14. Homicide Hotline, How Can We Help You?
Homicide Hotline, How Can We Help You?
My partner and I take the elevator down two floors to the squad room homicide shares with vice.
Their coffee is not as good as ours, but I have a cup anyway.
At least I can feel smug about that as Tim and I sit opposite the homicide detectives in an interview room.
The walls are a neutral beige, with a table, four chairs, and a two-way mirror.
Green and Gold, as they’re known, have been partners for over ten years, working vice and then homicide. They have the best clearance rate in the department and have won multiple awards. But they don’t know the Paranormal communities like I do.
Gold is Jeff Goldstein, a bluff man nearing middle age with thinning brown hair he’s trying to disguise, and hazel eyes that are constantly assessing.
Martin Greenfield is a few years younger, with dark blonde hair and green eyes.
He has a boyish air that belies his experience.
I have no doubt it helps with gaining witness trust, and during interrogations.
I’m sure they do an excellent good cop, bad cop routine.
Green and Gold try not to gloat as Tim explains the situation. I stay silent, my pride pricked at having to ask more seasoned detectives for their input.
I know it’s ridiculous. There’s no room in police work, especially when it involves a serial killer, for territorialism.
But the PPS is my baby. Over the past three years, since its inception, there have been enough cases to keep us busy.
From forging ties and developing more amicable relationships between the different communities that call New York City home, to supporting Packs while new Weres adjust to the Change so there’s no unwanted collateral damage, and following up on human complaints against Weres and Vamps.
There are bar fights that get out of hand, and domestic disputes where one party is human.
If it occurs outside the Coven Estate or Pack HQ, it belongs to the PPS.
But we are vastly under-equipped for a murder investigation, let alone serial killers. Tim and I aren’t trained for this. Homicide is, and we’ve come to the best.
‘Fuck me,’ Gold says in his deep voice when Tim finishes. He’s leaning back in his chair, two legs tipped off the floor. ‘Glad we’re not in Paranormal.’
‘Helpful as that observation is,’ I say, trying not to sound as sarcastic as I want to be, ‘do either of you have anything useful to add?’
‘You came to us, sweetheart,’ he fires back with a smirk.
I feel my temper rising and tamp it down.
‘What do we get out of it?’ Gold continues with a wink, his eyes drifting over me in blatant appreciation.
I’m not sure if he’s a misogynist or if he just likes to get a reaction from people to weigh them up.
I decide to let it slide and reserve judgment.
The police have zero tolerance for Neanderthal behavior, so I assume he’s testing me out.
I came out of nowhere, practically straight from the Police Academy, to make detective and run my own Squad.
More than a few senior police officers were upset about it.
I’ve been sheltered from any fallout, thanks to Captain Buchanan, but he’s right; this is our first big test, and we need to pass with flying colors.
‘Can it,’ Green says to his partner, giving me an apologetic smile that seems genuine. ‘What are we looking at here, detectives?’
‘As my partner said, we’re looking at tag-team serial killers,’ I say coolly, glad I’m wearing pants and not a skirt as I shift in my chair.
‘What do you think? What are we missing’ Tim asks, playing with his shirt cuffs. I’m not sure if he realizes how often he does it, or that it’s his tell.
‘We don’t know much about the Paranormal, but I can tell you, so far you’ve done everything we would have. By the book.’ Green glances at his partner, and something passes between them. A wordless understanding I recognize from my own partnership.
‘Here’s where we go off-book,’ Gold says seriously, dropping back into his seat and resting his arms on the table.
‘You left notifying the Werewolf’s mother to his Alpha.
Understandable. You didn’t want to upset her, and he didn’t live at home.
I’m sure there are Pack protocols here we know nothing about. ’
‘And?’ I ask when he pauses. I lean forward, giving him my undivided attention, coffee forgotten on the table between us.
‘And there’s always a link between victims,’ Green tells us. ‘Something in common. Serial killers are rarely random. Especially with two working together. And with your victims, I can tell you straight up, everything was meticulously planned.’
‘First, you have the planted evidence. How did they get it?’ Gold ticks off his fingers, looking between Tim and me. ‘Second, why a human and then a Werewolf?’
‘You think there’s something to tie them together? Something we missed?’ Tim says, shooting me a warning look. I stay silent.
