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  “They have that laser removal shit now…anybody can have one taken off.” Steve shrugged.

  You gotta be kidding me, Patrick thought. “No, the CSI team would have caught it—”

  “So you still have a Jane Doe, and I still have a missing person’s case?” Steve rubbed his eyes.

  “It appears that way, but something else is bothering me.”

  “The guy in the tan car?”

  “Yep. I wonder how many houses around here would have video surveillance.”

  Steve smiled. “Probably all of them.”

  “Good place for you to start. May help find this girl.” Patrick opened the door.

  Steve followed him. “What are you going to do?”

  “Going to check with the medical examiner.” Patrick felt the vibration from his cell phone, then answered it. “Yes, sir?”

  The deep voice of Commander Cromartie filled the speaker. “Morgan, I need you to meet me at 2121 Barnt Street. I just found out who our Jane Doe is—”

  “Who?”

  “She was the daughter of Magistrate Regan Stephans. Apparently, she had been receiving threatening phone calls from a former boyfriend.”

  “Sounds like a prime suspect to me,” Patrick said.

  “Yes, or so you would think…problem is, he’s dead as well.”

  “Are you fucking kidding?”

  “I wish that was the case. He was found nailed to his shower wall last week.”

  “Nailed?”

  “You heard right? I’ll tell you more when you get here.” Cromartie ended the call, leaving Patrick with an ocean of unanswered questions.

  Chapter Six

  Detective Patrick Morgan assumed New Haven’s most prestigious magistrate would live in the best neighborhood money could buy but was surprised when he pulled in front of the modest one-story. The chipped paint and unkempt yard made it a definite eyesore compared to the surrounding multi-million dollar palaces. Patrick spotted Commander Cromartie pacing around his unmarked vehicle. Cromartie looked up, hustling towards him.

  “About two hours ago, we got a call from Magistrate Stephans. She indicated our Jane Doe is her daughter, Roxanne Stephans. There hadn’t been any contact with her for a week.” Cromartie handed him a sheet paper. “These are a list of threatening calls to the residence, prior to her disappearance.”

  “From the ex-boyfriend you mentioned?” Patrick asked.

  Cromartie shook his head, pulling out a notebook from his shirt pocket. “Yes, the kids name was Justus Alleandro. It sounds like a history of domestic abuse with the two of them.”

  Justus getting justice, Patrick thought. “Not anymore. How did you find out about his death?”

  “His parents found him in his Davenport apartment. They called here and told the magistrate about the murder.” Cromartie loosened his tie. “Then she called us.”

  “Davenport? A goddamn long way from New Haven. Same method of operation for the deaths. Someone hated those two,” Patrick said.

  “Shit, Morgan, they were young kids. No fucking way did they deserve this…no fucking way.”

  “Is Magistrate Stephans still in there?” Patrick pointed in the direction of the house.

  “No, she just left for the Medical Examiner’s office. I told her to contact us when she’s up to it.”

  “Hopefully, if there is any evidence, it won’t walk away by then,” Patrick snapped.

  “Morgan, I called Davenport Homicide and asked them to send a copy of the report on Justus Alleandro. Maybe, there something in it, which could help us—”

  “Before, anymore people are killed,” Patrick handed Cromartie his notebook. “Check out the last page.”

  Cromartie flipped to the last page, scanning the contents. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Another missing girl? Do you think she just took off or something else?”

  Patrick scratched his head. “Serena Owens was freaked out by a guy driving a tan Caprice.”

  “A lot of people buy retired patrol units. I wouldn’t take much stock in this.”

  “Maybe, but she had almost a scared look in her eyes when she told us.”

  Cromartie rolled his eyes. “Her girlfriend hasn’t come home; of course anyone strange in the neighborhood will get her fears going.” He tossed back the notebook.

  “Boss, I think we need to look at this before we just write it off.”

  Cromartie sighed. “Agreed. But first, let’s try to take care of what we have right here.”

  “Gotcha, I’m gonna check around the house and see if there is anymore evidence on this Alleandro subject.”

