Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

Frankie

"Hey, Frankie," Jay begins with a smile that quickly fades as I storm into the office and slam my bag down on top of my desk. "You okay?"

I turn my gaze to my partner. "No, Jay. I am not fucking okay." I'm seething.

After another night of shit sleep when I should have slept like a baby, I'm furious. I fell asleep easily, and it started out as a deep sleep, but even the dreams of me relaxing on a beach with a neon-colored cocktail in my hand and sand between my toes quickly turned into another fucking case. The case of the purple lingerie. "But I will be," I growl and storm out of the office.

"Where are you going?" he calls out, his rubber-soled shoes squeak behind me on the linoleum.

"To take the trash out," I call over my shoulder as I push through the glass doors of the precinct and make the short walk over to the forensics lab.

"Oh shit," Jay mutters under his breath. "What did he do now?"

I breeze right by the receptionist, brushing off her questions because she doesn't deserve my wrath. Oh no, that's a special gift for one cheating son of a bitch who thinks he can still do whatever the hell he wants. My blood's boiling, fists clenched so tight I can feel my nails digging into my palms.

"Nate," I shout the moment I enter Nate's haven, ignoring the loud boom of the door as it smacks against the wall. The entire lab goes silent, all eyes on me. Good. Let them see what happens when you cross Francesca DeMarco.

Nate looks up with a frown before he transforms it into a smile that makes his hazel eyes sparkle. That sparkle used to really get to me. It made me feel special even though it was a fucking lie. Now, it just makes me want to punch him.

"Frankie," he says. "Good morning. What's up?"

"What's up?" I snort the question, derision heavy in my tone. I'm sure I'm creating a back draft as I sidestep the other tables and desks on my way to his desk. The click of my shoes on the linoleum floor echoes in the sudden silence.

"What's up, Nate," I hold up the stockings, dangling them in front of his face like a dead rat, "is that I don't appreciate you breaking into my fucking house and leaving gifts."

His frown returns, a crease forming between his brows. "I don't know what you're talking?—"

"Save it, Nate. I know it was you, and I'm telling you right now, don't ever do that shit again. I promise you won't like my response."

My chest heaves. I'm a little intense right now, but a constant lack of sleep will do that to a girl—that and finding creepy-ass lingerie in your bedroom.

Nate launches out of his chair, and walks around his desk, color creeping up from his neck to his brows as he closes the distance between us. Finally, he invades my personal space, but I stand my ground, refusing to back down.

He says slowly and evenly, "It. Wasn't. Me."

I laugh, and the sound is harsh. "See, if you weren't such a liar and a cheat, I might actually believe you. But I don't."

No one else knows about that stupid fucking nightie I wore it as my attempt to recapture his waning attention. The memory of it makes me want to puke. "Stay the hell away from my house and from me."

He takes a step forward, pushing his face into mine, but I don't back down, and I don't flinch. I've stared down worse than him.

Once again, he says, "It. Wasn't. Me."

"I don't believe you." My voice is ice-cold, matching the fury in my eyes. "Try a stunt like that again, and I'll make sure you never work in forensics in this city again. We clear?"

"Frankie," Jay calls out, but I wave him off because this isn't his fight. I appreciate his protective instinct, but I don't need it.

"Frankie!" It's Jay again, this time with a firm tone.

I keep my glare on Nate. "Stay away from me."

"Frankie, we got a body."

Nothing else could have pulled me from the white-hot rage coursing through me faster than those four words. I shoot one final glare at Nate to let him know not to fuck with me again and turn away, ignoring the stares of his forensics buddies as I join Jay at the door. "Where?"

Jay's lips tug into a lopsided grin. "Let's get to the car first, killer."

I snort-laugh and a smile crosses my face as we hurry out to the parking lot. I inhale the warm morning air and exhale deeply until my heart rate is back to normal and turn my focus back to the case.

"I'm fine," I assure Jay, both of us jogging the last few feet to the car. "What details do you have?" I ask as I wrestle in my purse for the keys.