‘Not missed,’ Green answers, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘You just haven’t found it yet. You have a cartel member, a known drug dealer, and then you have a young, newly Changed Were.’
‘You think drugs are the connection?’ I ask, turning it over in my mind.
‘Listen,’ Gold says, a frown furrowing his forehead.
‘All teasing aside, you’re leaving a lot of this to civies.
’ He holds up a hand. ‘No judgment. It’s a tricky situation, dealing with Vamps and Weres.
Detective Sinclair, you may want things to run as smoothly as you can, but you’ve let an Alpha guide this investigation because he’s your boyfriend.
You let him tell you Evan didn’t know Jason, instead of following the evidence yourself. ’
Tim puts a hand on my arm, but I ignore him.
My face heats, and it’s not anger, it’s embarrassment.
But it’s the metaphorical slap I need. I’ve been letting personal feelings cloud my judgment, and it’s not acceptable.
Jake was upset, and his claws came out, so I took a step back. It was the wrong call.
‘You’re right. I didn’t want to upset him, but we’re getting nowhere. I also didn’t want to intrude on Mrs. Reynolds’s grief,’ I admit. No room for pride here. Not with everything that’s at stake if we don’t find this killer. Killers.
‘You need to interview the mother. Search his room at home. The connection between him and Jason Rodriguez could predate his becoming a Werewolf. And Jason doesn’t sling on the streets now, but he used to.’ Gold leans forward in his chair again, holding my gaze.
‘Did Evan used to work out? Why did he want to become a Lyco? For strength? Power?’ Green ticks off questions on his fingers.
‘He was taking illegal supps,’ Tim comes to the same conclusion I have.
‘There’s a thread there to follow that will get you the killers. You just have to find it,’ Green reassures us, putting his coffee cup on the table separating us.
‘Jason is dead,’ Gold says, and it’s blunt. ‘His past can’t hurt him now.’
I was so worried about clearing Jake of the murder charge that I let it become my focal point, instead of spreading the net wide.
‘All you’re doing is changing direction. It’s normal. Follow the evidence,’ Green tells me, understanding in his voice and eyes.
‘Keep us in the loop,’ Gold says, standing up. ‘Feel free to run anything by us, we’re here to help.’
But not to take over or get the glory from catching a serial killer duo. My respect for them shoots up a few levels.
I decide Gold was taking my measure earlier, gauging my reactions. His relationship with his partner is very similar to my own with Tim.
We shake hands, and my partner and I head to the basement for our ride. We have somewhere to be.
Mrs. Reynolds lives in a fairly low-rent part of the city, which isn’t surprising.
Becoming a Werewolf is a way out of poverty and a chance at a future for many young adults.
Jake has a limit on the age when a human can Turn, and there are hoops to jump through.
Janus wants numbers, and he’s far more lax in his vetting process.
But the Treaty states that no one under eighteen can become either a Vamp or a Were.
New York City has changed rapidly over the past two hundred years, with all the new tech available.
The poorer, run-down areas became boutique thanks to the rising price of real estate in the city center.
But it didn’t last long before many of these hip areas, filled with artists and creatives, flipped again and fell into disrepair.
Of course, the glittering center of the City That Never Sleeps has stayed the same. Old and new money living in high rises and mansions, spiraling out to decadent brownstones before giving way to more modest homes.
Tim exits the Skyway and hovers to the street outside a well-kept semi-detached house. We walk past the small white gate, the garden filled with a riot of colors, but the green paint on the porch and front door is faded.
Aida Reynolds answers the door as if she’s been expecting us. Tall and pale, I can see shades of her son in her. She’s dressed in jeans and a pretty blue sweater, faded blond hair pulled back into a low bun. She can’t be more than forty-five, and her red-rimmed green eyes tell me she’s been crying.
No matter where you live, if you’re human, you have a microchip in your wrist. It’s just the extent of the tech that changes.
We show Mrs. Reynolds our holo badges, and she uses hers to make sure they’re legit.
There’s no retinal scanner or bio-lock for her house, and she flicks a holo-light on by hand as she ushers us into the neat entryway.
The living area is at the back, combined with a modest but clean kitchen. We sit in comfortable, worn chairs, and I note pictures scattered around, and the outline of a small i-screen on the wall where she can watch holos.