  “Knock yourself out. If you do find something, hit me up on the cell.”

  Patrick glanced at his watch. “I doubt Wheeler Hodges has anything to do with this.”

  “Probably not. Just keep me posted, and I’ll meet you back here at 0700 tomorrow,” Cromartie called after him.

  Patrick flipped to the back page of the notebook and re-read the description of the man Serena Owens had provided. Something about him had given her an uneasy feeling. Patrick knew Commander Cromartie could think whatever he wanted, but Patrick was a strong believer of trusting his instincts, and they were telling him the evil in New Haven was just beginning.

  Chapter Seven

  Donovan Petrie sat at the table, admiring the store’s newest book seller. Tamara Bowers was a petite, thirty-something blonde with ivory skin and an electric smile. The trademark black polo and tan pants almost fit her like a second skin. Donovan watched while she climbed up a wobbly ladder, having difficulty balancing an armload of books. Donovan smiled at her independence. The woman possessed good enough looks to have any of the pimple-faced high school workers help her, but it appeared she wanted to prove this particular task was something she would do on her own.

  Donovan took a sip from his mug, savoring the taste of the fine whiskey he had snuck past the mall rent-a-cop. Yes, liquid courage is my weakness, he thought.

  Tamara took a glance in his direction, noticing he was staring at her. She flashed him a smile as she continued to put the inventory away. Donovan knew he wasn’t considered good-looking or even average, so any woman who gave him the slightest attention was a boost to what little ego he had. He lowered his head, pretending to be interested in the headlines of the local newspaper, then realized his latest body of work was the hot topic of the day. Wonderful, I’m getting some press. Donovan folded the paper and shoved it inside his jacket.

  He finished his drink and was about to get up when a hardcover book landed next to his foot.

  A soft voice called down to him. “Excuse me, but could you hand me that?” Tamara Bowers started to descend towards him, but she lost her balance and slipped.

  Donovan intervened and caught her before she hit the ground. He held her for a moment, then righted her so both feet were on the floor.

  “Um, thanks…I’d have broken my neck.” Tamara’s face was flushed from embarrassment. She managed a grin as she straightened out her clothes.

  “We can’t have that.” Donovan scooped up the misplaced book and handed it to her.

  She brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Well, thank you…twice.”

  “No problem.” Donovan started to walk away.

  “Hey! What’s your hurry?” Tamara followed him.

  “I have to go.”

  “Can I at least reward you for a good deed?” Tamara twirled her hair.

  The blood seeping from your body will be reward enough, he thought. “There’s no need for that, but Mrs. Bookseller, be careful next time—”

  “You can call me Tamara.” She bit her lower lip.

  I already know your name, he thought. “I’m Donovan. Maybe next time you can buy me a coffee or something.”

  She touched his shoulder. “Consider it done. Thank you again.”

  Donovan took a quick look back at the woman as she watched him leave the bookstore. Pushing through the glass doors that led directly out of the store, he walked around the
side of the mall where the bookstore had reserved parking spots. He had had been doing his research on her and knew her preferred choice for parking. There it is. Donovan kneeled down next to the passenger’s side rear wheel and removed a carving blade from inside his jacket. He looked in both directions, thankful for the cover of twilight. When he was satisfied there wasn’t anyone in the area, he forced the rusted steel deep into the rubber. The hissing sound of escaping air put a devious smile on his face.

  Donovan put the knife back inside his jacket and scurried back to his vehicle. Nothing else to do now but wait.

  He opened the arm rest and grabbed his cell phone, logging into Konnect2u. Donovan skipped through the invitations for frivolous games and quizzes but decided to do a little background research on his newest friend. He scrolled over Brandon Thornley’s profile picture and clicked. On the information about you section, he made mental notes as he read it from top to bottom. Very high profile guy. Donovan knew it would be difficult getting to him, considering the man’s background, but a challenging kill was just the thing he needed.

