CHAPTER SEVEN
The downtown Boston precinct had the exhausted, overcaffeinated personality of a place long past the point of pretending it was in control.
Phones rang with a kind of panic, printers groaned like wounded animals, and somewhere in the distance an officer was shouting about a parking violation with the energy of someone defending a dissertation.
Kate and Marcus stepped inside, shaking off the cold.
Boston seemed to be several degrees colder than Maine, despite the late Spring sunshine, a raw, sea-born chill seeped straight through their jackets.
The lobby was cramped, loud, and far too small for the number of people currently trying to squeeze through it.
A uniform pointed them toward a hallway where Detective Brian Sullivan appeared, leaning against a filing cabinet that seemed one grievance away from total collapse. He looked as though he’d run out of patience sometime around the Clinton administration.
He straightened when he saw them. “Valentine. Reid.” His Boston accent clipped and unvarnished, as always. “Welcome to our palace of law and order.”
Marcus surveyed the peeling linoleum. “Looks like you’re overdue for a renovation.”
Sullivan snorted. “We’re overdue for a priest and an exorcism, but thanks for noticing.”
He jerked his thumb. “Follow me.”
They followed him through a narrow corridor packed with desks, chairs, coat racks, and exhausted human beings. The entire precinct felt two sizes too small for the job it was asked to do.
“Before you complain,” Sullivan said, weaving around a detective swearing at a stapler, “Yes, I found you a workspace. Yes, it’s temporary. And yes, it’s crap. But it’s the only square footage in this building not currently housing a narcotics unit.”
He pushed open a door at the end of the hall.
The room beyond looked like a forgotten storage cupboard with delusions of grandeur. Two desks—one missing a leg and propped up with a stack of legal pads—sat beneath flickering lights. A single window looked out onto a brick wall roughly eight inches away.
Kate tried not to laugh. “This is… charming.”
Sullivan planted his hands on his hips. “Look, I know it’s not the Four Seasons. But it’s what I’ve got. You’ve got power outlets, a door that locks—mostly—and a fan that works when it feels like it.”
“It’s perfect,” Kate said honestly. “Thank you.”
Sullivan exhaled in relief. “Good. Now for the part that doesn’t suck.
We’ll have to issue a press release about the murder…
some dang nocturnal YouTuber managed to film the circus around Hayes’s building last night, so…
” He spread his hands out. “I’m thinking minimal details as to the m.o.
, crime scene accoutrements, etc. That okay with you folks?
I’m happy to run the wording past you first.”
They nodded.
“If this does go serial and I pray not, we’ll keep the same blackout in place, but review. Now…”
He handed Kate a manila folder.
“Item Two. That’s the preliminary from the M.E.”
Kate opened it. Photos. Notes. Measurements. A diagram of the wound.
She felt the familiar tightening in her chest.
“Short wound,” Sullivan said. “Angled upward. A couple rough edges along the cut track. M.E. says it wasn’t a professional blade. Not a kitchen knife, not a utility knife. Home-sharpened.”
Marcus frowned. “As in, homemade weapon?”
"Exactly." Sullivan tapped the diagram. "At first, he thought the cake knife didn't give me that look; apparently, they're sharper than you'd think. But he's leaning now toward an artist's palette knife."
Kate looked up. “Palette knives aren’t sharp.”
“No,” Sullivan agreed. “But steel is steel. Someone with patience and a whetstone could turn one into a nasty little cutter. It requires considerable upper-body strength to cut that deep, though, so the M.E.’s money’s definitely on a male assailant.”
“And because of the artwork found with the body,” Marcus said, “you’re checking art suppliers?”
“Already on it.” Sullivan pulled another sheet from the folder.
“Every art store in the Greater Boston area—brick-and-mortar or online—has been asked to flag any recent sales of palette knives. Cheap, expensive, doesn’t matter.
Also checking hardware stores for whetstones or home sharpening supplies. The usual fishing expedition.”
Kate nodded. This was good. Solid. Exactly the kind of jumpstart she’d hoped for.
"Could you expand the search?" she asked. "To the whole state? Rhode Island too? And also look for recent sales of India ink, nibs, and ivory card."
Sullivan stared at her as if she’d just asked him to intercept a cruise missile with a butterfly net.
“Valentine,” he said flatly, “are you kidding me?”
She blinked. “No?”
“We’re already stretched thin. My captain’s breathing down my neck because I’ve moved off trailing a burglary ring to helm this case and he thinks that makes us look ‘too reactive’.
” He made air quotes. “If I try to run a statewide art-supply dragnet while the guy upstairs is having a coronary over photocopy costs, I’ll be doing road safety talks to first-graders by Friday. ”
“But—”
“No,” Sullivan said firmly. “I cannot expand the search. I cannot check every paint purchase in Massachusetts. I cannot call every art teacher from here to Montpelier. We don’t have the resources. We don’t have the personnel. And my boss would sooner set this building on fire than sign off on it.”
