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  Maybe shock has got the best of her. Patrick sat down next to her. “Mikki, did he kill Azure?”

  She turned to face him. “I no understand…this not the man. I no see him.”

  Fuck me. “Are you sure, Mikki?”

  Her body trembled. “I sure…the man…much larger.” She pointed at Patrick. “Like you, Mr. Policeman.”

  Patrick rubbed the back of his neck. Gonna have to let pale boy go. “Thank you for looking, at least. If you give me a few minutes, we can go to where Glover-man’s car is…if that’s all right?”

  Mikki smoothed out her thin dress. “Yes, but I scared he out there. I no want to die.”

  Patrick touched her arm. “We aren’t going to let anything happen to you.” He escorted her to the front door. “Officer Meehan will escort you to my car. Maybe you can describe what he looks so we can draw a picture of him.”

  Mikki managed a crooked smile. “I know what he look like.”

  Patrick nodded. “I just need a few minutes, and we can go.”

  “Okay.” Mikki walked down the hall with Constance Ravine and Officer Meehan.

  Patrick glared at the clock hanging above the doorway. His phone vibrated. Patrick stared at the text message in disbelief. Not going to be able to hold him any longer. Aiden Jacobs and Serena Owens were now out of the mix as well. The text he received told him Serena had moved out of state to live with family, while Aiden Jacobs had apparently run away. What else could go wrong? What scared him more than anything was the distinct possibility that Donovan Petrie wasn’t involved in any of these homicides, and if that was truly the case, someone out there was waiting for another opportunity to kill again. Maybe there was a chance Mr. Glover-man was responsible for at least the death of Azure Sutaki. But chance was a game Patrick didn’t enjoy playing.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Brandon Thornley was confident the neighbors of Collin Glover would have little compassion for the missing man, but he still implemented every safety protocol available as he returned for an encore performance. The realization that the dead man’s Jaguar was present in the parking garage told him the police hadn’t picked up on that lead…yet. He stared down at the pale skin of Graneth Kensington. Too bad for you.

  Brandon’s mind kept racing about the unwanted guest spying on him at the dealership. Just the thought of it alone had spooked him at first, but when he spotted the partially covered Caprice, a simple solution presented itself. The call to the dispatcher was risky. Brandon wasn’t even sure if he was going to be able to sneak away, especially hauling the extra weight of his victim, but as always, he remained unscathed. The identity of the voyeur and why he was there at that time of night was interesting, to say the least. Maybe we will meet again? But for now, back to work.

  Brandon had stripped off Graneth Kensington’s clothing. The man was positioned in one of Collin Glover’s expensive chairs. Brandon placed him upright in the middle of the room. Now, we are ready.

  He picked up a brown folder and concentrated on one of the photos from the Jamie Brooks homicide. A few inquiries to former friends working at the crime scene, along with offering to donate a handsome sum of money to the dead girl’s family, and presto, he was in possession of classified material. Brandon ran his hand over the color picture. Even though he considered himself to be skilled in the ways of murder, something about how this killer went about his work actually impressed him. Brandon studied it and recreated a likeness right in front of him.

  One more thing left to do. Brandon kneeled down and inspected the candles. From his bag, he removed a book of matches. After he was satisfied everything was just right, he lit the candles. Brandon scanned the photo one more time before he stepped back from the kill area. Almost perfect. He closed the folder and stuffed it back from where it came. You served a purpose, Englishman. A purpose, indeed.

  Brandon walked over to the breakfast bar to collect his personal belongings. He noticed a blinking light on his cell phone, then clicked the unlock button. His lips formed a slight grin as he read the message.

  Hey, buddy. U working 2 day? I called the office and they said u were out.

  Brandon typed.

  Just a little work. Nothing too major. What’s up?

  Nada. Was a little detained earlier, but now free from sickness.

  Brandon laughed.

  I guess that means you’ll be at work tomorrow.

  All this white stuff on the ground you should have snow days.

  Brandon shook his head.

  No rest for the wicked…you know.

  Lol. Oh, you have that so right.

  Brandon gazed at the clock on the wall and thought, Shit. Gotta get out of here.

  He typed in a few more words and hit the send key, then peeked at the time. Only had a few hour to get ready before it was time for his son’s Christmas concert. Brandon shoved the cell in his cargo pocket. He scurried towards the front door and took one final glance at Graneth Kensington. Good work. Laughing, he shut the door behind him.

  * * *

  Donovan Petrie read the last message Brandon had sent. I could kill him at his kid’s concert. An uneasy look covered his face as he pulled the dirty blinds open. The unmarked Tahoe had dropped him off at his apartment two hours ago, and he knew it wasn’t a coincidence that they were still there. Donovan cherished the moment when he saw the reaction on Homicide Detective Patrick Morgan’s face as he apologized for inconveniencing him. Whoever was behind the mirrored glass was unable to identify him as the sought-out killer, even though that’s exactly what he was. Now, he was home to plot out the next step: to end Brandon Thornley’s life.

  Donovan was convinced Brandon knew it was him outside the dealership. What he was confused about had more to do with why Brandon had gone there. There was a reason. Just need to find out a little more about Brandon.

