they’re listening and tracing this, so I’ll be brief.” The killer gave an address on the south side of Kansas City. “You’ll find a box in an alleyway there containing the remaining pieces of your wife. Check your work e-mail, and you’ll find an address linking to a video of her last moments. It’s now midnight. You have twenty-four hours to eliminate your next target or your son will share her fate. Shoot him in the head and make sure that it’s done right this time.”
Brad’s voice shook as sobs racked his body, but he managed to say, “Wait! What next target?”
“That’s for your ears only.”
The killer ended the call, but Brad heard another phone ringing. He stood dazed for a moment, his mind unable to process the information bombarding it. Then he ran into the kitchen to locate the source of the ringing. The FBI agent was at his back telling him to wait, but Brad ignored the big man in the dark suit.
The sound was coming from his wife’s purse. It was Julie’s cell phone.
He fumbled through the contents of the purse, shoving aside her wallet and make-up and a thousand other miscellaneous items that he couldn’t identify, until he finally found the source of the ringing. He pulled it free and slid his finger across the display to answer the call.
The killer’s familiar voice gave Brad the name and description of the next target.
Then the phone clicked dead, and Brad stared at the strange object in his hand as if he could no longer recognize it. The FBI agent asked urgently what the killer had said, but Brad barely registered the words. He was thinking of his wife and his son and trying to make sense of events that seemed to exist only in nightmares. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening. He prayed to wake up.
But he didn’t wake up. This wasn’t a dream.
The tears came first. Then the anger. He shattered the phone against the wall, tossed a chair from the kitchen table through the sliding glass door, and lashed out at the FBI agents. Brad was still screaming his wife’s name when they tackled him to the floor and placed the cuffs on his wrists.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Marcus and Andrew reached the briefing room at the KCPD metro police station a half-hour after receiving a text from Kaleb telling them about the murders at the hospital and that they had received a new video. It was six in the morning. The briefing room looked like a classroom pulled from a community college. Block walls painted white. Speckled linoleum. Bars of fluorescent lighting shining out from behind translucent tiles in the recessed ceiling. Rows of gray tables filled the space, with two whiteboards and a podium occupying the front of the room.
Marcus found new police stations strangely disturbing. His old station house at the 77th Precinct in Brooklyn with its crumbling red brick and worn wood gave a feeling that the same rooms had been used by cops a hundred years ago and that the men and women inside were upholding a proud legacy. The new constructions were cold and institutional. No sense of history or heritage.
Kaleb led them inside. An FBI agent and Captain Duran looked over some case files at the podium. Most of the other tables were empty. Only the front two rows were in use by detectives from the task force who were waiting for the briefing to begin. Each of the detectives had a cup of coffee resting in front of them. The smell wafted up from their cups and made Marcus crave one.
As if reading his mind, Kaleb said, “Coffee?”
“Please,” Marcus said, even though he suspected it would be cheap and weak.
“None for me,” Andrew said.
Kaleb moved to the back of the room and filled two styrofoam cups while Marcus and Andrew sat down two rows behind the other men and women. Kaleb didn’t ask if Marcus wanted cream and sugar. He just delivered back a steaming cup of black caffeine.
“Thanks,” Marcus said to Kaleb. “So I heard that the deal at the hospital and the car dealership was
Brad’s voice shook as sobs racked his body, but he managed to say, “Wait! What next target?”
“That’s for your ears only.”
The killer ended the call, but Brad heard another phone ringing. He stood dazed for a moment, his mind unable to process the information bombarding it. Then he ran into the kitchen to locate the source of the ringing. The FBI agent was at his back telling him to wait, but Brad ignored the big man in the dark suit.
The sound was coming from his wife’s purse. It was Julie’s cell phone.
He fumbled through the contents of the purse, shoving aside her wallet and make-up and a thousand other miscellaneous items that he couldn’t identify, until he finally found the source of the ringing. He pulled it free and slid his finger across the display to answer the call.
The killer’s familiar voice gave Brad the name and description of the next target.
Then the phone clicked dead, and Brad stared at the strange object in his hand as if he could no longer recognize it. The FBI agent asked urgently what the killer had said, but Brad barely registered the words. He was thinking of his wife and his son and trying to make sense of events that seemed to exist only in nightmares. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening. He prayed to wake up.
But he didn’t wake up. This wasn’t a dream.
The tears came first. Then the anger. He shattered the phone against the wall, tossed a chair from the kitchen table through the sliding glass door, and lashed out at the FBI agents. Brad was still screaming his wife’s name when they tackled him to the floor and placed the cuffs on his wrists.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Marcus and Andrew reached the briefing room at the KCPD metro police station a half-hour after receiving a text from Kaleb telling them about the murders at the hospital and that they had received a new video. It was six in the morning. The briefing room looked like a classroom pulled from a community college. Block walls painted white. Speckled linoleum. Bars of fluorescent lighting shining out from behind translucent tiles in the recessed ceiling. Rows of gray tables filled the space, with two whiteboards and a podium occupying the front of the room.
Marcus found new police stations strangely disturbing. His old station house at the 77th Precinct in Brooklyn with its crumbling red brick and worn wood gave a feeling that the same rooms had been used by cops a hundred years ago and that the men and women inside were upholding a proud legacy. The new constructions were cold and institutional. No sense of history or heritage.
Kaleb led them inside. An FBI agent and Captain Duran looked over some case files at the podium. Most of the other tables were empty. Only the front two rows were in use by detectives from the task force who were waiting for the briefing to begin. Each of the detectives had a cup of coffee resting in front of them. The smell wafted up from their cups and made Marcus crave one.
As if reading his mind, Kaleb said, “Coffee?”
“Please,” Marcus said, even though he suspected it would be cheap and weak.
“None for me,” Andrew said.
Kaleb moved to the back of the room and filled two styrofoam cups while Marcus and Andrew sat down two rows behind the other men and women. Kaleb didn’t ask if Marcus wanted cream and sugar. He just delivered back a steaming cup of black caffeine.
“Thanks,” Marcus said to Kaleb. “So I heard that the deal at the hospital and the car dealership was
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