes widened as she looked at the money in his hand.
“Let’s just say you had a good night, okay?”
Indecision filled her face and she shook her head. “I can’t take this from you,” she said in a whisper.
“Yes, you can,” he answered.
“But ... “
“Not another word,” he said placing a finger against her full lips. “Now, since you’ve had such a good night, you have enough time to take a hot shower and eat something. I hope you like turkey sandwiches.”
“No, I ... “ she protested.
“You don’t like turkey?” he asked smiling.
“No, I mean, yes, I ... “
He reached out and pulled her towards him and gave her a hug. He could feel her heart beat first fast, then slow as she allowed herself to press against him. He parted from her and gave her a peck on her forehead.
“Now you go upstairs and take that shower,” he said. “There’s a clean towel on the hamper and by the time you come back down, fresh coffee’ll be made. Okay?”
She looked at him like he was an alien.
“Nothing is going to happen to you,” he said with that earlier firmness. “Now go on and take your shower.”
She slowly backed away from him, her eyes glued to his. She took one last look at his warm smiling face and walked up the stairs. A few moments later, he heard the shower go on. He smiled to himself and finished the second sandwich, placing it on a dinner plate. He stared at the sandwich for a few seconds, all alone on its plate, and went to a clipped bag of potato chips he had on the top of his refrigerator and added a handful.
* * *
Abby was halfway through the second sandwich before she looked up. He was calmly sitting across from her at the kitchen table, sipping on a cup of coffee. “I’m sorry,” she muttered through a mouthful of turkey, mayonnaise and bread.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Abby,” he said. He took another sip from the cup and smiled at her over the rim.
She stared at him for a few seconds, now chewing slowly. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” he said. “But only if I can do the same.”
She thought for a second and nodded. “That’s fair,” she said. She swallowed the remainder of her coffee and looked at him, her head tilting to one side, her damp golden curls shifting to one side. “You’re not ... with anyone, are you?”
He grinned. “Nope,” he said. “I’m single with no attachments. Why? You interested?” he asked with a mischievous grin.
She giggled like a schoolgirl and her mocha colored skin blushed. “Naw, man,” she said, waving her hand at him. “I’m not good enough for you.”
“Abby,” he said, his eyebrows rising. “You’re good enough for anyone. Even the likes of me.”
Her brows dipped in a V. “Now don’t go sayin’ that,” she said. “You’re a good man.”
He shook his head. “I try to be. You want more coffee?” he asked. “There’s more in the pot.”
She nodded her head and he promptly stood and walked to the carafe on the heater. He brought it to her cup and filled it, then did the same to his own. He placed the carafe on a trivet.
She watched him closely and waited for him to return to the seat across from her.
“You are a good man,” she said. “I’ve had my share ... doin’ what I do, and I can raise my hand up high to the Lord and say that with all honesty.”
He was about to reply when she reached out and placed her hand on the back of his. His eyes dropped to the two hands; one Black, one White. One male, one female. He looked into her eyes which were looking into his.
“You are a good man,” she repeated. “You fed me and let me use your shower. You were caring and gentle with me, and you didn’t have to be. You asked me what I wanted, an’ nobody asks me that!” Abby swallowed. When she continued to speak, her voice came out in a whisper. “An’ when I told you what I like, you took your time givin’ it to me. You touched me in ways I haven’t been touched in years.” A single tear ran down her cheek. “And no one has called me by my real name in years either,” she said with a sad smile. Her hand tightened around his and she looked into his eyes. “In years!” she said. “I mean, why ain’t you with someone ... ?“
“Other than you, you mean?” he asked. There was no accusation in his voice; no derision, merely a question.
Tears suddenly came from her eyes and she lowered her head. He reached out and lifted her head up by the tip of her chin.
“You don’t need to cry, Abby,” he said softly. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles.
“Don’t you go doin’ that, man!” she said, but didn’t removed her hand from his.
“You don’t think you deserve it, do you?” he asked.
She frowned. “No I don’t,” she said. “I’m nothin’ but a ‘ho.”
After a few moments of silence, he placed his warm hand over hers. “My turn,” he said. He looked at her, tilted his head in the way she did to him and cleared his throat. “I’m going to guess you didn’t go to school to get in the profession you’re in,” he asked in a mock-serious tone.
She giggled again. She wiped the tears away with the cloth napkin that was next to the plate. “I left home when I was fifteen. My daddy left us when I was young and Mamma set herself up with this ... man.”
For the first time that evening and morning, the man’s smile faded. “He abused you?”
Abby’s face tightened. She nodded her head.
The man sighed deeply in his chest and took her other hand in his. “Go on.”
“I came to this city to get away from him. And become a secretary,” she added. “I was the best typist in my school. Ninety-seven words a minute!”
