Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Frankie

It's pouring buckets out here, an absolute downpour, and what am I doing? Not curled up cozy under my comforter like any sane person in L.A. would be at this ungodly hour. Oh, hell no, yours truly is standing in this rainstorm, already soaked to the bone, at yet another gruesome crime scene.

With a bitch of a hangover.

I should've just called it a night after clocking out last night, but how could I miss sending off Smitty in homicide as he transfers to take on organized crime? So instead of heading home, I spent the evening getting absolutely wasted, reliving the glory days of past investigations.

Fast forward to now, and I'm running on fumes, battling a wicked hangover with one measly cup of joe in my system. As I tug on some black nitrile gloves, I finally look at what dragged me out here in this miserable weather.

The poor sap looks maybe late 20s, early 30s tops. He probably considered himself quite the looker before someone worked him over really nasty. This was no clean job—guy got the drawn-out, agonizing end.

"This man was tortured," I say to no one in particular, my eyes roaming over the vicious wounds that mar his body. Squatting down to get a better look, I examine the wounds closely, I spot a few slash marks on his organs, which further confirm my suspicion that this man was tortured.

This isn't the first ritualistic killing and even though the methods aren't exactly the same, I have a feeling it's the same murderous asshole and if so, this victim makes him a serial killer. "Bastard."

"Talking to yourself again, DeMarco?" My partner Jay's gravelly voice cuts through the rain.

I straighten up, my knees popping. Jay's blue eyes sparkle despite the ungodly hour. "I don't talk to myself. It's called taking notes. Maybe try it sometime," I say.

Jay chuckles, his salt-and-pepper hair plastered to his forehead. He's been my partner since my dad, his former partner, died when I was a kid. The department shrink would have a field day with that tidbit if I were dumb enough to wind up in a therapist's office.

Jay taps his temple with his forefinger. "Who needs notes when I have a steel trap memory?"

"Oh yeah? What did you have for breakfast yesterday?"

His brows, still a deep brown, dip into a frown. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I rest my case," I say in a self-satisfied tone. "Now, can we get back to the dead guy, please?"

I crouch next to the body and scan the DB's stomach, intestines, liver and colon laying out on top of him. "Multiple lacerations on the abdomen and chest. Possible torture," I mutter, more to myself than to Jay.

Jay leans in, his face inches from mine as he examines the wounds. "Yeah, and check out this puncture wound on his neck. Peri-mortem, I'd say."

I nod, standing up and wincing as my knees protest. "Could be the cause of death." I survey the area, noting the lack of blood. "No spatter or pooling. Body was definitely moved."

"Yeah, this isn't the primary crime scene." Jay's brow furrows as he scans the surroundings. "Damn rain might've washed away any trace evidence."

I sigh, frustration bubbling up inside me. "We'll have to rely on the autopsy. Hope the killer slipped up somewhere."

As Jay steps away to talk to the uniforms, I take another look at the body. The cuts are too precise, too calculated. This guy knew what he was doing. A shiver runs down my spine, and it's not from the rain. We've got a real sicko on our hands, and he's got a head start. I just hope the rain hasn't washed away our only chance to catch him.

"It's him, Jay." I know he doesn't want to hear it, not yet. It's too soon, that's what he's thinking, but I know that this is the same guy.

His lips pinch in that way they do when he's preparing for a lecture. "You can't possibly know that, Frankie."

I roll my eyes. "I don't know it yet, as in I wouldn't swear to it in a court of law, but it's him." I can tell Jay's not convinced. He's old school and always reluctant to use the ‘s' word because of what it means, which is usually federal investigators, tasks forces and a lot of fucking press. But I don't care about any of that shit. I just want to catch this asshole.

"Jay," I begin, digging in like the stubborn ass I'm known in the department to be. "The kill methods aren't exactly the same, but his modus operandi is already showing itself."

Jay stands and removes his gloves, swiping his overgrown wavy hair from his face. "Explain."

"This time he exposed the organs, sure, but the cuts are similar in type. Very sharp and precise cuts, which I'm sure Dr. Montgomery will confirm." Chris Montgomery is the medical examiner, and he knows this killer almost as well as I do.

