Chapter 10
10
I nara
Friday, after a night in a cheap hotel on the department’s dime, I spend hours at the station reviewing nutty calls from the tipline. The day passes in a blur, and when it’s over, I want nothing more than to drag myself home. Instead, I have the stupid gala to attend. Chief’s orders.
I poke my head into the bullpen to check my desk before I clock out. I’ve put off dress shopping until the very last minute.
The desk sergeant gives me a nod. “Package for you, Ramos. I left it on your desk.”
I slow my steps. “Package for me? Who sent it?”
He shrugs, distracted by a ringing phone. Packages here are vetted in case some psycho sends us a bomb, so if he’s not worried about it, I won’t get any more from him.
My desk is toward the back of the bullpen, the large room where the detectives work. The cubicles have low walls that barely clear the desktop. There’s just enough space to pin a personal picture or two. My cubicle is as bare as my apartment. Beside mine, Burgess’s overflows with empty coffee cups and sloppily stored files. There’s a photo torn out of a magazine—a smiling Miss Olympus, her hands propped on bikini-clad hips. If there had been a Missus Burgess, at one point, she left him long ago.
On my desk lies a huge rectangular box with a red bow. My heart sinks; it has to be some sort of joke. The dark navy blue box is high quality, the type you might get at a high-end shop on 5th Avenue. The material has a subtle texture, and the bow is a glossy satin.
Whoever set this joke up pulled out all the stops. I glance around, but no one’s here. The detectives are either out or off-shift. I bet Burgess is hiding in the copy room, phone out and ready to catch me on candid camera.
I remain standing and pull on the bow. It falls apart beautifully with one tug. A subtle scent rises from the box, a bouquet of my favorite floral scent—jasmine. When I open the box, the scent gets stronger.
Nestled within the fine white tissue paper is a dress. Black and elegant, with a draped neckline and gold chains for straps. Modest enough to wear to a fundraiser, but breathtakingly sexy. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
This isn’t a joke. This is a gown I could wear to the gala. Who left it here?
Did the brass not trust my fashion sense enough to let me choose my own dress? Since when does the Chief of Police worry himself with details like this?
I rub the tissue paper between my thumb and forefinger. Better not look a gift dress in the mouth or whatever. It’s too perfect.
I go to the women’s locker room to clean up. There are showers, and I get myself into a passable state. I take the time to blow dry my hair but then tie it up in an elegant twist, securing it with the one nice hair clip I own. Fortunately, it’s gold and matches the hardware on the dress.
I’m glad the locker room is empty so I can have privacy. Just opening the box and lifting the outfit is intimate. There’s another scent underneath the floral one—a deep, woodsy musk that reminds me of my mystery dom’s cologne. I raise the dress and inhale, surrounding myself with the scent.
Ropes binding my wrists and forearms. A click of ice in a glass. Stripes of fire on my back, a throbbing ache between my thighs. A smooth, deep voice humming through me.
I slide on the dress slowly, savoring the exquisiteness of the silky fabric gliding across my skin. The bodice is tight but not too tight. It doesn’t show enough skin to reveal the marks on my skin, but it’ll be a soft hand against my bruises.
It’s perfect.
The water-streaked locker room mirror reflects a woman I don’t recognize. I look like a goddess. An ancient queen. The only thing I’m missing is a crown, but I don’t need it. Two lion’s head charms secure each chain to the dress fabric. The pop of gold makes me look regal. I don’t even need jewelry.
Who would give me this?
You have a secret admirer.
I finger the expensive fabric. Diego was referring to the body left on my doorstep like a gruesome calling card, but the sentiment would apply here. Who would send me such a gorgeous and expensive gift? Clothing is intimate, and this dress fits like a glove, cupping and showing off my curves.
The events from the past few days flit through my head like birds flying, scattered before coming together to form a flock. Little bird. . . rope. . . a secret admirer. It’s a puzzle, and all the pieces are here. I’m just missing what connects them all.
Someone bangs into the restroom, breaking me out of my reverie. I hustle to finish getting ready before one of the grunts ventures deep into the locker room and sees me.
Folded in the gift box is a simple rectangle of muted black silk I can drape over my bare arms as a wrap.
There’s a faint blue-black on my inner elbow–a bruise from my mystery dom’s grip, something I didn’t notice before. The wrap covers the tiny bruise but leaves my forearms bare. From wrist to elbow, there are still faint pink marks from the ropes he used. They’re faded, but if you know what to look for, you’ll see them.
Something about the marks looks familiar.
Where have I seen them before?
I remove the wrap and tuck it into the giant bag I use as a purse. I’m wearing my boots—I’ll have to run into a shoe store for high heels to match the dress, but that won’t take long.
I shove the gift box into the back of my locker, unwilling to toss it. If I’m lucky, by tomorrow, my extra change of clothes and everything I’ve stored will have absorbed the subtle scent.
I pick up my heavy winter coat, reluctant to cover up the beautiful gown but unwilling to walk through the station looking like an escapee from the fashion catwalk. The coat sleeves cover the faint marks on my arm, and I get a flash of memory.
The body curled on my apartment stoop. Dirty hands, bitten nails, a sleeve pushed up to show a faint lattice of red marks. . .
