Chapter Five

Griffin

This whole thing had stank to high heaven from the moment Cade had first mentioned it, but it stank even more now that I'd dutifully attended the meeting, only to find none other than Ben sitting there. So much for Cade's statistic-based assurances I wouldn't bump into him. Not only had I bumped into him, but I'd been partnered with him—a turn of events that clearly displeased Ben as much as it did me.

With the folder Baros had given him tucked under his arm, Ben led me into a busy room full of desks. I was curious enough about the inner workings of the CID to stand and take it all in for a moment.

"Who's your friend, Benedict?"

The question had come from a middle-aged man wearing a tan jacket, his paunch sizeable enough that the desk he sat at seemed to struggle to keep it in check .

"Benedict?" I queried as Ben ignored his colleague and led me into a small side room. It was empty of anything except for a large table, a couple of chairs, and a whiteboard.

Ben made a production out of closing the door firmly and pulling the blind down. Satisfied that no one could see in, he threw the folder on the table and turned to face me, his expression tight. "What are you doing here, Griffin?"

Within the confines of the relatively small room, and with no one else present, the bond we shared flickered to life, making me want to touch him, to remind myself what his stubble felt like beneath my palm. I could push him up against the wall and I could kiss him. He'd put up a token fight, but it wouldn't last longer than a few seconds before he gave into it.

Ben's fingers wrapped around the edge of the table, gripping so hard his knuckles turned white. "Don't."

"Don't what?" I asked pseudo-innocently.

His eyes flashed a warning. "You know what? You don't get to dump me, refuse to talk to me for three years, and then just turn up here and think about sex?"

Sighing, I hooked my foot around a chair and dragged it away from the table. Once there was space, I eased myself into it, stretching my long legs out in front of me. The best defense with Ben was attack; it always had been. "Did you have a good time the other night? What was his name?"

"I'm not doing this," Ben said between gritted teeth. "Any of it."

"I'll take that as a no," I said. "You should choose more carefully next time. There are plenty of perfectly adequate lovers in London. You've just got to know where to look."

Ben shook his head. He took a deep breath in and then let it out. "You want me to get angry about the olives. You want me to kick up a fuss and give you an excuse to walk out of here. You want it to be my fault so you can run to Cade and pretend you did everything you could, but that your position was untenable." He lifted his gaze to mine, his gray eyes stormy. "You're forgetting that I know you. I know how you work. I know all your tactics for sliding out of things and pretending they're not your fault."

His words stung. Not because they weren't true. They were. But because I'd convinced myself that I'd only been that way after we'd split. After Whitney. It seemed I'd been in denial. "Fine," I said. "We won't talk about the other night." I gestured at the abandoned folder in the middle of the table. "Aren't you supposed to be briefing me on the case?"

Ben let out a snort. "What's the point when we both know you're not sticking around?"

I pulled the folder toward me. I only got it a couple of inches before he snatched it back. "That's confidential. And there are things in there, you'd probably rather not see."

That piqued my curiosity. "Like what?"

Ben rolled his eyes. "It's a murder case, Griffin. I hate to break it to you, but murder is frequently unpleasant. This is real life, not Law and Order ." He tapped his fingers on the folder, those long fingers of his that I remembered so well. Stroking over my skin. Wrapped around my cock. Deep in my arse, rubbing over my prostate. "These men were just going about their daily lives, and they didn't deserve what happened to them." He paused, choosing to ignore the inappropriate sexual thoughts he'd no doubt felt. "What I'm trying to say is this isn't a game."

I held his gaze. "I never said it was." Keen to put us back on something of an even keel, I changed tack. "You got promoted. When did that happen? "

"Eighteen months ago."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks." His face didn't say thanks. His face said he thought I was taking the piss.

"Tell me about the case," I repeated. I'd attended the meeting with the DCS with every intention of listening to what he had to say and then politely informing him that his plans wouldn't work for me. Despite Ben's presence, something had changed my mind. Maybe I was tired of people thinking the worst of me. Maybe I just wanted to see if my abilities really could be used to solve murders. Or maybe it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the weariness leaking from Ben now his guard had dropped a little. He wasn't just tired; he was exhausted. Knowing the true answer required a level of self-analysis I wasn't ready for, but whatever my motive, I had no intention of leaving without finding out what was going on.

Ben sighed as he flicked the folder open, making sure I knew it was against his better judgment. He pulled out a photograph and laid it in front of me, the young man in it smiling at the camera. "Nineteen-year-old Duncan Whitaker," Ben said. "Recently moved to London. Politics student. Came out as gay while he was in high school, according to his mother. On the evening of the twenty-third of May, he brought someone home. His next-door neighbor, your typical busybody type, heard him talking to someone and then sounds of sexual intercourse. The walls in that building are thin and sound carries, so it's entirely plausible without her having had a glass to the wall. Roughly thirty minutes later, she said she heard a shout like someone was in trouble, followed by someone leaving the flat. Not surprisingly, given she's in her seventies, it took her a while to pluck up the courage to go next door to see if Duncan was alright. She discovered the door ajar and when he didn't respond to her calling his name, she called the police rather than stepping inside. A wise decision as it turned out."