“That’s impressive,’ the man replied. “Beats my three fingers and thumb.”
“Anyway,” Abby went on, “I met this guy who said he would help me.”
“Magic?” the man asked.
She nodded. “Yeah,” Abby replied. She sniffed and straightened her back. “Well, you see how the mutha-fucker helped me.”
“Yes,” the man said. “I see.”
“But you never answered my question,” said Abby. “How come you ain’t with somebody? Someone good?”
The man picked her hand up and kissed it again. “Stop that,” he said. You are a good person. Just a bad break is all.” He leaned back in the chair and sighed. “As for me, just not in the cards,” he replied. His eyes darkened and drifted to a place that only he could see. “Besides,” he said in a soft voice, “There’s no time right now. Too many things on my plate.” He blinked and looked up at the woman and smiled. “Let’s look at it this way: if I was with someone, as you said, we wouldn’t have met each other. So I think we’re both lucky, don’t you?”
Abby looked at the man, reached inside of her halter and handed him the money.
He shook his head. “That’s yours.”
“No, man,” she said. “You’ve done more than enough for me to last a lifetime. I can’t take this.”
“If you don’t,” the man said, “Your friend will hurt you.”
“I’ll take my chances,” she said. “Even if he did, just knowin’ you will make up for it.”
He shook his head and pushed the hand with the money back to her. “No,” he said. “That’s final.”
“But I didn’t do nothin’ for it!”
He stood and replaced the carafe on the coffee maker’s plate. “Could you put the dishes and the spoons in the sink for me?” he asked.
Abby looked at him, placed the money on the table and carried the items to the sink and placed them in.
“Now you’ve done something for the money,” he said smiling.
She looked at him from the kitchen doorway. “You’re not going to take the money back, are you?” she asked.
“I don’t see any reason why,” he smiled.
Tears came to her eyes again. “Can I hug you?” she asked in a timid voice, expecting him to deny her request.
He held out his arms to her. She gave him a bear hug and rested her head against his chest.
“Abby,” he said softly. “Why don’t you leave Magic?”
She sniffed. “He don’t let any of his girls leave,” she said. There was despair in her voice.
“Suppose you could?” he asked. “What would you do?”
She looked up at him. “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably find another man to take care of me. Do the same as I’m doin’ now.”
His hands on her arms, he gently pushed her back.
“Why?” he asked.
She stared at him, a soft smile on her face and caressed his cheek with the back of her hand.
“You’re sweet,” she said. “What else am I going to do? I stashed away a little money to live on, but not enough to start over.”
The clock chimed the third hour. He looked at her and moved to the counter and took out a small spiral pad. He grabbed a pencil, wrote something, tore off the sheet and handed it to her.
“You’re going to start taking care of yourself,” he said. “Around two this afternoon, you call this number. Ask for Michael Bellows. He won’t ask you anything except if you can type. He’ll get you a job doing data entry.” The man returned to the pad, wrote again and passed her another sheet. “You’re going to this address,” he said. “A friend of mine has a place for women to stay until they get on their feet. No charge. I’ll call ahead to let him know you’re coming.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
The man smirked and shook his head.
“Nothing in trade,’ he said. “You’ll have a private room and you’ll meet other women in your ... situation.”
Abby shook her head, looking somewhat confused.
“Free?” she asked.
The man’s eyes darkened again and what the prostitute saw within them chilled her.
“Let’s just say he owes me a favor,” the man replied. His warm smile returned. “Several, actually,” he said.
Tears filled Abby’s eyes again.
“This will start you off,” he continued. “The rest is up to you.”
“But ... but ... “ she stammered. “I don’t have any clothes! Any real clothes, I mean!”
He pulled out the packet of bills from his pocket and peeled off three more fifties.
“Get some decent clothes,” he said. He grinned. “Not saying that you’re not attractive the way you are, but you know how conservative offices can be.”
“But Magic ... !”
He leaned towards her until his face was close to hers. “Do you want this?” he asked.
“Yes!” she said. “Oh, yes, but ... “
“Then this is your chance,” he said. “It only comes once, so please take it. Promise me you’ll do this. Promise me you won’t go back to this.”
Tears ran down her face. She nodded and nodded again. “I promise! Thank you! Thank you!” She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him again. “I don’t even know your name!” she said, her voice horse.
He tilted his head back to look at her face.
“What would you like to call me?” he asked.
Abby looked into his eyes and after a moment smiled. “Adam,” she said. “That was my grandpa’s name. I didn’t know him for long, but he was always there for me when things turned bad.”
“What happened to him?” the man asked.
“He died,” she said. “He was sickly.”
The man nodded. “I would be honored if you called me ‘Adam’,” he said.
