Deadly Messengers (4 page)

In regards to the jibe about glasses and her age, well…
Thanks, but no thanks.
Ignoring his advice instead, she continued her habit of swallowing two little codeine numbers from the packet she kept stashed in the drawer in her desk.

The idea her body was aging wasn’t something she wanted to face just yet. When she looked in the mirror, it was only to enable the necessary maintenance chores of brushing teeth, washing her face, and the application of moisturizer. She didn’t spend much time examining her appearance. Details such as wrinkles, heralding that she was exiting her prime years, were not high on her priority list.

She was attractive, so she was told, but she rarely gave it much thought. Admittedly, she’d been lucky in the hair department. With just a quick brush and a flick, her shoulder-length, golden-brown hair curled and bounced into place just below her shoulders as though styled for a Pantene commercial. She didn’t fuss. She didn’t primp. More important things concerned her, like ensuring she won enough article approvals to pay the rent.

Today, she wouldn’t win any beauty contests. Her eyes felt red-raw, as though she’d weathered a sandstorm, Headaches like this one always caused her complexion to drain to a tone just above vampire white. Probably a cold was attacking her. It wasn’t eyestrain or old age, and that was that. Seriously, she was only thirty-six!

Last month she’d written an article on fantastic foods for your eyes. Popular wisdom was that eating carrots was good for your eye health. Through her research, Kendall discovered oranges were better. Kale and black-eyed peas, too. Next time she shopped, she’d stock up on oranges.
Glasses not necessary.

Kendall made a mental note to track down a chef to interview for recipes using black-eyed peas—a trick she used when wanting to know something for her own benefit. She’d come up with an article idea then research who she needed to track down for the answer. In this way, asking questions that
she
wanted answered also paid her.

Throwing down the codeine, she swigged from the water bottle she always kept on her bedside table. She picked up her partner in crime—her iPhone—lying beside the bottle and began her ritual of first-thing-upon-wakeup tasks.

She lived on the phone. Emails and messaging mainly. While her friends used theirs for Facebook, Twitter, and Candy Crush, hers was an all in one secretary, coach, and timekeeper.

“What’s happening today, buddy? What’s on our schedule?”

She opened her mail app. Within a few seconds her inbox filled with thirty-two messages. Many were junk. That’s your reward for signing up at too many websites in the name of research. The others were from business acquaintances, friends, and daily Google alerts on subjects she followed for possible articles.

This morning, she was looking for particular messages, ones with the heading: “Article Needed Urgently” or “Yes—go ahead” or “More Work.” Anything that was income creating with a capital “I.”

Work had slowed lately. She’d pitched dozens of articles in the past few weeks, but this month, being the end of the fiscal year, meant budgets were mostly exhausted. Urgent last-minute articles were all she was being sent. Work had dried up to only an article or two a day. This happened every year at this time, and every year Kendall panicked. It was silly, really. By the end of March her inbox would fill with so much work, she was awake until one or two in the morning to meet deadlines.

After checking all the emails, she found only two article requests. One she’d pitched months ago and was only for three hundred words, hardly paying anything. Another was from a women’s magazine she only wrote for when desperate. They always paid late and their editor had no sense of humor, removing any witty asides in her articles.

“House style, please, Kendall!”

Kendall closed the email app, relieved she at least had
some
work, but downhearted it wasn’t enough to even cover her weekly expenses. The next few hours would be spent coming up with pitch ideas. Not as easy as it sounds when you’ve freelanced for eight years.

She checked the time on her phone—seven fifteen. Fifteen minutes before she needed to get up. Technically, she didn’t need to physically be anywhere. She treated her weekdays, though, as if she needed to be at an office by eight thirty. She’d learned a long time ago freelancing required the discipline of a job. Like any job, you needed to turn up.

Her commute was the thirty steps from her bedroom to her study via a small, combined kitchen-dining area. On the way, she’d get a strong, black coffee and some toast.

Kendall threw on her work clothes—casual, thank you. A tracksuit in winter with scarf and wooly socks. In summer, shorts, tank top and flip-flops.

Her first task, once at her desk was to check the news sites, a necessary business ritual that occasionally supplied her with good material to spin into a story. Having an eye for an angle was her greatest skill.

“Something interesting, please,” she prayed as the news site loaded.

When the lead heading came up, she gasped. The word for the news wasn’t
interesting
.

Horrifying. Terrifying.
Those words sprung into her mind. Then:
How could this happen?

WHEN KENDALL FIRST READ THE bolded heading on the “Breaking News” web page, she gasped. When she’d prayed for interesting news, she didn’t mean anything like this.

Lygard Street was very nearby her apartment block. As she read the article, Kendall realized it was Café Amaretto. Occasionally she’d grab a coffee there; they had the best tiramisu this side of the city. Reading on, she suddenly lost her taste for tiramisu; in fact, her appetite was gone, period.

A crazed psycho had entered the restaurant through the back door and killed several staff, unlucky enough to be in the kitchen. Then he’d headed into the dining area and attacked diners. Kendall’s hand went to cover her mouth. My god, he used an axe to kill them.
An axe!

