Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ash couldn’t believe he was here again. Calgrave’s police headquarters, of all places.
He almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
Last night, he’d stormed in flustered and desperate, demanding Rick’s address like some jilted lover; now he was climbing the grand stairs practically hand in hand with the CMPD’s golden boy.
Voluntary, almost eager. He’d spent years avoiding cops, and here he was, strolling right into their lair for the sake of one broad-shouldered detective who’d somehow gotten under his skin.
If irony had teeth, it was chewing his bones.
Rick moved beside him with that unbothered stride, a man at home in marble sanctuaries of law.
Ash kept his own steps casual, almost insolent, but the dome of the ceiling pressed on him all the same.
He, who lived most of his nights in bars and backrooms, felt the hush of judgment in its solemn, echoing air.
The same desk sergeant from last night—Higgins—manned his post, shoulders stiffening the moment Ash drifted into view.
His jaw unhinged, as if words had turned to shrapnel on his tongue, and he half-rose from his chair before catching sight of Rick at Ash’s side.
Whatever protest he’d been about to utter withered at once.
Ash gave him a wink, almost flirtatious, before gliding past.
They crossed to the elevators, and soon the doors slid open with a pneumatic sigh.
The ascent was brief, carrying him from cavernous luxury to the quick, beating heart of the station.
The bullpen spilled open in a thrum of motion: phones ringing, keyboards clicking, boxy CRT monitors flickering their blue-white shine across tired faces.
Detectives prowled between desks, clutching their coffee cups, tension coiled in every gesture, the air thick with sweat and the low crackle of urgency.
Ash trailed Rick through it all, aware of stares that slid over him, lingered, and slipped away.
He gave them nothing but a faint curve of lips, a mask of careless beauty, though inside he marveled at the absurdity: Ashton Hunter, back at the Spire, not in cuffs, not under suspicion, but as something far stranger—an accessory to the law.
Rick led him toward one of the corner desks, cluttered with folders and cold coffee cups, where a young woman bent over her workstation.
The screen bathed her in pallid light, silvering the neat pins in her blonde curls and painting the beige of her sweater into baby blue.
Her cat-eye glasses caught the glow and turned it to mirrors, hiding her eyes until she finally glanced up.
Startled, she blinked, as if surfacing from another world, gaze darting first to Rick, then snagging on Ash—and pausing. Color crept along her cheeks, blooming around the sharp red of her lipstick.
“Hey, dollface,” Rick said, easy warmth coloring his deep voice. He leaned a hip against her desk like he’d done it a thousand times. “Miss me?”
She pushed her glasses up her nose, trying for composure. “Rick, what are you doing here? I thought you’d taken a day off.”
He smirked, unbothered. “Couldn’t stay away from you.”
She tilted her head, giving him a look sharp enough to cut paper. “Which means you want something. Out with it.”
Ash caught himself smiling. The routine between them was practiced, familiar. Rick wore his guilt like a loose coat, and she saw straight through it. It was a small theatre, but one worth watching.
“This is Ash Hunter,” Rick said, dodging. “Pretty sure you two haven’t officially met. Ash, meet Kathryn Bennett, our best technician.”
Ash leaned in with a smile and offered his hand. “Hello, Kathryn.”
Her palm was small and sure against his, though the steadiness faltered a moment later. A spark ran across her expression before she let go too fast, brushing at a curl that didn’t need fixing. “Hi.”
Rick’s mouth curved at one corner. “Don’t mind him. Happens to everyone.”
She gave a quick, nervous laugh, more girlish than she probably intended. “Um—please, call me Kitty. Everyone else does.” She watched Ash over the rim of her glasses, a glint of mischief slipping past the fluster, as if she couldn’t help herself.
Rick cleared his throat, louder than needed, his voice dropping into business. “You’re right—I do need something.”
Ash caught the faint stiffness in his shoulders, the irritated note under the calm. He almost smiled.
“Color me shocked,” Kitty muttered.
“We’re searching for Ash’s twin sister. She was adopted by a separate family, so the name will be different from what’s in the birth records. We’ll need the adoption file, whatever you can shake loose—current ID, address, anything.”
Kitty arched a brow, lips pouting. “You realize I had to bend protocol just to pull his file, right?”
Rick scratched the nape of his neck, guilty but grinning. “Yeah. And now I’m asking you to do it again.”