"Not much to go on. Body dumped behind a halfway house on Cloverdale. Manager found it while taking out the trash." Jay swipes the keys from my hand without missing a beat, leaving me no choice but to claim shotgun.

We don't hit too much traffic and Jay gets us to the scene in double-time. As we pull up to the address, I take in the massive sign on the front lawn.

"Sober living," I mutter, the gears in my head already turning. "Two of our three vics had a history of booze issues. Could be the connection we've been looking for."

Jay shrugs as we make our way down the narrow path between buildings, nodding at the officers who beat us to the scene. "Maybe," he says, "or it could just be a convenient spot to ditch a body."

Jay's right, and maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, but as we step into the alley with its golden glow and the stink of hot, old garbage, I just know it's not. The killer picked this alley for a reason. I'm sure of it.

Right beside the large blue dumpsters, a pair of blue and white sneakers peek out as the first sign of our victim. "Sneakers look new. About a size ten, eleven, so it's safe to say not a robbery."

"Frankie," he sighs, but I hold up a hand, asking for silence while I examine the body and the surrounding area.

The victim's chest is bare, his white chef's coat unbuttoned and hanging open. His black and white houndstooth pants are pulled down around his ankles.

I squat down to get a closer look. "He's been worked over good. Tortured. More than the last three vics combined. Surprisingly, he still has his dick."

Jay mirrors my position on the other side of the body, his eyes roving over the victim's legs, taking in the angry red gashes and purple bruises that mar the skin. He lets out a low whistle as his gaze travels up to the man's stomach. "Fuck, Frankie. His organs are shredded."

I nod, my eyes tracing the jagged wounds that crisscross the victim's torso. "More like eviscerated." It's not a clean cut, not by a long shot. The edges are ragged, like someone went at him with a serrated knife. Or claws. Shreds of the intestine and God knows what else spill out onto the dirty concrete, glistening in the morning light. "Whatever connects this poor dude to the others, it earned him a special kind of hate."

Leaning in closer, I study the man's face. His features are distorted, and his mouth frozen open. "Bag went on while he was still breathing," I say, my stomach churning at the thought.

Jay grunts in agreement. "No reason to bother otherwise. Our whack job doesn't get off on torturing dead bodies."

"What the fuck did you do?" I whisper to the DB because this kind of hatred is personal. Very fucking personal. "We know who he is?"

The cop standing watch over the body confirms, extending a plastic evidence pouch. "We found his wallet on him. Back pants pocket."

I grab the bag with my gloved fingers, opening it and grabbing the billfold. "Tristan Dupont. Why does that name ring a bell?"

"Hot up-and-coming chef. He runs that new place in Malibu, Under the Sea."

I blink in surprise. "How the hell do you know that?"

"What?" Jay asks with a shrug. "I know stuff."

I snicker at Jay's expression. "Sure, you know ‘80s football trivia and ‘90s Lakers rosters. But anything from this century? Not so much."

Jay's face breaks into an exaggerated grin that has me chuckling. "Well, if you weren't such a hermit, you'd be up to speed on the city's trendiest eateries like yours truly."

"Okay, Mr. Know-It-All. We've got a hot Malibu chef. But what's he doing in this neck of the woods?" I ask. "The restaurant's nowhere near here, and his Manhattan Beach address puts him even further from this spot."

Officer Padilla chimes in, "Looks like he was heading home from his shift. We found this bag near the body. I snapped some pictures before sealing it up as evidence."

Jay and I stare at each other. "Good job, Padilla." Jay digs into the evidence bag containing a deep blue duffel bag. "Anything good in there?"

Padilla says, "His knife roll, an extra coat, toiletries and his cell phone."

Jay lets out a heavy sigh. "It's his work bag. Knives are clean and the change of clothes is fresh."

I glance at Jay. "Let's get that phone to the lab. There might be something useful on it—texts, calls, location data."

Jay nods, already slipping the phone into a different evidence bag. "Make sure they prioritize it."

