Famished - Meghan O'Flynn (learn to read books TXT) 📗

Petrosky grabbed an antacid from the roll on his desk and chewed it slowly. His hands shook. It was probably from too much coffee. He worried it was from not enough booze.

Another one from the shelter. The scene had been horrific, but the aftermath was making him even more anxious than standing in that empty school cafeteria, the tinny scent of blood and human waste hanging in the air like thick perfume.

And that kid—

He ground his teeth. She had been another hooker, one that fit the victim profile to a T. But this time, there had been two victims. At least this time, he had found out about the scene before the bodies were put in bags.

Ms. Montgomery would be frightened; she had been scared the first time. And maybe she should be.

Petrosky slammed his desk drawer closed and walked down the hall to the conference room. Graves stood looking out the window, still apparently waiting for their killer to come to them. Outside, snowflakes melted to slush in the salted parking lot.

“Sir?”

Graves turned.

“I have a bad feeling about this one.”

“A bad feeling about a dead woman and her kid, huh? Go figure.”

Petrosky could feel the irritation building in the pit of his stomach. “Is there any way to increase the presence around Ms. Montgomery?”

“We’ve already surveilled her, and she’s alibied on the nights in question. We don’t have the manpower to keep following a suspect who we know isn’t one.”

Petrosky frowned. “I’m more concerned that she’s a target.”

“I doubt that. And anyways”—Graves shook his head—“we’ve already freaked her out enough.”

What the fuck? Petrosky raised his eyebrows.

“One of your officers decided to go rogue and search her car while she was at work. She saw him, but—” Graves sighed. “We don’t need the illegal actions of one force member compromising the integrity of the entire case.” His eye twitched.

Liar. It had probably been one of Graves’s agents who’d broken into her car. Maybe Graves had even put the guy up to it.

“Dammit, we have to do something! What about the poems? There’s only one more verse.”

“We have nothing to indicate that Ms. Montgomery is in danger at all. If anything, she’s an unlikely target: employed, no children, no history of drug use or prostitution. Yes, half of the victims happened to spend time at the shelter she volunteers at, but there aren’t that many domestic violence shelters around. And the other victims frequented shelters that are completely unconnected to her.”

“What about her boyfriend?”

“Maybe Campbell’s secret fuck buddy was one of the other victims, and he knew something about her killer. We’ve got men on it now.” Graves’s jaw was set. “We just can’t afford any more bad publicity on this.”

“Wouldn’t it be worse publicity if she dies?”

Footsteps approached. Graves broke eye contact and nodded to someone behind Petrosky.

Petrosky’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Paulson, expand the library record searches on that book to cover fifty more miles. It’s a stretch, but this guy likes to play. I want every copy back here and checked for markings, notes, anything. Then take a partner and see if you can find any links to other women’s shelters.”

Graves was grasping at straws. Wasting time. Petrosky’s phone buzzed again.

“Yes, sir,” Paulson said.

No one acknowledged Petrosky as he walked out and mashed his phone to his ear. “Petrosky,” he snapped.

“It’s Shannon.”

“What are you doing working the day after Thanksgiving?”

“Why? Is it a holiday or something?”

“Not around here.” Petrosky glanced back toward the conference room door, but no one emerged. Graves and Paulson were probably both staring at the parking lot like a couple of fuck sticks. “So, what’d I do this time, Taylor?”

“Nothing.”

“How’d you get this number?”

“Morrison.”

“You calling my rookie in your off-hours?”

“That’s not your business, Petrosky. What is your business is the tip I’m about to give you on your serial.”

Petrosky accelerated his pace down the hall. “I’m sure you heard the Feds are on it now, Taylor,” he said. “Why’d you call me instead of Graves?”

The phone crackled. “Everyone over here has been pretty pissed about how it was handled. And Graves is a piece of work in his own right. I heard two of his last three cases were solved at the expense of some uncooperative witnesses who turned at the last minute, testifying with information that put them in danger one way or another. Pretty convenient if you ask me.”

Pretty convenient, indeed. Maybe those witnesses had even had someone break into their car.

“Either way, I trust you. I might have to call him eventually, but I can plead busy for a few more hours. Actually, fuck it, you tell him if you want him to know.”

Petrosky entered the bullpen and yanked a pad of paper from his desk. “Hang on.” He ignored Morrison’s raised brow across the aisle and dropped into the chair. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“Got a colleague prosecuting a Xavier Kroll, K-R-O-L-L, heroin addict, small-time crook. Kroll apparently knew Antoinette and Timothy Michaels. Says he lived with a woman who was friends with Antoinette’s mother.”

Petrosky scrawled the name. “Interesting.”

“Kroll says Antoinette lived at his girlfriend’s house with the kid. Off and on, never for longer than a few months, but she was there recently. I doubt you’ll see that address on any forms.”

“Where’s it at?”

“Chapman. 4587.” She paused. “The guy might be full of shit, trying to swing a plea, but the prosecutor was going to follow up anyway. I convinced him to wait until after you checked it out.”

“Why’d he agree?”

“He’s friends with Morrison too.”

“California, huh? The boy gets around,” Petrosky said as Morrison approached his desk.

“Don’t we all?”

“Thanks, Taylor. Give me a few hours.”

“No problem. Tell Detective Morrison I said hello. And tell him I saved him some of yesterday’s pumpkin pie if he can get free for dinner.”

Petrosky glanced at Morrison. Morrison grinned.

“Tell him yourself, Taylor. I’ll keep you posted.” He pocketed the phone and stood. “Got a lead, ten minutes out. I’ll call you with whatever she gives me and get you to run it from here. In the meantime, get me a background on Xavier Kroll.”

“On it, Boss.” Morrison looked at his watch. “You want a granola bar for the road?”

“I wouldn’t want a granola bar if I was fucking starving. By the way, Taylor has some pie for you.”

“Really?”

“Yup. And how the hell do you know everyone in the prosecutor’s office?”

“They like granola too.” Morrison winked.

“Save it for your girlfriend, Surfer Boy.”