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  “Who are you calling?” Detective Yasiv asked after the shock of finding a second body wore off.

  Chase turned to him.

  “An old friend. We’re going to need some help with this one.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The detective stared down at the body, looking into the eyes of the dead girl.

  What did you see right before you died? The detective wondered. Whose face was the last that you saw?

  She crouched down and teased some hay away from the woman’s face. As she did, she noticed a brown smudge across her lips.

  Lipstick? Is it lipstick?

  The detective leaned closer to investigate, but stood bolt upright when a police officer’s shouts echoed throughout the barn.

  “We’ve got another body over here! Oh god, there’s another body!”

  Drake’s phone buzzed and he stopped reading.

  “Drake here,” he said, his eyes still locked on the e-reader that had been delivered to his desk.

  Why the hell did someone send this crap to me?

  The book, Red Smile, was the only one on the device. Preloaded, Screech had called it.

  Red Smile, written by someone he had never heard of: L. Wiley.

  Lost in thought, he finally realized that the person on the other end of the line hadn’t said anything yet.

  “Hello?”

  When there was still no answer, he pulled it away from his ear and looked at the number.

  UNKNOWN.

  Thinking that it was a telemarketer, he was about to hang up when the person finally spoke.

  “Drake?”

  Drake forgot all about Red Smile and sat up straight.

  “Chase, that you?”

  “Yeah, listen, I—”

  “Heard about your promotion—Sergeant, huh. Who wouldathunk it. Congratulations is in order.”

  “Thanks, Drake. It’s been… well, it hasn’t been the most exciting of times. I miss being in the field, mostly. Apparently, promotion is just code for ‘more paperwork’. But, hey, I don’t want to mislead you… this isn’t a social call.”

  Although Drake figured as much, part of him wished that it was.

  “Yeah, I thought not. What’s up?”

  His thoughts turned to Doctor Kildare and his campaign manager Mary, and briefly wondered if they had seen him after all and had reported him to the NYPD. It would be unusual for such a case to travel all the way up to the Sergeant, but he knew that Chase had his back and would give him the head’s up if anything with his name attached to it popped up.

  But when Chase spoke again, he realized that his suspicions were unfounded.

  “You know how I just said I missed the field?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well I’m back in it, and I’ve got a new case, something that I think I could use your help with. You have a few hours to spare? Think you can come aboard as a Special Consultant and help an old friend?”

  Drake’s ears perked.

  Special consultant?

  He wasn’t sure if he was more excited about the prospect of being part of an investigation that didn’t involve old ladies or missing yachts, or just the fact that he would be reunited with Chase.

  “Hell ya,” he said with more enthusiasm than he had intended. “What’ve you got?”

  Chase, her voice clearly expressing relief, told him about the two bodies found in a barn on the outskirts of the city.

  “Young females, mid-twenties probably. Cuts up and down their arms. Won’t know official cause of death for another hour or so. Bodies weren’t quite frozen, but it’s cold enough in the barn to mess with determining the time of death.”

  “Is Beckett with you?” Drake asked.

  There was an unusually long pause before Chase answered.

  “No—he’s… he’s on vacation.”

  The reply struck Drake as odd; for as long as he had known Beckett, the man hadn’t taken a single vacation. True, he occasionally liked to head up north to Montreal for the nightlife, but these visits were usually only weekend trips.

  And it was a Tuesday morning.

  “Vacation? Beckett?”

  “Long story—I’ll clue you in when you get here. Oh, and Drake? One more thing: the girls, well, it looks like they have blood on their lips, like some sort of gruesome lipstick.”

  Drake nearly dropped his phone.

  “What?”

  “Blood. On their lips. You okay?”

  Drake swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the e-reader on his desk.

  Coincidence; just a coincidence.

  Except the last two cases he had worked on—the Butterfly Killer and Craig Sloan—had taught him that coincidences were rarely just that.

  “I’m fine,” he croaked at last. “I’ll see you in an hour. Text me the address”

  “Alright, but—”

  Drake hung up the phone and stared at the e-reader until his eyes started to lose focus.

  Coincidence?

  With a shake of his head, he managed to finally tear his eyes away from the damn thing. He reached over and pulled open the top drawer of his desk a little too quickly, and the bottle of Johnny Blue knocked loudly against the wood. He watched as the golden liquid swished back and forth inside the glass.

  And like the e-reader, this held his attention for an inordinate amount of time.

  Get a grip. Chase needs you.

  Drake reached into the drawer and grabbed the finger bone beside the bottle and jammed it into his pocket.

  After closing the drawer, more carefully this time, he made his way out of the office toward Screech at the reception desk.

  The man looked up at him as he neared.

  “You going already? Short day there, pardner.”

  Drake ignored the comment.

  “I have something I need to do.” He tapped the e-reader in his hand, deep in thought. “Try to find out where this thing came from, okay?”

  “I’m thinking you don’t mean the manufacturer?”

  Drake grimaced.

  “You sure you weren’t a detective before Triple D, too?”

  Screech chuckled.