"You got it." Padilla takes the phone and the bag over to the forensics team, where Nate accepts it with a nod.

"Hopefully, this leads us somewhere," I say, shifting my focus back to the crime scene. There's still plenty of ground to cover.

Behind the forensics team, I spot Amelia rushing forward, only to be stopped by a uniform at the yellow tape. "Frankie!"

"Let her through," I call out, waving her over. "What's the big emergency?"

"No emergency." She's breathing heavily as if she ran a mile rather than a few short feet before flashing a toothy grin. "I finished the preliminary profile of your killer, and I heard there was a new body, so you know I couldn't resist."

"The head shrinker needs a shrink," I snark under my breath.

"So, you're not interested?" The playful smile on her face is annoying.

I nod. "Yes, I'm interested. Duh!"

"Okay, so I've noted what the officers on the scene told me, but it doesn't change anything," she begins, choosing her words carefully. "And remember, this is tentative, but pretty damn accurate. You're dealing with a highly intelligent, organized killer. OCD-level meticulous, as if he's thought of everything, ran through the steps repeatedly. Nothing he does is by accident."

I nod, stepping away from the body in case she wants a look-see at the gory details. She doesn't, and I don't blame her. "So," I say, "the change in M.O., the increase in the torture," I point my thumb over my shoulder to the dead chef behind us. "It's all part of his sick game?" I ask.

"Exactly. Killing is his goal. Torture is a bonus. But everything else? It's just a game to him."

"What kind of job could this guy have? Highly intelligent and with enough time for an elaborate kill and an elaborate dump site?" This guy is an enigma and with Amelia's profile, it has me wondering if this killer is beyond my skill set. Maybe I'm still too tired to focus correctly, or maybe he's just better than me.

"Don't look like that," Amelia chides. "This is how serial killers act. They make you doubt yourself and your skills. It's a defense mechanism, Frankie. Don't succumb to it. If you do, he wins."

A laugh escapes. "Jesus Christ, Amelia…he's already winning." I gesture to the body, surrounded by the forensics team. "Another notch in his belt."

"Hence the serial in serial killer. This guy was as good as dead before you even found the last body, Frankie. The perp probably has a list, and all you can do is put the pieces together before he gets to the end. Or worse."

I frown. "What could be worse than a dozen dead bodies?"

She shrugs. "A confident serial killer who leaves your jurisdiction. Another detective will have to start from scratch while this guy's kill number keeps going up."

Shit. "Thanks, Amelia. That's all I needed to hear." This guy is already getting in my head, and I can't let that happen. That's how we make mistakes.

Amelia nods and gives me a rueful smile. "Anytime. I'm going to head back to the lab, see if I can dig up anything else on our mystery man. Keep me posted?"

"You got it." I watch her walk away before turning to Padilla. "Fill in Dr. Novak on what we've got so far but keep her away from the body. Don't need her getting all hot and bothered over this sick bastard's handiwork."

Officer Padilla nods, puffing out his chest as he leads Amelia aside, no doubt eager to impress the pretty psychologist with his wealth of gory details. I turn my attention back to the crime scene.

This son of a bitch may be smart, and he may have a head start, but I'll be damned if I let him win. I'm going to hunt him down and make him pay for every life he's taken.

Jay steps beside me. "The forensics have it all in hand now. Wanna grab a cup of coffee?"

"Always," I nod. "But in this neighborhood, a gas station is as good as it gets." I shudder at the thought, because that shit is just as bad as the precinct coffee.

"Such a coffee snob," he jokes. "Come on. I spotted some food trucks close by, and I bet they have good coffee. And food."

I turn and follow him back to the car. "Who are you, and what have you done with my grouchy ass partner?"

"You mean your wiser yet supremely hip partner?" Jay wiggles his brows and starts the car as we head off toward some coffee truck he insists he knows about, but I don't. Right as I'm fastening my seatbelt, he switches to big brother mode, ready to give me some advice. I roll my eyes but settle in for the lecture, too tired to push back against his patronizing shit.