  He booted up his laptop. A few minutes later, he was staring at Langston Security Solutions Executive Board. There had been substantial press about board members, but Brandon Thornley, without question, had the most. Donovan had been given special access to the secure site, but he was careful not to spend too much time in one area. Donovan discovered links to several articles as he scoured the database. This is it.

  He double clicked the link. The screen went through a series of graphics before he was finally able to read the title of the piece. “The Balance Between Fortune and Family.” A photo caption was below it. Donovan hit the print screen button as he perused the selection. It was actually quite intriguing. What really caught his attention was how Brandon Thornley had let the reporter who created the article delve into his personal life. If Brandon was the security genius everybody envisioned him to be, he forgot one thing: never endanger your loved ones.

  Donovan snatched the paper from the printer, his heart racing as he scribbled a few notes on the back. How perfect is this? He would use the most precious commodity Brandon Thornley possessed to initiate the man’s own demise. Donovan glanced at the screen and smiled, then minimized the article. He was still logged on to Langston Security Solutions secure page, so his search would be quick and easy. After scrolling through several screens, he saw a tab labeled Personal Demographics. A few seconds later, the information he needed printed out.

  Reaching into a cubby hole on the side of his desk, he flipped open the calendar Langston Security Solutions had provided on his first day of employment. Only a small window of time left, and the first phase of my agenda will be complete.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The four-story parking garage at Chester and Vine usually housed the vehicles of the adjacent condominium owners. At the present, it was a command center for the New Haven Police Department. Patrick Morgan had been excited when Mikki Chax insisted she knew the exact location where Glover-man’s vehicle was parked. That, however, wasn’t the case. The compilation of the recent winter weather, plus the packed lot, had made it more difficult for the girl to remember. It all changed, though, when Patrick pulled onto the f
ourth-floor ramp. Mikki Chax’s eyes filled with tears as the memories came flooding back to her.

  Glover-man’s Jaguar was on the opposite side of the ramp. The man had parked in erratic fashion, which would verify Mikki Chax’s statement about him being in an impaired state. Patrick instructed Mikki to stay in the unmarked car as he approached. He remembered the driver’s side door being ajar. That was all Patrick needed to see. Even though the snow was mostly covering the door handle, the recent sunlight had cleared enough for him to witness several dark splotches as they patterned themselves against the heavy steel. Patrick backed away and radioed for Crime Scene Investigators.

  That had been over an hour ago. Now, he was in the process of locating Collin Glover. In normal circumstances, the license plate demographics would be reported to dispatch, and they would have the information back in a timely fashion. Today, it was much more difficult. The registration information returned to an address out of Caterville, which was a suburb east of New Haven. Several calls had been made to the phone number on file, but to this point, it had been a dead end.

  Commander Cromartie stopped his vehicle next to where he was standing. “Morgan, where did your witness go?”

  Patrick jerked his head. “She is with Tammy from Crisis Management Services. She said she can identify the killer, so Tammy will be with her and the sketch artist, once she’s ready.”

  Cromartie looked in the girl’s direction. “Once we go inside, we can radio for her. Just depends if Glover is even still around.”

  Patrick tugged at his sleeve. “If we can avoid exposing her to him, I want that done. Okay?”

  “Good enough.” He turned off the engine and exited. “What about this Collin Glover? You think he killed the Asian girl?”

  Patrick leaned against the car. “Not very smart to leave his car at the scene, if he was involved.”

  Cromartie chuckled. “Damn guy is an ambulance chaser.”

  Patrick rubbed his hands together. “Already called the law firm. He was scheduled for a few days off. By the way, the same address on file as Department of Transportation.”

  Cromartie stepped to the concrete wall overlooking the street below. “How many condos in this area?”

  Patrick shrugged. “Seventeen different companies own properties here. I sent officers out to speak with whatever managers they could find, but this close to the holidays, I doubt we even get half of them.”

  “Fucking bad timing.” Cromartie shook his head.

  No kidding. “Unless you’re the bad guy.” Patrick looked over the ledge to the pavement below.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Cromartie said, with a raised brow.

  A true player. Patrick smiled. “Really wouldn’t surprise me. Hell, his wife wouldn’t have a clue he if had his own little bachelor hideaway. You know what…on second thought, I have an idea. It might be better than waiting for responses from these condo managers.” Patrick unclipped his cell phone and dialed.

  “Constance Ravine speaking.”

  “Ms. Ravine, this is Patrick Morgan. I really need your help.”

  “Detective Morgan, if I can…I will.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have Collin Glover’s address on file, would you?” Of course she does. “We are at a standstill. Only address we can find is in Caterville.”

  “Hmm. I know we have an address to send him promotional material from the casino. Hold on a second.”

  Patrick hit the speakerphone option so Cromartie could listen in. Gambling was an addiction. Probably kept it from his wife.

  Constance returned to the conversation. “Detective, the promo items are mailed to an address here in New Haven. 111 Chester Street, unit 3G. That’s all I have.”

  I knew it. “Great. This is what we needed. Thanks, Ms. Ravine. This guy could be the one who killed Azure.”