  “You’re on a roll today, big fella. I’m liking this new you. Like a younger, more wrinkly Roger Dangerfield.”

  “Just see if you can find out who delivered it.”

  “No problemo,” the man answered, putting the worn pen in his mouth again and turning back to his computer.

  Brown smudges… it had to be a coincidence, didn’t it?

  CHAPTER 8

  The teacher paced as he spoke, which annoyed Colin Elliot to no end. That, and the fact that for someone who was supposed to be teaching them how to write books that sell, Colin couldn’t find any evidence that he had actually sold anything, put him on edge.

  In fact, the only information that Colin could dig up on Professor Dwight Jurgens was that he had published a shitty-looking novella that was on limited release and a book of trite poetry.

  At least it didn’t cost me anything, he thought glumly. This was the eighth or ninth such ‘writer’s group’ that he had attended over as many weeks and while he always went in with high expectations, they never failed to let him down.

  But that was okay. After all, he had found other means of inspiration.

  “So how many of you have ever published anything? Anything at all?” Dwight asked the class. He pushed the felt-green fedora—which also irritated Colin—back from his forehead as he spoke, revealing a set of beady eyes.

  As Dwight glanced around, Colin did the same. There were seven of them—there had been eight when the class started, but a young, pale man with scars on his face had left twenty minutes ago—not that much different than Colin himself: tired looking, shoulders slumped, all trying to finish a book with financial and life pressures squeezing the muse out of them.

  So you want to write a book, huh?

  “Nobody?” Dwight asked, his mouth twisting into a frown. “Well I guess I’m in the wrong place then. I thought th
is was a writer’s group for writers.”

  And then, as Colin watched, curious if this was a ruse, Dwight swept his books off the table at the front of the room and into his worn backpack. Then he walked toward the door.

  Colin wasn’t sure why he spoke up—it wasn’t like him. Maybe it was the memory of his wife berating him the night before, or just the weight of the past few years bearing down.

  Or maybe it was because he was changing. Deep down inside something was broken, and he didn’t know if it would ever be fixed.

  Either way, he surprised himself by speaking.

  “I’m published,” he said. Several of the other class members turned to stare at him, and he felt his face go red. “I have three books out.”

  Dwight threw his hands in the air.

  “There’s the ticket! We have at least one writer in the room,” he walked back to the table and tossed the bag on top. “I’m not really sure what you other people are doing here, but at least we have one writer. Tell me…”

  “Colin.”

  “Tell me, Colin. What kind of books have you written? Novels? Novellas? What Genre?”

  Colin felt more heat rise in his cheeks, but now that he had started down this road, he had no choice but to continue.

  “Novels, all three. Paranormal thrillers, mostly,” he shrugged. “They all have romance elements in them, as well.”

  Dwight made an impressed face.

  “Very nice. And?”

  Colin looked around nervously.

  “And what?”

  “What are they called?”

  “Called?” Colin asked, confused by the entire line of questioning. Part of the reason he wanted to write books in the first place was so that he could stay behind the computer screen all day.

  No need to interact with others.

  “Yes,” Dwight said and then sighed dramatically. Colin was beginning to think that the man would be better off teaching the art of over-acting rather than writing. “I imagine that your books have titles?”

  Colin shook his head.

  “No? All three are untitled?”

  His cheeks were so hot now that he wouldn’t be surprised if they suddenly burst into flames.

  “No… what I mean is, I write under a pen name.”

  Dwight tilted his chin skyward.

  “Ah, a nom de plume,” his eyes suddenly narrowed and he leveled a finger at Colin’s chest. “Wait a second, are you self-published?”

  Sweat broke out on his forehead and he glanced around nervously, feeling the eyes of the other students on him like laser points.

  “Y-yes,” he admitted.

  Dwight’s face underwent a series of expressions that looked to Colin like the iterations of a man undergoing a stroke in slow-motion.

  “Self-published?” Dwight repeated, his face finally settling on something that was a cross between fury and pure, unadulterated disdain.

  “Yes,” Colin said again, this time with more confidence. “I self-published all three of my books.”

  Dwight stared at him for a moment, without saying another word. Then he rose to his feet, picked up his bag and made his way toward the door again. This time he didn’t turn around.

  “I was wrong about you guys,” he said over his shoulder. “There isn’t one writer in the room. There are none.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Drake adjusted his hat, pulled his gloves on tight, and then stepped out of his Crown Vic. He approached a police officer leaning up against the side of his car, a flutter in his stomach. It was strange for him to feel this way, especially given how little he had cared when the entire 62nd precinct wanted him gone following his expose in the Times. Now, however, after what had happened with Craig Sloan, and how he had saved Suzan Cuthbert’s life, Drake had heard inklings that tensions and harsh feelings toward him had lessened somewhat.

  And yet Drake knew that they would never dissipate completely. So long as Clay Cuthbert remained dead, there would always be some contempt toward him. But that was to be expected.

  He felt the same about himself.

  What’s with the butterflies, Drake?