  Donovan had spent so much time learning about Brandon, he almost didn’t realize what time it was. He looked out the window and noticed the lights from the bookstore’s sign had gone dark.

  “Shit.” He threw the phone in the glove box.

  Donovan turned on the engine and drove to the rear of the building, keeping his distance. He noticed the Durango was still parked in the same spot, but the owner wasn’t anywhere in sight. Fucking great…I missed her.

  As he was about to leave, he noticed the thin frame of Tamara Bowers walking across the parking lot. Stopping at her SUV, she noticed Donovan’s handiwork. She slammed her purse against the pavement, then leaned up against the vehicle.

  Looks like she needs my help again. Donovan laughed. He pulled away from his hiding spot and headed towards her. When he was about twenty feet from her, he stopped the car and flashed his lights.

  Tamara shielded her eyes. She picked up her purse and quickly dug though it until she found what she was looking for. Donovan drew the vehicle closer but stopped when he saw her actually hurry towards him.

  “Hey, asshole, turn off the brights,” Tamara yelled, aiming the can of mace in his direction.

  Donovan rolled down the window and smiled. “Asshole? Ouch, that really hurt.”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know it was you.” Tamara covered her mouth. She lowered the can.

  “How many assholes are you expecting?” Donovan stepped from the car.

  “No, I don’t…mean you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Had some mall shopping to do.” Donovan changed the subject. “Looks like you could use some help.”

  Tamara half smiled. “Yeah, someone fucked up my tire. You have great timing.”

  “I didn’t know book nerds had that many enemies.” Donovan laughed, looking at the wheel.

  “Hey, be nice,” she scolded.

  Donovan bent down. “You got a spare?”

  Tamara shook her head. “Damn ex-husband took it.”

  Hmm. Nobody to worry about at home. Donovan glanced at his wrist. “It’s too late to get it fixed. You need a lift somewhere?”

  Tamara blushed. “It’s the second time you have rescued me.”

  Donovan opened the passenger side door. “So, you owe me two cups of coffee.”

  “You’ll have to come back and see me to collect.” Tamara touched his arm.

  “It’s a date then.”

  Donovan pulled the car into traffic. Several minutes later, he was on the expensive south side of the city. Once in her community, she pointed to a beige house on the opposite side of the street where he’d turned.

  “Do you want to come inside for a drink?”

  Donovan stopped the car in front of the house. “No, I have to be at work early tomorrow.” After I kill you, he thought.

  Tamara stuck her tongue out. “I’ll see you again soon, right?”

  Sooner than you think. A smile crossed his lips. “Of course. I’ll be in for that coffee you owe me.”

  Tamara bit her lip. “Well, thanks again…for everything,” she said, stepping away from the car.

  “See you at the bookstore,” Donovan said, leaving her standing on the edge of the curb.

  A few blocks down was a twenty-four-hour eatery. He surveyed the area before parking at the rear of the building. Donovan popped the trunk and rummaged through the contents, slipping on a black nylon backpack. Here we go. Reaching into his jacket, he removed a silver cigar case and flipped it open, smiling. I’ll have one now and save the other for after. Donovan zipped up his jacket and walked in the direction of Tamara Bower’s house. Ready or not, here I come…

  Chapter Eight

  Brandon Thornley had decided to take a day from his busy schedule to attend to his next victim. Cindy Palentine worked for Blaisedale Reality, and her resume for finding houses for New Haven’s wealthy was most impressive. She had just finished her fourth showing of the day and was driving her red Jaguar with reckless abandon, trying to get to the next.

  Can’t blame the woman for wanting to succeed. Brandon picked up his cell phone, tapping the numbers with his finger.

  “Blaisedale Reality, Cindy speaking.”

  The soft but strong voice had almost an intoxicating effect on him. “Hello, Mrs. Palentine, this is Brandon Thornley. I sent you an e-mail on Konnect2u…about the open house on Shall Street.”

  “Great to get your call, Mr. Thornley. I’m standing in the kitchen of the home right now. It’s simply lovely.”