That was
too
barbaric. What was happening in the world when things like this occurred in such a peaceful place? This neighborhood was home to mostly thirty-something professionals like her and retired the-kids-are-gone-and-we’ve-downsized people. It wasn’t home to axe murderers.

She Googled Café Amaretto looking for more information on the killings, but all the links were just copies of the same article with no new information. Involuntarily, her body shivered at the thought of the crime’s proximity.

Kendall stood and walked back into the kitchen to make a herbal tea. Something to calm her nerves, like chamomile. She wished she’d stayed in bed instead of waking up to this. Forget the lack of work. This trumped everything. A terrible tragedy in her neighborhood that, if not for fate, might have found her involved.

What a way to start a day.

LANCE O’GRADY LOOKED OVER AT his partner, Trip Lindsay, and said, “This is not the way to start a day.

They hadn’t been to bed yet, so technically this day had started yesterday. They’d attended the Café Amaretto murder scene late last night. The last time he’d checked, thirty minutes and two strong black coffees ago, it was still only around seven in the morning.

Since this had begun, they’d spent four hours at the crime scene, answered over twenty inquiries and phone-in leads, and had two update meetings with their sergeant, with more to come. By Lance’s estimates, they would still be here until six tonight with everything they needed to do to keep the police commissioner and the mayor happy.

Everything they’d learned so far, made the crime cut and dried to him. Lunatic walks into a popular Italian restaurant and goes berserk with an axe. Out go seven bodies, with at least one survivor currently in intensive care probably about to make it a tally of a neat round eight. To say that he’d never seen anything like the bloody scene he’d walked into last night was not just an understatement, it missed the spot by a million miles.

So far, they understood little of what set the guy off. All they knew was bank clerk Toby Benson decided to hack his way through the rear entrance of Café Amaretto. Once in, he sliced and diced three of the staff in the kitchen, then took to patrons in the dining room simply enjoying a meal. No provocation and, so far, no claims of association with any terrorist groups.

Police arrived at the café approximately six minutes after the event began, thanks to several mobile calls from terrified patrons. Benson then decided to take a swing at the officers. Of course, the size of his axe was irrelevant. Guns trump axe pretty much every time. So their
Friday the 13
^th
wannabe ended up as the repository of a dozen bullets and just as dead as his unfortunate victims.

Everybody from O’Grady’s boss to the mayor to the goddam president (if the already churning rumor mill could be believed) wanted to know how this could happen. This not-easily-answered question landed on his and Trip’s plate to figure out. The police commissioner demanded answers yesterday because the PR minions wanted everything tied up in a neat little bow for the six o’clock news.

Even though there was an investigating team, the responsibility for managing the investigation fell on Trip’s and his shoulders. As senior detectives of the city’s smallish major case unit—small because these types of crime didn’t usually happen in their city—it was expected they pull all-nighters. Only a few hours in, those responsibility-carrying shoulder were already weary.

With the killer as dead as his victims, the only urgency O’Grady saw was in giving the mayor something to calm the public. If the mayor had a little patience and foresight—which he clearly lacked—he’d find the next bad news story blowing in, would cause the public to quickly forget this.

It never took Joe Public long to move to the next news sensation. Downed airliners, earthquakes in China, tsunamis killing tens of thousands, or myriad of disasters that trotted across the news bulletins regularly, all of them were always replaced by the next big headline.

“Are you ready?” said Trip. “The sooner we get out door knocking, the sooner we get some sleep. I’ve gotten hold of Benson’s boss at the bank. He’ll see us just after eight. Then I think a visit to Benson’s apartment in case CSI missed something.”

O’Grady stood, pulling his jacket from the back of his chair.

“As ready as I’ll ever be on no-hours sleep. Did you see one of the vics was celebrating his birthday? Some birthday present, right?”

O’Grady shook his head.

Trip sighed at the comment. His mouth sagged as he ran his hand over his sleek, shiny head, adorned with nothing but moisturizer.

“The guy had to be psychotic, or schizophrenic, or something with crazy in the subtitle. If we don’t find out which, we’re not getting the weekend off. Like the Sarge said,
Average Joe needs a reason for these things to feel safe at night
. I need the reason cause I got plans for the weekend. And they don’t involve work.”

O’Grady actually didn’t mind if he worked weekends. What else would he do? Outside of the job, he had little to occupy his time. No wife, few friends. What was left of his family were all out on the coast.

Trip continued to muse aloud on the case and why Benson would go crazy in
that
particular restaurant. O’Grady’s partner talked a great deal, most of the time speaking out loud what seemed was every idea that floated through his mind. The fact O’Grady only responded every now and then didn’t seem to faze Trip.

O’Grady preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. After what happened to his brother, he’d learned zipping it was a safer way to live. The less people knew about you, the better. After three years as partners, Trip knew only as much as O’Grady cared to reveal. His partner seemed content with that. More opportunity for Trip to talk, O’Grady figured.

As they exited the building, they passed the arriving day shift staff. O’Grady threw out a few hellos and nodded to others. Mostly he kept his head down to avoid engagement. Trip smiled and greeted everyone who passed them.