The brown skin on Abby’s cheeks reddened and she lowered her eyes to the floor.
The man held her gently by the elbows and leaned his forehead against hers.
“Please consider me your friend, Abby,” he said and gave her a warm kiss on her cheek.
The woman stared back, tears running down her brown cheeks. She looked at the man who called himself Carl and shook her head in wonder.
“Thank you, Adam!” she whispered. “Thank you and thank the Lord I met you!”
“If you’re that good a typist, then you can thank yourself,” he smiled.
She grabbed her small purse and placed the folded bills inside, then put the money from the table inside her halter.
“I’ll get you a taxi to take you to your new home,” he said.
“Will I ever see you again?” she asked.
“Probably not,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “But I will be keeping an eye on you.”
Abby grinned. “Please do that, Adam!” she exclaimed. “I’m gonna make you proud of me!”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t matter. Make you proud of yourself.”
Several minutes later, the cab came and picked up Abby, leaving the man standing alone in the doorway. He watched the taxi’s taillights turn the corner and his jaw tightened.
Magic .
* * *
3-Monkey stood at the window and stared at the dark sky. In a few hours the ebony sky would turn gold with the coming dawn. After gluing the curly brown beard and mustache firmly in place and putting on a on a bulky black rain slicker with a large hood, 3-Monkey pocketed a taser and a roll of duct tape. A medium sized whiteboard hung on a wall, listing things to do, items to purchase, and errands to run. Using a red erasable marker, 3-Monkey wrote the name ‘MAGIC’ in an open spot.
A long fillet knife was removed from a block. Its blade was run across a sharpening stone several times, its edge methodically inspected for ultimate sharpness. When it achieved 3-Monkey’s liking, the knife was slid in a sheath that was clipped to a web belt. 3-Monkey took to the street and to the car parked three houses down in the shadow of a tree.
3-Monkey had no idea what this Magic looked like. But there were ways.
3-Monkey chuckled.
The car turned on and drove downtown.
* * *
The car drove down several streets and into the heart of the red light district. 3-Monkey passed several corners that had a parade of hookers offering their services to passing johns. Each time 3-Monkey asked if they knew someone named Magic. Each time they dismissed the question and tried to strike up a conversation. On 3-Monkey’s fourth drive-by a small group of prostitutes began to take over an available corner. The car pulled up along the curb.
“Hey, Baby!” cried one saddling over to the open passenger side window and leaning forward. “You wan’ a little sumpthin’-sumpthin’?”
“Yeah, sweetness,” 3-Monkey said in a smoker’s growl. “But I’m feelin’ very active tonight and I may want more than just you. No offense, y’understand.”
“No problem, Baby!” the woman said with a mercenary smile. “Lemme call some of the sisters over.”
“Nah, sweetness,” 3-Monkey said from the shadow of the hood. “Don’t wanna get you in trouble wi’ your man. Magic around?”
She pouted, seeing her half of the ménage a trois drifting away.
“Don’ haveta be that way, Baby!” she cooed. “Magic don’ need to know anything?”
A large hand came out of the shadows behind her and grabbed her by her weave, pulling her back and away from the car.
“Yo, Magic, man!” the woman squealed. “That shit hurt!”
“You tryin’ to cut me out, bitch?” the pimp snarled.
“Yo, Magic!” the stranger called.
“Take care of yo’ ass later,” he growled, shoving the woman back to her crowd of comrades. He leaned forward and his bulk took up the entire window. “Wha’ you want, mutha-fucka?”
3-Monkey held up a hand. “Gots no problem, brother. Just lookin’ for a little action with a few of your ladies.” Before the pimp could respond, the hooded figure held up a wad of bills; a one hundred showing on the top. “Willin’ to pay top for your best for an hour.”
Magic grinned wide, showing a set of gold teeth with a sizable space in the center.
“You talkin’ my language, man!” the pimp exclaimed. He tilted his head over his shoulder. “Which you want?”
3-Monkey leaned forward toward the large Black man in the window. “I’m also lookin’ for something to – you know – spice things up, if you know what I mean?” White teeth shone from within the hood. “Make it worth your time, my brother.”
Magic looked over his shoulder in both directions, then back at the figure in the car. “Yeah, I can hook you up. Not that far away either.”
“Get in,” 3-Monkey said. “Let’s take a ride and conduct some business.”
Magic frowned. “I don’t know about ... “
3-Monkey flipped a fifty at the pimp, which floated in the air and landed on the passenger seat. Magic’s eyes followed it. He sniffed.
“Bet,” he said opening the door and squeezing his bulk into the seat. “Go around the corner, man.”
“You got it, my man,” 3-Monkey said putting the car into gear and pulling away from the curb.
