Chapter 55
Damien
It's maybe forty degrees, if I'm being generous, and the wind whips hard enough to plaster strands of hair across my eyes. The port is restless, and beside me, my best friend mirrors its energy.
"They should've been here thirty minutes ago," Roman says, and I check my watch.
He's right. Thirty-two minutes, actually, but I don't correct him. This is the largest weapons shipment we've received in months. It left Toronto six days ago. There should've been no delays—they should've been unloading when we arrived.
I glance back at Vasili, whose scowl matches mine.
"Something's wrong, Damien," Roman mutters, and though I want to crack a joke about chamomile tea, my gut agrees with him.
Vasili types rapidly, likely trying to reach someone on that ship to find out why the hell they haven't docked.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh. I pull it out, frowning at the unknown number displayed on the screen.
Wrong fucking timing for a spam call.
I answer anyway. "Yeah?"
"Good afternoon, this is Professor Leigh. You contacted me a few weeks ago regarding The Bloody Dahlia case."
My pulse spikes at the name. I'd almost forgotten about that call.
"My name is Damien Kaminski. My wife has been targeted by someone we believe is The Bloody Dahlia," I explain. "I wanted to ask if there were details overlooked during the investigation. Anything that might help us identify him."
A bitter laugh escapes him before he answers, the sound crackling through the phone.
"Many. Too many to count, Mr. Kaminski. I won't deny my wife and I weren't on the best terms when she died.
Maybe she was having an affair, maybe our marriage was falling apart.
But when I saw the police profile they released, I tried to add information and they shut me down.
Told me I was too emotionally involved, that grief was clouding my judgment. "
He pauses, and I hear him take a breath.
"I moved after my wife's death, and I now teach psychology at the University of Michigan. I've spent thirty years studying criminal behavior, profiling patterns. And they treated me like some hysterical husband who couldn't accept his wife's choices."
"What did you want added?"
I keep my eyes on the port, scanning for any sign of movement, and on Roman, who now stares at me with a furrowed brow. He mouths, "Who is it?" but I shake my head. Not now.
"I knew my wife, Mr. Kaminski. Better than the police ever bothered to.
I know what type of man she would've let into her bed, what attracted her, what made her feel safe enough to be vulnerable.
" His voice grows firmer, more confident.
"The profile they released was deliberately kept generic.
Useless, really. But the person they should've been looking for is definitely dark-haired, tall, probably between six feet and six three.
With a preference for refined clothing, expensive tastes.
Not flashy, but quality. The kind of man who blends into upscale environments. "
I process this, comparing it to what little I know about the killer. About Elena’s past.
"I followed the other cases in the press, every single one.
Became somewhat obsessed myself, I suppose.
And it always struck me as odd how his last victim was so different from the others.
The pattern broke. That's significant, Mr. Kaminski.
When a killer breaks pattern, it usually means something triggered him.
Something changed in his life or his relationship with his fixation object.
But what seemed strange was seeing a newspaper photo of the last victim with her family.
Because one of the men in that photo was my student. "
Was I expecting a connection like this? Yes. Because I've had suspicions from the start, ever since her memories seemed distorted.
My jaw clenches as I listen to Professor Leigh, and when I hang up, I have my answer, and I feel my blood starting to boil.
He's been so close all along, but now I look at the other vessels that docked today. Too few. Only two ships, one a cruise liner.
My phone buzzes again, but before I can check, I hear Vasili's voice.
"Someone stopped them in Milwaukee for a 'routine' inspection."
My eyes lock on Roman's instantly. There shouldn't have been any routine inspection. We have people and customs officers on payroll specifically for this, and even though I know they won't give us issues with the cargo, something's off.
I'm reaching for my phone again when I hear sirens, and that's when Roman, Vasili, and I all understand what the hell just happened here.
This was a trap, and we walked right into it.
Normally, it'd actually be amusing to watch them haul us to the station, trying to intimidate us as if the power's in their hands, except right now, I'm looking down.
At my phone. At the message from Dmitri, the man helping me figure out the whole picture of this entire case.
I close my eyes and curse silently. Because I'd hoped I was wrong, that my mind had created a scenario to avoid admitting I had no other leads.
A patrol car stops in front of us and two individuals in uniform approach, but I ignore them and text Stefan.
I need to know where Roxanne is. How the hell am I supposed to tell her that the man who stood by her after her mother's death is the same one who brought about her end?
"Damien Kaminski?" asks the guy on the left, who looks older.
"The one and only," I reply, though I'm staring at the screen waiting for Stefan to respond.
"We have questions about Senator Ashville's disappearance. We received information that his last known location was your club."
I glance briefly at Roman and know he sees on my face that something's wrong. Richard was supposed to handle this mess without requiring my attention.
My hand trembles when I see I still haven't received a response from Roxanne’s bodyguard.
I need to go find her.
"We'll need you to come with us to the station for some questions," the other officer tells me, gesturing toward the patrol car.
"Find Roxanne," I tell Vasili. "Stefan's not responding."
I take a step toward the car and try to calm my mind. She's safe. She's with Stefan and Pavel. She's safe. I'll get through their interrogation quickly and then I'll personally skin that bastard alive.
I hear gravel crunching behind me, and when I turn, I see Roman following.
"We don't need you, Mr. Borisov," the older cop says.
So they know who he is, but they only want me for questioning. A wave of panic floods my bloodstream because this feels designed to stall for time. And only then do I notice the details, because my mind was occupied with her.
Their shirts are the right color and material, but they're missing one of the patches on their right shoulders, the one that identifies their precinct.
The younger one has exactly two beads of sweat at his temples even though it's cold outside and windy.
The older one wears a gold ring. A ring with a very distinctive symbol—a wolf's head. We don't have many mercenary groups in the area, and I know for damn sure these idiots aren't from Chicago, because no one here in their right mind would dare pull this stunt on us.
In one second, my hand is on the knife I always carry at my back, and my gaze is fixed on the younger one.
"Who sent you? And you have exactly ten seconds to give me details, or we'll see if that patrol car siren can drown out your screams..."
The older individual pulls a gun from his back, but Roman and Vasili draw their weapons simultaneously and aim at him.
"I'd suggest putting the gun down. I have a meeting in two hours, and there's no way I'm changing my suit," Roman says, and my smile curves slightly upward.
The guy pressed against my blade starts squinting.
"We don't know the name. We got ten grand to take you in the car and keep you occupied as long as possible."
I pull out my phone and call Roxanne directly.
Pick up, s?onko. Pick up before this whole damn port explodes.
"This location's too public," Vasili says through gritted teeth, and he's right.
Our only luck is that at this hour, with only two vessels docked today, it's quiet.
She doesn't answer.
Damn it. Why isn't she answering?
I check the app and see her last location is at the Metropolitan Hospital.
Right then my phone starts ringing, and I see Stefan's name.
"Sorry, boss. It's been chaos."
"Why the hell is my wife at the hospital?" I roar.
"She got a call saying her uncle was brought here as an emergency after an accident," he responds, and my blood turns to ice.
"Tell me you have her in your line of sight, Stefan."
"No, but I'm right outside the room, boss."
I hear him opening what must be the room door, but I already know what he's about to say.
"It's empty. There's no one here."
A red wave threatens to flood my mind, but I force it back. I need to be rational.
Calm down, Damien. He won't hurt her.
Raising my eyes to Roman, who's looking at me with a thousand questions, I tell him, "I was right." I swallow the lump in my throat. "I need Maksim. NOW!"