WELCOME TO THE GAME, JASPER.
It almost—almost—sounded like something Billy would say. If not for that word—game. Billy never thought of what he did as a game. It was fun, yes, but the sort of fun to be taken deadly serious. There was a reason he referred to it as “prospecting.” The prospectors of olden times had been involved in life-or-death stakes for the most part, and when they succeeded, they celebrated.
Jazz could remember Billy returning from prospecting trips, flush with excitement and success. He would dump out of his suitcase a mélange of clothes, trophies, newspaper clippings of his exploits, and the occasional body part, then collapse in the big easy chair in the living room to obsessively watch TV coverage of his “adventures” while eating take-out Chinese food and drinking bottle after bottle of cream soda (one of Billy’s other obsessions).
Jazz would innocently play with the contents of Dear Old Dad’s suitcase, then arrange the trophies carefully in the rumpus room.
When the plane landed, Jazz was surprised to find Hughes standing there at the gate, waiting for him.
“Didn’t bring the girlfriend this time?” the detective asked.
“Thought for sure you’d be on suspension after the reaming out your captain gave you.”
“I’m too valuable,” Hughes joked. “But, yeah, sorry about that,” he went on as they walked to his car, which was parked obnoxiously in a no-parking zone, watched over by a TSA agent. “I didn’t mean to lie to you. But I’d been banging my head against this case for months and getting nowhere and I wanted to bring you, but Montgomery—”
“I get it,” Jazz said, climbing in. “It’s not like I’ve never broken the rules before.”
Hughes nodded and gunned the engine. “So, I understand you’ve met our FBI liaison?”
Jazz wondered briefly if he should mention Morales’s offer to help kill Billy. But no. Hughes might be maverick-y, but he didn’t think the detective would countenance outright murder. “Yeah. She tried some mind-screwing on me, but changed her tune pretty quick.”
“She likes doing that. Messing with guys. She’s a dyke, you know.”
Jazz squirmed at the word. “Didn’t know that,” he said casually, wondering how Hughes would feel if he went all Gramma and dropped the N-bomb.
“It’s statistically proven that of all the law enforcement agencies in the country, the FBI has the largest percentage of lesbians. Isn’t that interesting?”
That actually was interesting. “Really?”
Hughes guffawed. “No. I made that up. But it sounds like it could be true, doesn’t it?”
Dyke. Invented FBI stats. Hughes had his psychological guard up again. Jazz didn’t blame him.
“You’re a true wit. Anything new happen while I was in the air?”
“Nope. Still waiting on toxicology, autopsy, all that stuff. Still going over the scene.”
“What’s the plan?” It was getting dark outside, but Jazz didn’t want to let the fall of night slow him down. He was buzzing to get out on the street.
“Well, first I’m going to get you to the crime scene. The S doesn’t even run some weekends, and this is one of them. So we’re taking our time with crime-scene analysis. Body was still on-site, last I checked. I asked them to hold her there as long as they could, so you could see.”
“Good. Then what?”
“Then back to the precinct. Montgomery and Morales want to bring you up to speed on everything. Officially.”
Jazz nodded, staring at the photo on his phone. “This guy. Whoever he is…”
“He’s getting cocky,” Hughes said. “Which means he’ll slip up.”
“Maybe. I hope so. Sometimes they get cocky because they deserve to be.”
CHAPTER 27
By now, she knew, Jazz had made it to New York. Connie tried to focus on getting through her punishment and thinking good thoughts in the general direction of Brooklyn, but no matter what she did, she kept coming back to that message. She stared at her phone.
r u game?
WELCOME TO THE GAME, JASPER.
What in the hell was going on here?
r u game?
It could mean a couple of things. Game was something you hunted in order to eat it. So, hell, no, she wasn’t that kind of game.
But it could also mean “Are you up for something?” “Are you ready?”
To which Connie could say only, “Hells, yes.”
She was sick of being told to sit on the sidelines, play the good girlfriend, “stand by your man.” Sick of watching the crazy stuff from the outside. She had sneaked off to New York to help and that had worked out pretty well, right? Her exploration had discovered… something. And now it appeared that someone knew what she’d found. How?
I could have been followed in Brooklyn. Someone could have been watching. She shivered at the idea that she might have been under observation the whole time. Who could it have been? The Hat-Dog Killer himself? Billy Dent? Someone named Ugly J?
Her first instinct was to call Jazz and tell him about the text, but she knew exactly what he would say. Jazz would assume he had all the answers because Jazz always assumed he had all the answers. One day shortly after their encounter with the Impressionist, he had sat down with her and very seriously explained to her how to survive a serial killer.
“First thing is,” he told her, “run. Just get the hell away. Even if he’s small or seems weak or crippled somehow. It’s all an act. These guys don’t come after you unless they’re sure they can take you, so run. Bundy used to wear his arm in a sling. Fooled people. Made him seem helpless and harmless.”
“I know to run away,” she’d said, more than a little bit exasperated.
“If you can’t run, if he’s already got you,” Jazz pressed on, ignoring her, “then your next line of defense is verbal. Be firm. Tell him to leave you alone. Don’t try to hit him or attack him. Not yet. He’s probably stronger than you and hitting him will just flip his switch. But there’s a chance he might not be used to a woman being firm with him.”
“Or maybe tough chicks make his little pee-pee hard,” Connie said.
“I’m trying to help you,” Jazz said, and then proceeded to describe the escalation of her options: from moderate physical force if possible to verbally puncturing the fantasy (“Nah, why rape me? Let’s go get a drink instead”) to absolute fight-for-your-life, scratch-his-eyes-out panic.
“It’s all going to depend on the situation,” he’d admitted at last. “Some guys will get turned on by you fighting back. Some will be scared by it.”
“So, basically, be careful and don’t do anything stupid,” she’d said, and he had agreed.
Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. Exactly what Jazz would say right now. Along with: Show it to G. William.
Well, she would show it G. William. Eventually.
But right now… there wasn’t really anything to show, was there? Just a random text. It could be anything. It might even have been a mistake, something not meant for her, something not even remotely related to what was happening in New York. That had happened to her before, people accidentally texting the wrong number.
You’re making excuses, Connie. Excuses to keep this to yourself.
Yeah. Yeah, she was. Because… because…
Because I’m sick and tired of being treated like I’m a doll made out of cheap plastic, like I could break at any moment. By Jazz, always trying to protect me. By my dad, who doesn’t even trust me to pick a boyfriend. Even by Howie. And Howie’s the most breakable person I know! Jazz and Howie go off and break the rules whenever they want. But I’m supposed to be the rule follower. The good girl. Since when did I become the freakin’ mom? Just once I want—
Her phone vibrated in her hand.
i kno something abt ur boyfriend
Chills radiated up Connie’s arms, and the fine, light hairs there stood on their ends. She shivered involuntarily.
“Don’t go chasing…”
Another vibration. Another message.
no police no parents
She figured that went without saying. And for now she was fine with it. She would call G. William when she knew more, she decided.