On my way out, I pass my desk, and there’s a file waiting for me that wasn’t there before. No note, but I know it’s from Silva. The crime scene info I asked for.
I open the file and flip through the pictures of the vic left at my front door. Close-ups of his face, the lip ring, the hollows under his eyes. And his hands and wrists bearing faded red marks—a sign that he was tied up.
Marks on his arms that match mine.
But that’s not the only place I’ve seen these marks. . .
A droning hum like bees, like the whine of a buzz saw, fills my ears. My sixth sense is kicking into overdrive.
I stride to the room where we’re working on the Martin case. It’s empty, and I head straight to the evidence board, where they’ve put up photos pertaining to the crime.
There. The close-up photos of the vic’s arms. The red marks in a pattern suggesting he was tied to the chair.
Gregory Martin, the vic on my stoop. . . what do they have in common?
Rope marks.
The buzzing in my ears intensifies.
The crime scene photos are inches from my face. They blur as the vision comes to life.
Birds flying in formation. Moving, breaking, coming together to form a dark and dangerous shape. A man on a roof.
An intruder. . .
He plummets down from the roof, landing on the fire escape outside the Martin building. A pulse from a device and the alarm’s down. Another device unlocks the door. The shadow swoops through the door, down the empty hall toward his quarry. . .
Gregory Martin is sitting at the desk. How does the intruder incapacitate him?
A small orb attached to a utility belt. The intruder reaches for it, unhooks it, and tosses it ahead of him so it rolls into the office.
I pull out my phone and text Mina in the private, unmonitored messaging app she makes me use.
Me: Is there a gas bomb someone could use to knock out unsuspecting victims? Something portable, easy to store. Works fast but untraceable. Something on the black market?
Mina types back immediately. On it.
She’ll check the dark web and pose as a buyer if she has to. If something like that exists, even in prototype form, she’ll find it.
It’ll be nice to have confirmation, but my vision is clear. The UNSUB used a gas to knock Martin out and then tied him up. Just like someone did to poor Joey Daniels before leaving him on my doorstep.
I pull out the photos Silva left me and compare them to the ones on the wall. Gregory Martin. Joey Daniels. Same rope pattern.
What does it mean?
I claw off my coat and hold up my arm. There they are—the same marks. The killer tied his victims like my mystery dom tied me up.
Have you ever tried rope?
Maybe next time.
The room starts to spin. I try to hold on, but I’m back in the club, tied to the cross.
This is my favorite type of tie. The loops around my forearms. Strong. Secure. Safe.
I slump forward, planting my hands on the photo wall, panting. What are the chances the two murder victims had been tied up with the same pattern? The same pattern the dom used to tie me?
If we scene again, I’ll use rope to tie you.
The ground opens up, a monster’s maw yawning under my feet. And I’m falling, falling. . .
Little bird. . . secret admirer.
Rope. . .
The ringing in my ears stops abruptly. Someone’s walking down the hall toward the room. Dazed, I stuff the Joey Daniels file under my coat.
“Ramos.” It’s Bonds. His jaw slackens as he looks me up and down. It’s the first time I’ve seen any expression on his face.
Can he tell I’ve just had a vision? An epiphany? I’m still floating, half drunk with it.
Then I remember: I’m wearing a dress.
He motions to it. “Heading out?”
“Yeah. Got a thing tonight.”
His shock disappears behind his hardened mask. “A thing?”
“The New Rome’s Finest Charity Gala. Chief ordered me to be there.” It sounds like I’m bragging. Out of everyone on the force, I’m one of the few singled out and personally ordered to be there by the chief himself?
“Ah.” He’s cataloging me as “brass brown noser.” Good. I need a chasm between me and him.
I have clues to the killer painted on my body. I fight the urge to hunch, to hide.
“I better get to it,” I say and grab my coat, careful to keep the file hidden as I drape it over my arms. The marks on my body seem to burn. They feel like they’re fluorescent orange, lit up like blood spatter in a black light. LOOK AT ME!
Bonds steps aside, letting me sweep past him. I’m almost to the door when he barks, “Ramos.”
I force myself to stop and turn slowly. What have I revealed? What did he see?
He holds out my bag. “Don’t forget this.”
I take it. “Thanks.” I hold my head up and make my way down the hall and through the bullpen, where the desk sergeant blinks as he takes in my ball gown. A bunch of uniformed officers turn to see me. The whispers start, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Nothing matters. Nothing but the case. Everything in me wants to drop what I’m doing and chase down the lead, but I can’t. I have to go to the ball.
Outside the precinct, the cold autumn wind washes over me, but I feel nothing. I’m already numb.
I flag down a cab and dive into the backseat. My bag flops over, and my sketch pad falls out. Slowly, pages flip, flashing the truth. First the drawing I made of the killer. There he is—huge and hulking in his strange armor.
And on the next page: the drawings I made of my mystery dom. Tall and broad-shouldered, just the right size to shrug on some stealth gear and head out to murder someone.
I flip it back and forth. It’s the same man.
My subconscious knew.
I close my sketchbook, feeling sick. But shutting the images away doesn’t keep them from rising like ghosts to haunt me.
In my mind’s eye, I see the murderer jumping down from the roof of the Martin Building on his way to subdue his victim. And then I hear the dom’s beautiful voice in my ear rasping This is my favorite type of tie over and over again.