She reclined in her chair, crossing her arms. “I’ll have to work the family court archives, run it through the bureau’s backend. Might take a while.”
“Do what you can,” Rick said, his tone softer, carrying weight. “I owe you.”
Her mouth twitched. “Honey, your tab with me is already sky-high.” Then, with a glance at Ash that left her a little flustered again, she spun toward her monitor. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, sugar,” Rick said, tapping her desk affectionately as he straightened. “By the way—any word from Gloria on that cigarette butt from Ravenholt?”
Kitty glanced up from her screen. “Oh, right. The results came this morning. She pulled a partial print off it. Clean lift, no smudging.” Her mouth tightened. “I’ve run it through AFIS, local and federal. No matches.”
“I see.” Rick tapped the desk once more, a sharp punctuation. “Keep it flagged. If we get a suspect, we’ll need it for comparison.”
“Already archived and cross-referenced,” Kitty said, swiveling to her screen.
Rick’s mouth curved, almost a smile, but he said nothing. “C’mon,” he murmured to Ash, guiding him toward the farthest office. He pushed open the door and flicked on the overhead light.
The smell hit Ash: paper gone musty with age, old coffee, the faint tang of tobacco clinging to fabric. The room wasn’t much—four walls and two battered desks, blinds half-drawn over a glass pane that looked onto the bullpen—but compared to the chaos outside, it was private enough.
Rick crossed to the desk, switched on the lamp, and amber light spilled across the clutter—files stacked unevenly, case folders cracked open mid-thought, the glow catching on the metal edge of a cabinet.
A couch slouched in the corner, cushions pressed flat by use.
In the wastebasket, cigarette packs lay crumpled on top of balled-up notes.
A spare shirt was draped over the chair, waiting for another night.
Ash leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, gaze traveling across the messy space. “Your own office, huh? Fancy.”
Rick shrugged off his coat and fedora, hanging them on the hatstand in the corner.
“Captain gave it to us this spring. Me and Frank were working a trafficking ring. Took six months to unravel.” He moved to the desk, fingers trailing the edge of a stacked file.
“Then the Sculptor started killing, and we stayed. Easier to work without everyone breathing down our necks.” He paused, mouth tightening.
“And I was going through a divorce. Some nights I crashed here.”
Ash glanced at the couch, the shirt, the open files. “Yeah,” he said. “I can tell.”
Rick reached into a drawer, pulled out a fresh bottle of bourbon and two glasses. The rain outside ticked against the window. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, pouring. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
Ash tossed his jacket across the couch and perched on the armrest. When Rick handed him a glass, their eyes caught for a beat too long before Rick looked away.
He set his own drink aside, slipped out of his suit jacket, and rolled his shirtsleeves up past thick forearms. Ash remembered the first night they met, when Rick had him in the interrogation room and went through the same ritual.
He still looked delicious in his loosened tie and suspenders, but it wasn’t just the view; it was the way Rick seemed to fill the room, sliding into command in a space that carried his mark everywhere.
Ash hid a smirk behind his drink. All right, then.
Rick turned to the corkboard that dominated the wall: photographs, maps, hand-scribbled notes, lines of red string stretched taut in obsessive diagonals. Pushpins glinted under the harsh bulb, each one tethered to a face. A chaotic order, the fragments of the Sculptor’s trail laid bare.
“Here,” he said, his tone turning intense. “Six victims so far. All men, early to late twenties. Every one of them good-looking. A couple confirmed gay, the rest likely ran in the same circles. Could be coincidence, but it seems like a type.”
Ash stepped closer. The faces stared out from their photographs, caught mid-smile, leaning on cars, framed in nightlife. A handful of lives paused before the end. He saw the pattern plain: young, attractive, visible enough to catch a predator’s eye. “Walk me through it.”
Rick tapped the first photo. “Elliot Price, twenty-eight. Found in a street off Crescent, Financial District, September twenty-ninth.” His finger slid to the next.
“David Morales, twenty-five. Behind the Cineplex on Bancroft, the Lantern Quarter, October fourth.” He moved up the line.
“Myles Kent, twenty-four. Under the overpass in Rostburg, October eight. Travis Hall, twenty-seven. Train yards in Cranleigh, October thirteenth.” He slowed at the fifth.
“James Cole, twenty-six. Cobb Alley in Duskhaven. October twentieth.”