Magic leaned out the window. “You better get me my money!” he called at the women on the corner. “I’m comin’ right back!”
The car turned the corner and headed towards the light.
“So what you interested in, man?” asked Magic. “E? H? Crack? Some weed? I can get you whatever you need.”
“Cool,” said 3-Monkey. “Oh, quick question. You know Ruby?”
“Yeah, man,” Magic said, grinning conspiratorially. “You want me to call her for you? She likes to get nasty.”
“Naw, my man,” the driver said. “Just askin’. Which way?”
Magic turned in his seat and pointed. “You make a ri ... “
That was all he was able to say before 3-Monkey stuck the prongs of the taser in the side of his neck. The tops of the pimp’s knees jammed against the underside of the dashboard and jiggled for a few seconds before his entire body slumped forward.
The car made a left and drove into the night which showed the first signs of dawn.
* * *
The serial killer went to the whiteboard and rubbed out the name ‘Magic’ with an eraser. The taser and the duct tape were placed on a table next to the fillet knife and sheath. The knife was dropped in a small plastic bucket filled with ammonia and sunk to the bottom. The duct tape, taser and sheath were wiped down and safely hidden away.
3-Monkey removed a small sandwich bag from a pocket, grabbed a black marker from the desk and walked the short steps to the closet. Behind the coats in its corner sat a small freezer. 3-Monkey glanced at the torn dark brown ears and lips and two staring brown eyes inside the baggie and used the marker to write the name MAGIC on the plastic. 3-Monkey opened the bag, squeezed the air from it (careful not to accidently crush the eyeballs) and ran a thumb across the green and blue strips, sealing it shut. The baggie was placed on a shelf next to the others.
3-Monkey looked at the other plastic bags. Rage joined a bellyful of bile. There were still so many.
Too many .
3-Monkey sat in the leather high-back chair, leaning back as far as the chair allowed, staring at the wall. Eyes gazed at the framed quote.
One who condones evil is just as guilty as the one who perpetrates it – Martin Luther King Jr.
Too true , the killer thought. So many evil bastards out there making others suffer needlessly, and people who say they love them; care for them, just watch and do nothing .
Eyes fell on the other quote in its oak frame that hung next to the first.
All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing – Edmond Burke
3-Monkey stared at the words until they became a blur. Should sleep. Long day tomorrow. Eyes fell on the framed picture between the quotes. It was a different time. A different world.
3-Monkey sighed.
Journal .
3-Monkey tapped a few keys on the keyboard which brought the computer out of hibernation. After opening a password protected spreadsheet the beard and mustache were removed. More keys were tapped and a new entry was created.
NAME: Terry John Stewart (driver’s license ID confirmed)
ALIASES: Muhammad el Nur, Magic (fake driver’s license ID confirmed)
PROFESSION: Pimp
3-Monkey stopped and stared at the screen. After saving the spreadsheet the Killer walked into the kitchen and removed a cereal box from a cabinet. Inside the box and behind the wax bag was a small plastic baggie. The bag was held up to the light showing strands of hair inside. It was placed it next to the mouse pad.
Carlton truly understands what needs to be done, 3-Monkey thought. I should get rid of them. Don’t really need them anyway. We’re on the same side and he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.
“We’re the same.”
The Killer’s eyes focused on the long brown strands of hair in the baggie and pictured the accountant in front of him.
He couldn’t be jealous of my work? Why? No. He has his targets and I have mine. The Greek was just a coincidence. No; it was more than that. It was a sign letting us know we’re not alone.
3-Monkey’s eyes filled with tears.
Loneliness . Sometimes that’s all there is.
The Killer frowned.
No. There’s more.
The baggie was held up to the light again.
Am I your rival? Your competition? Would you try to stop me?
3-Monkey winced at that familiar pain that filled the temples.
Maybe we talk it over during dinner? Or a beer. Compare notes; discuss our goals and objectives.
Our dreams.
A world run by good people for good people. No one taking advantage of another. No one abusing another and calling it love.
The pain sharpened and crawled like snakes behind the eyes.
No more unheard screams in the night.
The baggie was returned to the cereal box and the box placed back in the cabinet.
It’s too soon to meet with Carlton. Patient. I need to be patient.
Until I’m sure.
3-Monkey went to the kitchen, removed a fresh baggie from a box on a shelf and picked up the marker. The name PARNELL was written in small neat letters on the plastic.
The Killer looked over at the Escher print on the wall showing a hand drawing a hand and smiled.
|
Book was not fully awake to read the 30-page dossier on Costa until his after his shower and half of his third cup of strong coffee. He was once again thankful he worked freelance and not in an office. He knew that he would have not only dozed off at his desk, but probably would have been left for the evening cleaning crew to wake up. |