"Listen, Frankie, I know I'm not your father, and I wouldn't dare try to replace him, but you know you can always talk to me."

"I know," I sigh and tell myself to get over myself. Jay's been like a father to me since I was a young girl. Jay and my dad were partners, so he's always been Uncle Jay to me, but two weeks after my fifteenth birthday, he became more than just an uncle.

He was the only father-figure I had after the men he and my father were investigating broke into our home in the middle of the night. My dad protected me and my mom, fighting off the intruders and putting a bullet in one of them. After a nasty fistfight, though, they overpowered him and shot him before Jay could get there. Jay arrived like a hero, killing two of them before rushing my dad to the hospital, where he died a few minutes later.

So, Jay's a father to me in all the ways that matter, and if I can tell anyone what's bothering me, it's Jay. But that doesn't make it easy to put the thoughts into words. I sigh heavily and look at Jay. He's older now, his hair more gray than not at this point, but he's still the best damn cop I know.

"You gonna make me pull it out of you, or do I have to guess?"

I smile, my resistance to his probing my personal life gone like the wind. "You're getting impatient in your old age, Jay."

He grins, pulling up to an empty parking space in front of the food trucks. I hit the first truck selling coffee and pastries and luck out because one sip and I'm in heaven. Jay is finally learning how to pick a decent cup of coffee.

While I'm digging into my pastry, though, he catches me off guard. "And you're dodging the question," he says. "Are you worried about the Police Union's Ball because you don't have a date?"

I glare at him. Hard.

He laughs.

"I wasn't even thinking about that stupid ball, but now I have another thing to worry about, so thanks for that."

"Anytime. Tell me what's on your mind."

I sip the dark coffee, opting for a double espresso over my usual Americano. "What if this guy is just better than me, Jay? What if I do my absolute fucking best to find him, and I still don't?"

That's my biggest fear and it's growing by the minute, my mind off the amazing coffee and Police Ball dates now and back to the case. "Each new body presents fresh evidence, but we still don't have a connection between the cases and not one fucking piece of forensic evidence to help find this bastard."

"Frankie," Jay sighs, and I prepare myself for the rest of his fatherly talks which are lectures and life lessons in equal parts. I've had many of them over the years, and sometimes they inspire me, and other times they piss me off.

"This guy, this killer? He's a fucking human. He's not a monster, but a man."

"Lots of men are monsters," I remind him sarcastically.

"See, that's where you're wrong. A lot of men do monstrous things but at the end of the day they are just men. Sad, angry little men. When you start thinking of them as some kind of supernatural shit, that's when they win."

"He's smart," I shoot back.

"You're smart too and you have a natural ability to read people that's only gotten better as you've gotten older. He might have a few more IQ points than any of us, but that doesn't make him smarter . Plenty of smart people have been caught by dumbass cops, Frankie."

I smile. "That's true."

"Solid detective work beats luck every fucking time. Sure, he's smart and dangerous. But he's also a cocky bastard. Guys that don't get caught? They hide the bodies so we can't find them. They don't put on a goddamn show. This guy can be caught, which means we'll catch him. That you'll catch him. I'll be there to witness it."

I nod and take another sip of espresso and then another. Jay is right about one thing, this guy is man, a living, breathing man with blood pumping through his veins. Not a monster. "I hope you're right."

"I am," he replies with confidence. "And you know, if you're looking for a date to the ball, Cassandra has a son. He's an accountant." Before I can reply, Jay lets out a loud bark of laughter that echoes in the night air.

"I'm not double dating with you, Jay."

"You don't date at all," he shoots back.

"True, so why start with a ballroom full of cops?"

I don't even want to attend the damn ball. There's no way I'll subject a new date to that torture. I can't save myself, but I can certainly save someone else. "I'll be there with a fake smile on my face. Blessedly alone."

"Probably not," he shoots back. "I'm sure Nate will be there. I hear he looks good in a suit."

Jay laughs when I flip him the bird. "Just for that, dinner is on you."