  With an unintentional scowl, Drake approached the officer by the car. He was staring at his cell phone, the top of his hat pointed at Drake.

  “Hey, Sergeant Adams around?” Drake said as he stomped through the snow.

  The man looked up and Drake immediately recognized him, but couldn’t recall his name. He was confident that this was one of the officers that Drake had approached during Chase’s press conference for the Butterfly Killer—someone who had ignored him completely.

  The officer nodded at him.

  “Detective Drake,” he said crisply. “Good to have you back.”

  Drake’s scowl became a frown.

  Back? I’m not back, and I’m sure as hell not a detective. Not anymore.

  But rather get into this argument, he said, “Just Drake, please. And I’m only here to help.”

  The man nodded again.

  “Sergeant Adams is in the barn,” he replied, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

  Drake thanked him, then walked sideways down the embankment from the road to what was a farmer’s field of some sort. As he did, he breathed in deeply through his nose, the bite of the frigid air temporarily numbing the anxiety he felt in the pit of his stomach.

  And with that, he started to piece together the crime scene in his mind.

  The killer didn’t come from the road. He couldn’t risk his car being seen even in a place as desolate as this.

  Drake’s eyes lifted to the small forested area behind the barn that was cordoned off with yellow police tape.

  There; he came from there—through the forest.

  He made a mental note to ask if there were any car tracks in the forest.

  Detective Henry Yasiv stood by the side of the barn, smoking a cigarette, a far off look his eyes. As he approached, Drake called out to the man.

  “Detective Yasiv?”

  The young man lifted his eyes, stared at Drake for a moment, and then something strange and unexpected happened.

  Detective Yasiv smiled at him, and Drake found himself smiling back. Henry Yasiv was a young detective, in his late twenties, and although he hadn’t been around when the Skeleton King had taken out Clay, the pervasive hatred at the precinct to Drake had extended to him as well.

  But Drake didn’t hold it against the man; after all, as a new detective, it was hard to make friends, and being kind to Drake would have made that near impossible.

  But Chase… Chase hadn’t succumbed to that pressure. Chase had treated me well, given me the benefit of the doubt.

  Drake held his gloved hand out, and Hank shook it excitedly.

  That wasn’t fair, though; it did no good to compare people to Chase. She wasn’t just a different animal, she was like a goddamn alien species.

  Detective Yasiv flicked his cigarette into the snow, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and then grabbed Drake by the arm.

  “I’ll take you inside,” he said. “Bring you up to speed.”

  As they ducked under the tape across the door, Drake said, “I didn’t know you smoke.”

  “I don’t. At least not according to my wife.”

  The inside of the barn smelled musty, an indication that the doors had been closed for a long period of time before their killer arrived.

  “I only smoke at the scene, never at…” Detective Yasiv continued, but Drake found his mind drifting elsewhere.

  The barn felt very much like the one described in the book Red Smile, and his heart did a strange flutter in his chest.

  Not now. Don’t bias yourself. Just take in the facts.

  But instead of focusing on the scene, his eyes landed on Chase as she spoke to a man Drake didn’t recognize, her back to him.

  For some reason, the sight of his ex-partner caused his heart to skip another beat. Drake subconsciously reached up and touched the area below his left ear, the spot that was a still discolored and
rough from where the fire had scarred him.

  The last time they had spoken was in his hospital room, when she had brought his clothes and had begged him to stay.

  He swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat that refused to go down.

  “Chase? Or do I just call you boss again?” he said, trying to keep things light.

  Chase turned her head, her dark brown hair moving with her. Their eyes met, and then her pretty mouth broke into a smile. He was holding his hand out to her, but she ignored it. Instead, she embraced him tightly, and he hesitated.

  It was unprofessional, sure, but what profession was he representing? Triple D? He wasn’t on the NYPD payroll anymore—hadn’t been in some time, actually.

  He hugged her back.

  “So glad that you can give us a hand,” Chase said as they disengaged.

  Drake nodded.

  “Just here to help.”

  He raised his eyes to the man who Chase had been speaking with when he had stepped into the barn.

  “FBI Agent Jeremy Stitts,” Chase said, “meet Special Consultant, Damien Drake. Shake hands, hug it out, then let’s get to work.”

  Drake smirked and leaned forward to shake the man’s hand.

  Special Consultant? I sound like a goddamn henchman.

  And given the work he was doing for Ken Smith, henchman almost seemed like a more appropriate description.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Writer’s Circle—capitalized, likely by Dwight himself—was silent for a good three minutes after the professor stormed out.

  A woman with short red hair eventually followed, but the other five students, six including Colin himself, just sat there.

  Colin debated packing up and leaving as well, but he wasn’t sure where he would go. He didn’t want to go home just in case Ryanne was still there, and he had a lot of time to kill before picking up his girls.

  I can just sit here and write, he thought, and was about to pull out his laptop when the woman next to him turned and addressed him.

  “What are your books called, anyway?” she asked. It was an innocuous enough question, but because the room was completely silent, all eyes were once again on him.

  Colin was sick and tired of blushing, but it wasn’t something that he could control.