Chapter 2
TWO
BOSTON
“Fuck, they really did a number on this one,” Rolland says from behind me.
I bend down and get a closer look, careful not to touch anything.
The asphalt beneath my boots is slick with rain, reflecting the wash of red and blue lights that pulse across the alley.
It’s two in the morning, and the city hasn’t quite decided whether it’s asleep or just pretending to be.
Sirens hum somewhere in the distance, not urgent anymore, just part of the background noise of a night gone wrong.
The air smells like damp concrete and the tang of fresh blood.
“Do you think this is the same person as Highball Street?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say without a doubt. It’s too clean, despite the mess of blood.
There is no trace of whoever did it, and that’s an issue we have with these high-profile kills.
My gaze traces the wound again. There are no defensive marks on his body, and no signs of struggle in the surrounding area.
Mr. Sand barely had time to realize what was happening.
That’s a signature in itself, showing the killer’s control and confidence.
“Fuck, reporters are here,” Rolland grumbles, then turns and walks off as I remain crouched next to Mr. Sand’s body.
Gawkers stretch their necks, phones out, hungry for something they can post before the body is even cold.
Flashes go off behind the tape, mixing with the patrol lights, turning the whole scene into something almost theatrical.
I tune it out—you have to learn to do that in this job.
After so many years on the force, you either learn to narrow your world down to the details or you drown in the noise.
When I googled the victim on my way here, I found that his net worth is in the billions, and that he was currently trying to acquire a stretch of real estate predominantly owned by small businesses.
Which made it hard for him to buy because not only did the businesses not want to sell, but they also refused to let him make an offer.
They didn’t want to be bought by a big corporation and have their worlds turned upside down.
My knee aches slightly as I shift my weight, old reminders from years of scenes just like this. Too many late nights, too much bad coffee, and not enough sleep.
“Fucking hell, put on your gloves,” I say to the officer as he walks over and reaches for something in the crime scene. “What is it, your first fucking day? Don’t touch shit.”
The stupid bastard’s eyes go wide, and he backs up. “Sorry, Detective,” he murmurs, and steps back as Rolland returns and comes to stand next to me.
Rolland and I are partners, so we understand each other well. Years of riding in the same car, working the same cases, learning each other’s rhythms without needing to say a word. However, I do prefer to work alone, with less noise and fewer variables.
“They’re fucking leeches,” he says, referring to the press as I stand up. “This is going to be everywhere. Whoever this assassin is, they’re good,” he adds in praise.
I glance back down at the body, letting my gaze move over the details again, slower this time. The angle of attack, the location of the wound, the lack of anything extra. No rage or panic, just execution. Whoever did this didn’t just want him dead—they wanted it done right.
“Check all the street cameras, cars, pedestrians, businesses, everything and everyone that has come into this area in the last twelve hours,” I tell him.
“Do you still think it’s a woman?” Rolland asks quietly. We haven’t given that theory away yet. But he’s right, whoever it is, is damn good.
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully, and glance back at the body. At one point, I thought it could possibly be a woman, with the way the killings took place. Men are messy, whereas women are … well, cleaner. But it’s just a hunch, because whoever it is never leaves a trace of themselves.
“We need answers sooner rather than later,” he says. “Cap is getting pissed.”
“I know,” I remind him. I’m in the same meetings he is, and this killer has been doing this for years.
And we still have no solid leads as to their identity.
I look past the tape, at the lights, the crowd, the restless city pressing in around us, and feel that familiar pull in my gut that tells me the killer is either extremely lucky or very skilled.
There is no doubt in my mind that it’s going to be the latter.