  Such a liar. Brandon laughed. “Well, I hope so. My wife treats her kitchen like a sanctuary…and it’s almost as big.”

  “Indeed. I can tell you first hand that the marble floors and oak cabinets make a perfect combination,” Cindy said.

  Hmm, always trying to close a sale, Brandon thought. “It does sound pretty amazing. I’m just running a few minutes behind but should be there soon.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be waiting.”

  “Thanks, I can’t wait to see it.” He clicked the phone off.

  Brandon took a glimpse down at his watch. It’ll be dark soon, but there’s still time. He turned the corner and headed in the opposite direction of where the open house was scheduled. After driving for several minutes, he finally stopped on a side street across from his destination.

  Brandon scanned the neighborhood for several minutes until he felt confident his presence had gone unnoticed. Behind the passenger seat was a medium-sized brown paper bag. He grabbed it and stuffed it inside his coat, exiting the car. There were no vehicles in the driveway, and the walk around the house was quick and uneventful. At the back door, he fumbled in his front pocket, pulling out a thin piece of metal. Brandon inserted it through the lock, wiggling it back and forth until he heard a click.

  Too easy, he thought, reaching down to his belt, unclipping the tactical flashlight. Brandon gently pushed the door open, aiming the light through the darkened interior. There was an intermittent beeping coming from the room adjacent. Probably have sixty seconds.

  Brandon quickly located the alarm panel. Bad choice of systems. The L.E.D. on the white rectangular pad was flashing. Gotta work fast. He ripped out the paper bag from inside his jacket, removing several items. He inspected the screws, holding the panel in place. These were standard make and model, not specially designed for this particular system. The person who installed it was obvious naïve in the field. He peeked at the timer on the display.

  Thirty seconds left. Brandon picked up one of the tools and removed each screw with skill and precision. The silver base plate loosened, exposing two black wires. He reached for the next tool, stripped the wires, then crossed one set of copper over the other and tied them together, wrapping them in place. The noise from the panel ceased, creating an eerie silence.

  With the face cover secured back in place, he punched in a series of numbers, clearing the screen. Satisfied the system was ready, he reset the
timer, then rushed through the house and out the door from which he came. Brandon checked the handle, ensuring the locking system was undamaged. Excellent.

  Within a few minutes, he was sitting back in the driver’s seat of his car. He reached out for the cell phone and hit the redial button.

  “Blaisedale Reality, Cindy here.” The voice sounded annoyed.

  “This is Brandon Thornley. I had a car problem, but I’m coming now.”

  “Mr. Thornley, I’m going to have reschedule. Sorry, I have another appointment…want me to pencil you down for later tonight?”

  That won’t be necessary. “Mrs. Palentine, I’ll check my schedule and get back with you. I didn’t mean to cause you a problem.”

  Cindy sighed. “Well, I hope the house is still available tomorrow.”

  She’s playing with me. “I hope so, too. That kitchen sounds perfect for my wife.”

  “Give me a call when your schedule is free. I’ll try to keep other potential buyers at bay until then. I think once you see the house, it will be love at first sight,” Cindy soothed.

  She talks a good game. “Can’t wait, Mrs. Palentine.”

  A devious smile filled his face, as he sat and waited for darkness. In a few short hours, Cindy Palentine would be buried in a shallow grave next to all his other victims. Konnect2u was proving to be a most precious ally in the quest to rekindle a hobby, lost…but not forgotten.

  * * *

  Cindy Palentine turned the Jaguar up the street, tired from a long day at work, followed by an after-hours party at a local nightclub. As she approached her house, a look of contempt spread across her face. Mark forgot to turn on the timer for the damn lights. She yanked the remote control from the visor, hitting the button. The metal scraped as the garage door slowly opened, exposing a steady glow. At least this light works. Cindy was about to exit the car, when the familiar sound of “Rock City” came screaming from her phone.

  “Shit!” She fumbled for her phone. “Hey honey, guess what you forgot to do?”

  Mark Palentine’s voice sounded strained. “I hope nothing.”