  Constance’s voice softened. “You really believe that?”

  “It’s the best lead we have received so far…I hope we find something.”

  “So do I, Detective…so do I.”

  * * *

  Patrick Morgan, Commander Cromartie, and several officers were positioned in the hallway outside of Collin Glover’s clandestine residence. The everyday sounds, like a television or radio playing, were nonexistent. This made it eerie in itself. The addition of adding a possible killer to the recipe created a much more ominous setting.

  Patrick knocked on the door. “Mr. Glover, New Haven Police. Open up, sir.”

  Damn. No answer. Patrick knocked again, this time with much more urgency. “Mr. Glover. New Haven Police. I need to speak with you, sir!”

  Still no answer. Patrick eyed the others. He motioned for two officers to step to the forefront. The men were genetic examples of fitness, and the simple wooden door would cry for mercy when they decided to show their strength.

  Patrick silently mouthed a command, and within seconds, the group was standing in the entryway. What the hell? The room, except for where they had breached, was blanketed in darkness. It was the middle of the day. Patrick removed his tactical light. He scanned the wall for a light switch. He flipped the switch on, but the interior remained dark. Should have counted on that.

  He aimed the beam in the direction where he thought the windows would be. The glass appeared to be covered with a dark substance. Patrick motioned for the closest officer to investigate further. Within a minute, the team member radioed him. The glass had been painted over in black spray paint, so the alternative was the usage of their mini tactical lights. Soon, there was a display of dancing light beams bouncing in all directions of the interior.

  Cromartie tapped him on the shoulder. He whispered, “Do you smell that? What the hell is it?”

  Flowers? “I think its lilac. Over there.” Patrick pointed to the center of the room.

  Cromartie seemed to forget all tactical training as he raised his voice. “Is that him?”

  Patrick walked closer. “Mr. Glover? New Haven Police here, sir.” The guy’s not fucking moving. Patrick hastened his step. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  Cromartie nudged him, as he pointed. “What’s on the floor there?”

  The odor of lilac was now overpowering the two. Candles? No, it couldn’t be. Patrick was close enough to recognize the figure and the irreparable damage that had been done to him. Why is he here? Patrick fumbled with his portable radio. “Morgan to CSI unit twelve.”

  A scratchy voice responded. “Go ahead, Detective Morgan.”

  “Bring your team up here to unit 3G. We need you.”

  “Roger that, sir. We will be en route.”

  Patrick turned to Cromartie. “That’s not Collin Glover.”

  Cromartie rubbed his face. “What do you mean that’s not him?”

  Patrick pointed to the man. “This is Graneth Kensington…the auto manager at Hager Imports.”

  “Him?” Cromartie stared at the naked, bludgeoned torso. “How do you think he got here?”

  Patrick aimed the light on the floor. “What I want to know where in the hell Collin Glover is.”

  Cromartie aimed his flashlight at the rear of the Englishman. “Well, by the looks of the mixed barbwire and intertwined steel, Mr. Glover has definitely moved up to number one suspect.”

  And seeing this, how can I argue? “Something’s different.”

  Cromartie flashed the light at him. “Huh? Morgan, are we seeing the same thing here?”

  Patrick’s eyes focused to the candles. “Think about it for a second. All of the other murders—and I do mean all—involve this exact same setting. Slashed throat, feet nailed to the ground, barbwire shackles, but this is different. I don’t remember this nasty flowery odor. Do you?”

  Cromartie scratched his head. “That’s your evidentiary findings…the smell of lilacs? Okay, maybe the guy decided to add something new to his method for ritualistic killings.”

  Before Patrick could respond with a less-than-appropriate comment, the CSI unit arrived. Scott Gather was the team leader, and
he looked the part. The man was lanky and the birth-control glasses warded off any potential woman having interest. Scott even had matching pocket protectors on either side of his tan jumpsuit. But through all of that, Scott was the absolute in the collection of evidence and DNA.

  He called out to Patrick. “Sir, what’s up with the lilac smell?”

  Patrick managed a weak smile. “Scott, seems like our guy has changed up a little with his method of operation.”

  Scott flipped off his glasses in Clark Kent fashion. “What’s with the lights, fellas?”

  Patrick aimed his light at the spray-painted windows. “Guess the killer likes the dark.”

  Scott flashed the two investigators a grin. “That’s not all. The temperature in this room is way too cool.” He motioned towards the thermostat. “You guys didn’t notice it?”

  Patrick and Cromartie stared at each other with ignorance. “We were outside, Scotty.”

  “The average temp for a place this size should be close to seventy degrees. It’s fifty-three, according to this. Look where he placed the body.”

  Patrick nodded. “The middle of the room.”

  “Yes, but look where.” Scott pointed up at the air vents.

  Bastard did it on purpose. “He was trying to slow down the decomposition process.” Patrick looked in the direction of the windows. “So, he also covered the glass to keep it cool.”

  Scott smiled. “And they say cops aren’t too bright.”

  Patrick frowned. “Scott, like I told the Commander, something’s not right about those candles. I’d like you to bag them and run a complete set of tests on them.”

  Cromartie turned away. “You and those damn candles.”