Ben shoved another photo my way. It showed a naked body lying face down on the bed, the sheets stained with blood. "Whoever Duncan picked up, presumably killed him."

"How?"

"They cut off all his fingers and suffocated him. I'll spare you the photograph of Duncan's hands."

I held my hand out for the photo, Ben treating me to a long stare before grudgingly handing it over. The photo captured a closeup of both hands, or what remained of them. "You don't have to keep things from me," I said.

"I can feel your nausea."

I waved the photograph at him. "I'd be more concerned if this didn't make me feel sick." A slight tip of Ben's head conceded the point. I studied the photograph some more and went back over what Ben had said. "What came first, the suffocation or the finger splicing?"

"The post mortem was inconclusive. The original theory was that blood loss caused his death. Patrick Holmes, the forensic pathologist, said he suspected suffocation at the scene and the PM confirmed his theory. Given the position of the body, the consensus is that someone pressed his head into the pillow for long enough that he stopped breathing. The killer either removed the fingers shortly after or during the suffocation."

"You think he was strong enough to do both at the same time?"

"I don't think anything," Ben said. "I'm simply detailing all the possibilities. You asked me a question and I'm giving you the answer. "

I sat back to contemplate the information. I hoped for Duncan's sake he had been dead first. Or at least unconscious. I couldn't even begin to imagine the excruciating pain of having your fingers removed while you were still conscious.

Ben pushed another photo my way. "The missing fingers weren't at the scene, but the killer used them to draw these. Tests have confirmed that."

I pulled the photo closer and stared at the symbols drawn in blood. "Do we know what they mean?"

Ben shook his head. "Not yet. It's an area we're looking into. The assumption is that it's satanic, hence the moniker of Satanic Romeo being used. None of the experts have been able to shed any light on it yet."

"Not that expert, then, are they?" I said drily.

Ben ignored me as he pulled another photo from the folder and lay it down on the table. "Victim number two. Murray Clegg. Age twenty-one. Killed six days after Duncan, but his body lay undiscovered until his parents became concerned about why he hadn't turned up for Sunday lunch and came looking for him. Apparently, come rain or shine, he never missed one." He placed another crime scene photo on the table. This time, the victim was lying on his back, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Blood stained his bedsheets just like with the first one.

"Same M.O," Ben said. "Fingers missing, but not at the scene. He'd had sex shortly before being murdered." At my raised eyebrow, he elaborated. "There was evidence of penetration. Unfortunately for us, the killer used a condom."

"He likes to get right to it on a first date, then," I said.

Ben's stare was icy. "We prefer not to make judgments about people who are dead."

"Not judging," I pointed out. "Just stating a fact. I'm not averse to getting right to it myself."

Ben's jaw clenched, taking it as the dig it was, given the two of us had wasted no time in getting down to it ourselves on the night we'd first met. "It might be important. Did the first victim also have signs of penetration?"

Ben shook his head. "Either they didn't go that far, or our murderer is a switch." He pushed another photo over. "We found the same symbols at the next scene."

"Exactly the same?" I asked, even as I located the first photo and lined them up next to each other like the world's most macabre spot the difference.

Ben leaned forward. "Can you see any differences?"

"Slight variations in size," I said, as my gaze flicked from one to the other. "But apart from that, no."

Victim number three turned out to be an almost identical story, the body hanging off the bed this time. Callum Summers, twenty years of age. Evidence of penetration before death. The missing fingers. The symbols on the wall. The only difference him being found by a housemate who'd spent the night at his girlfriend's house. I might not have been a detective, but even I could see a pattern unfolding.

"All white," I pointed out. "All aged in their late teens to early twenties. The killer has a type."

Ben laughed, but there was very little humor in it. "That's what we thought until the most recent murder two nights ago." He added another photo to the pile. "Meet Baris Demir, a Turkish immigrant who'd lived in London for five years."

My fingers curled around the edge of the photo to bring it closer. "He looks older. "

"Thirty-eight," Ben said with a distinct air of I-told-you-so. "He was also married with three kids. It was probably because of his marital status that his assignation took place in a hotel room rather than at a private residence. I guess it's difficult to smuggle a secret gay lover into the marital bed."

"Now who's judging," I said.

Ben grimaced. "Difficult not to when I did the interview and got front row seats to his wife's complete denial of why he'd been in that hotel room. Nobody wants to discover that their husband liked men that way. She can't even have it out with him."