Kate closed the folder.
She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Sullivan was right.
Which meant—
“Well,” Marcus said lightly, “sounds like we know who’s getting the short straw.”
Kate groaned. “Poppy. She’s already loaded with stuff for me.”
Sullivan raised an eyebrow. “Poppy?”
“Brilliant junior agent back at base,” Marcus said. “Cute, too.”
Kate shot him a sharp look. “Necessary observation, Marcus?”
“Sorry.”
“She’ll be cute and homicidal,” Kate muttered. “When I ask her to run a statewide art-supply and pigment-tracking sweep, she’s going to glue my keyboard to the desk.”
Sullivan clapped her shoulder. “Better you than me, Valentine.”
He stepped back toward the door. “Alright. That’s the news. You two get settled. I’ve got three interviews this afternoon and a sergeant who thinks the Wi-Fi’s causing his migraines.”
Kate watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him.
The office was quiet for a beat.
Then Marcus said, “Palette knife. That’s new.”
“It’s interesting. I get the feeling he might be an artist first and a killer second.”
“Well, even that’s progress, huh?”
Kate stared at the open folder, at the wound diagram, at the etchings of the blade track.
Progress, she thought.
Then why did it feel like the killer was always two steps ahead?
“I’m going to check Shepherd’s alibi then go back to the crime scene to look at the CCTV,” Marcus said, standing. “I hate to nag. But you need to call Poppy.”
Kate winced. “God help me.”
She pulled out her phone. And then jumped, as it rang in her hand. The screen said POPPY K. The universe had a way of surprising her, sometimes.
“I was just about to ring you.”
“To apologize?” Poppy asked.
Kate blinked. “For what exactly?”
“For abandoning me in a digital swamp of idiot worshippers, conspiracy bloggers, and people who think Greek numerology is a personality type.” A paper rustled violently. “But never mind. The work’s ongoing, but I thought you’d like some updates?”
Kate straightened in her chair. “Go for it.”
“Right. Starting with Cox’s fan club—back when he was at Redfern medium-sec. Not a big crowd, just a handful of men with too much time and unresolved parental issues.”
Kate smiled faintly. “Sounds like the usual demographic.”
“Indeed. Number one, the guy you asked me to look at. Tray Purvis.” Poppy’s voice took on the crisp tone of a prosecuting barrister.
“Urban explorer on manslaughter charges, became a Cox groupie in jail. Now? Tray appears to have put aside his spiritual awakening in favor of joining the Nazi Lo-riders.”
Kate groaned. “That’s… quite a pivot.”
“Isn’t it? He’s had the tattoos done and everything. Zero interest in Cox these days. Cox is so last season.”
“Okay… and the others?”
“Ah. Julius Kelly, released on parole, gone back to the arms of his Baptist church. Victor Flett. Another Cox recruit.” Poppy paused. “Got early release for good behaviour. And—brace yourself—promptly flattened by a bus.”
Kate blinked. “Flattened?”
“Splat. Like a theological pancake. So either God’s not on Cox’s team or He’s got a sick sense of humor.”
Kate exhaled slowly. “Right. So the disciples aren’t exactly thriving.”
“Correct.” More papers shuffled. “Moving on to the bottom-feeder fan-sites. A lot of chatter—predictably—about when and whether there’ll be a spree honoring the Fifth Commandment.
People speculating wildly. Some of it very creative.
Very stupid. One person thinks the killings will happen in cycles of seven because of ‘biblical geometry’.
Hard to see how you can make multiple sevens out of ten, but hey. ”
Kate pinched the bridge of her nose. “Has any of them linked it to Jennifer Hayes yet?”
“No. If they’ve caught any news, they haven’t made the Decalogue connection. They’re mostly too busy arguing about whether Cox is the Messiah or just a serial killer with religious accessories.”
Kate felt something tighten inside her. “Accessories.”
“My words, not theirs,” Poppy said dryly. “And here’s the promising bit—there’s a definite sense he’s over. Emphasis on was. People are losing interest. They think his reign is done now he’s buried in supermax.”
“That’s good,” Kate said. “Very good. But it’s going to flare back up the second people realize there’s an active Fifth Commandment killer out here.”
“Yes,” Poppy agreed, “hence my ongoing monitoring of this clown circus.”
Kate tapped her pen against the desk. “What about the elder-abandonment material?”
“Oh. Joy. Yes.” Poppy’s voice softened, unexpectedly. “There’s a lot. A lot of very sad stories. So many perspectives. Some angry, some grieving. Some just lost.”
“No obvious suspects?”