"Lots of crazy assholes with a fetish for knives, Frankie. You find a connection between the victims yet?"

I sigh, my frustration mounting. Is Jay going to pull rank on me and take the case in a different direction? Victimology isn't my strong suit. "Not yet, but I'm still digging."

I'm not sure how far back I'll have to go to find out what connects these—now three—guys, but I know I'll find it. I'm going to be the one to find this fucker and bring him to justice or put a bullet in his head to stop this mess.

"You're jumping to conclusions, Frankie." Here it comes. Jay pulling rank on me. I'm anything but a rookie, but the lead detective has the right to make the important decisions. "You want it to be the same guy, but we don't have enough proof it's a serial."

I'm hungry, grumpy, and in desperate need of another cup of hot coffee. I'm also determined to prove to Jay that I'm right.

"Look," he says. "You want another notch in your belt. I get it. I've been there. But we need the evidence."

"You're right," I say reluctantly, "but I'll get there." Now I have even more motivation. I'm going to prove to Jay that I'm right and this creep is a fucking serial killer. He forgets I have my father's DNA in my blood.

"Finally," I growl when I spot the two blue vans that mark the arrival of the CSIs. "Where the hell have you guys been?" I ask when they approach the scene.

"Traffic." Nate, my ex, answers with a casual shrug and a smirk that only pisses me off even more.

"Bullshit. This is the one time of day there is no traffic in this fucking city. It's raining in case you haven't noticed, and we need to get this shit collected and logged."

"We don't work for you, Frankie," he growls in a familiar refrain that's funnily enough, exactly how we ended up fucking and then in a relationship for a year longer than we should have been.

"No, you work for the people of Los Angeles, same as I do, and the rest of us managed to make it out here in a timely manner."

He shrugs again as if this is no big deal. "I'm here now."

Asshole. We had the same stupid arguments over the two years we were together, and he's still the same irresponsible jerk I kicked to the curb six months ago.

"Good. Do your damn job," I snap, annoyed that he's late and so nonchalant about it. And to top it off, Nate's panty-melting smile, which used to turn me on, now makes me want to throat-punch him.

"I'd love to. And maybe after this, we can grab breakfast at that diner you like. Talk?"

Did I hear a purr in that invitation?

I scoff. "There's nothing to talk about, Nate."

Undeterred, he presses on. "I think there is. You know I do."

"I know you think there is, but there isn't. You can take your wandering dick elsewhere." I turn away, my stomach growling for more than just food.

"Forget him," Jay says in a low voice. "He's not worth it."

"I know, but I'm cold, tired, and hungry. And this fucking serial murderer is pissing me off."

"We don't know it's the same guy," Jay reminds me.

He's right, we don't know for sure. "It is but the only way to prove it is to find evidence that points to one killer for all three victims." My gaze scans the area that surrounds the St. Jude Fountain. The park is in the middle of downtown Los Angeles, but there are only two direct paths to the fountain. "The killer would need direct access if he's carrying a body," I say half to Jay but mostly to myself. "The north entrance leads to a bank, and he's shown himself too smart for such a rookie mistake." The guy is good at avoiding cameras, leaving evidence or any other ways we could potentially identify him.

"But the south entrance leads to a bunch of trendy shops," Jay grumbles. "Probably fit right in with those avocado-toast-eating hipsters."

"Damn, you are a grumpy old man." I laugh, even in this shitshow. "But think about it, hipsters love technology. Cameras, sensors, and especially social media. We'll have a field day with their digital breadcrumbs."

Jay groans, but I clap him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll make it worth your while. Remember that prosciutto and egg puff pastry thing you loved? The shop is on this block."

Jay looks at his watch. "Fine. What time do they open? For a chance to see this bastard in action, I'll brave the hipsters. But it better be a damn good pastry."

"And the prosciutto," I remind him.

"Goes without saying, DeMarco."

In this job, you gotta find joy wherever you can. Unfortunately, it's usually hiding somewhere between dead bodies.