I stared at the photos. "A deliberate act to shake things up, maybe. Perhaps he realized he was leaving a pattern and wanted to make predicting his next victim more difficult."

"Perhaps," Ben agreed. "Or maybe there never was a pattern in the first place, and the age and race of his previous victims was nothing but a coincidence."

I lifted my gaze to his. "You're the detective."

His mouth twisted. "I am. Fat lot of good it's done me so far."

I picked out the photos of the four men, the ones showing them all alive and well, two men smiling, two men not. "How far apart were the murders?"

Ben rested a finger on the photo of Duncan, the first victim. "If we count that as day one…" His finger moved across. "Day six, but lay undiscovered until day nine." He tapped the third photo. "Day ten. That was a fun couple of days." His finger moved to the last photo, the anomaly. "Day twelve."

"So they're becoming more frequent?"

"Possibly. Either that or there are bodies out there we haven't discovered yet. "

"Well, as long as no one is expecting me to bring them back. They wouldn't be much help."

Ben's stare was long and considered. "You're talking like you're actually going to do it."

I was, wasn't I? Which was strange when I'd turned selfishness into an art form over the past few years. The more I stared at the photos of the four dead men, the harder it was to summon up that same laissez-faire, though. What if I said no? They'd find another necromancer from somewhere, but how many more would die while they looked for one? I already had one death on my conscience that plagued my dreams. There wasn't room for more.

I sat back in my chair and feigned a casual nonchalance. "One crime scene. I bring him back. You ask your questions and find out the identity of the piece of shit going around London and murdering whoever he likes. Job done."

"And you can work with me for that long, can you?"

Something somersaulted in my gut—a feeling akin to being on a rollercoaster. Keeping up the nonchalant act, I shrugged. "I'll guess we'll see." I sat forward slightly. "What about you? Can you work with me?"

Ben averted his gaze, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "If you'd asked me that last week, I would have said no, but even I'm not stupid enough to turn down a golden opportunity to catch this bastard. You don't know how many times I've wished over the years that I could just talk to the victims and ask them what happened." His eyes shone as he got more worked up about it. "If this works, it could be an absolute game changer. Bigger even than the discovery of DNA. I'd have to be an idiot not to want to be a part of that. "

Ben looked like he used to look when we were in bed together: all passion and enthusiasm. I needed to put a dampener on it, too many uncomfortable memories flooding back. "Either that, or there'll be an increase in dismembering bodies. I've never yet got intelligent conversation out of a collection of body parts. I suppose we could Frankenstein them back together. Not sure whether that would work, but it might make for an interesting experiment."

When Ben reached over the table to gather up the photos, it was with sharp, jerky movements. I'd succeeded in extinguishing all his enthusiasm for the task ahead. Griffin Caldwell, killer of dreams and squasher of optimism. My mother would be so proud.

"If we're going to be working together," Ben said, as he tucked the last of the photos back in the folder, "we should probably talk about Whitney."

"No!" The word came out like a gunshot as the earth tilted beneath my feet. I stood, holding on to the back of the chair to give me stability. "In fact, if her name leaves your lips again, I'm out of here and they can find some other mug to do this. What I said three years ago still stands. We don't talk about her. Not then. Not now. Not ever." I could forgive Flynn for mentioning her. He hadn't known, but Ben did. Ben knew more than anyone, especially when it had been the reason we'd split.

"Okay…" He held both hands up in a defensive gesture. "I'm sorry. I should have known better."

"You should have," I ground out.

"I just thought with three years having passed, that…"

"You're still talking. "

Ben heaved out a breath and then mimed pulling a zip across his lips. "Your number," he said as I turned to leave. "I'm going to need it to get in contact with you when there's another victim so you can do your thing."

I turned back and regarded him coolly. "It's the same."

"I deleted it."

"Deleted it or blocked it?"

"Probably both."

At least he was being honest. There were post it notes on the table. I grabbed one and scribbled my number on it before passing it across. "I suggest you unblock me."

When Ben said nothing, I left, relieved to get out of there.

When I called Cade on the way home, it was Asher, his personal assistant, that answered. Asher and I had never seen eye to eye. Although, if pressed for the reason, I would have struggled to say why. Perhaps it irked me that he was even more cold and unemotional than I was. Nobody liked to be outdone.

"Put me through to Cade," I said, without offering a greeting.

"Griffin!" Asher said with practiced enthusiasm. "How lovely to hear from you. I'm afraid Cade is busy at the moment, but I'd be happy to pass on a message."

"Busy doing what?"

Silence met my enquiry, and I rolled my eyes. Today had been tough enough, given I'd confronted the ghost of lovers past and browsed photos of fingerless corpses, so I really wasn't in the mood for Asher pulling his guardian angel schtick. "Put the call through," I insisted. "If Cade's busy, he can tell me that himself."

There was a slight hesitation, long enough for me to think Asher might argue, but then the next voice was Cade's. "Speaking."

"It's me. Apparently, you're busy."

"I was." So diplomatic. Cade wouldn't hear a word said against his PA. Well, he'd hear it, but he wouldn't agree to it. It was a peculiar relationship. One that even as a long-term friend of Cade's, I didn't understand. "What happened today?" he asked.

The conversation was a long one, continuing way after the point I'd reached home as I detailed everything that had occurred that afternoon, and tore an absolute strip off Cade for being so adamant that my path wouldn't cross with Ben's, only to discover he was who I'd been partnered with.

Cade took it well, letting me call him every name under the sun until I felt better. "I'll get someone else," he finally offered as I switched the kettle on and watched it boil.

I pulled a mug out of the cupboard, but aborted spooning coffee into it at the last moment in favor of opening a fresh bottle of whiskey. I didn't bother with a glass, drinking straight from the bottle. "No need," I said as the alcohol blazed a path down my throat. "I'll do it."

"You will?" There was shock in Cade's voice. "I can—"

"I said I'll do it." My phone beeped, and I was glad of an excuse to end the call. "Someone else is trying to get through. I'll keep you updated and let you know when I'll be back at work."

I took another swallow of whiskey before switching the call, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"Griffin? "

Flynn. We hadn't spoken since I'd ditched him at the club. "That's me."

"I just wanted to say I was sorry. Whatever I did, whatever I said, I didn't mean to upset you."

"Apology accepted."

"So we're still friends?"

"Sure." Why not? It wasn't like I had them coming out of the woodwork. With the exception of Cade, and that was mainly because he was my boss, I'd pushed them all away three years ago. Some of them, to their credit, had made attempts at rekindling the relationship, but I'd been a tough nut to crack.

"Come to the bar tonight?"

Five simple words when taken at face value, but there was nothing simple about the way Flynn had said them, flirtation and promise bleeding into them. Friends with benefits. Right. "Not tonight. It's been a rough day."

"All the more reason to talk to someone about it rather than stay home alone."

"Not tonight," I repeated. Flynn and I wouldn't stay friends long if he got pushy.

"Okay. Well… take care of yourself, and you know where I am if you change your mind."

I did, flirting up a storm behind the bar of Purple Paradise. How many friends with benefits did he have?

After hanging up, I made it as far as my sofa with the bottle of whiskey before it rang again. For fuck's sake! Why, when I was the world's most unpleasant person to talk to, did everyone still want to talk to me? "Griffin Caldwell," I said, irritation leaching into my words.

"It's me," said the quiet but immediately recognizable voice. I sat bolt upright. "Don't tell me there's been another one already?"

"No," Ben said, "there hasn't." I collapsed back against the cushions. "I'm sorry. It never occurred to me you'd jump to that conclusion. I just wanted you to know that I unblocked you. Well, obviously I did or I wouldn't be talking to you. I thought I'd better check it worked. Which it has, so I'm going to go now. Enjoy your whiskey."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Then why say it?"

"Not all words are weapons," Ben said with a sigh. "Sometimes it's just making conversation."

Don't , hovered on my tongue. I congratulated myself for having enormous willpower when I held it back. I'd told him I could work with him, so that's what I was going to do. We didn't need to be friends. We didn't even need to get along. We just needed to stay civil until Satanic Romeo was behind bars where he belonged. My silence earned another sigh, Ben seeming to find this entire conversation incredibly tiresome despite being the one to instigate it.

"I'll leave you to it," he finally said. "It would be nice not to wake to the taste of whiskey in my mouth that I haven't drunk, but I guess that's too big an ask."

"It is," I said smoothly. "I don't dictate what you eat and drink."

A strangled laugh came over the line. "No, just what I do." My vow to be civil was already wearing thin, my fingernails digging into my palms. "Or are you going to pretend eating an entire jar of olives was an accident the other night? "

"Half a jar," I said.

"Whatever." A pause. "You're such a fucking hypocrite, anyway."

"Oh?"

"You were with someone yourself a few nights later."

Flynn. In the club bathroom. I could tell Ben that it had meant nothing, that apparently friends with benefits had become a thing in my life. I could tell him it was none of his business. I could lie about Flynn being my boyfriend. I said none of it, going on the attack instead. "And you were with someone a couple of nights after that. The same guy? Or a different one?"

"That's none of your business."

"You were the one who brought the subject up."

"Goodnight Griffin."

Ben ended the call before I could decide whether to say it back. One thing was clear. We needed to steer clear of anything but work-related conversation, or this entire partnership risked going up in smoke.