Boston Blues - BLACKBIRD book 2

6. blurt

"Of course it's your case, Sergeant. We're only here to help. I'm just saying..."

Brock looked up at hearing Russell so annoyed, and saw Sergeant Brown spin around and stalk away.

Russell sighed and counted to ten, to keep himself from going after the man and punching his lights out. Yes, the agents at Augusta agency had warned them that the old sergeant was special, but they didn't expect such a stubborn piece of work. It was plain to see why the agency had asked for assistance from the field office: they were sick and tired of good old Brown and his Jurassic ways.

Russell joined Brock, snorting under his breath.

"He's arresting Roberts," said Brock.

"Of course he is. We should call the man and warn him he's gonna spend some time in prison for nothing."

"Thought Brown had agreed the subject is younger."

"Yeah, well, looks like finding out that Roberts uses Google is enough for him to make'im a suspect."

Brock shook his head. He had already tried to explain to Brown that the subject they were looking for was in his late twenties, and most likely in med school.

Russell poured himself a coffee, still huffing and snorting. "Swear to God that if we were in Massachusetts, I'd call Reg to take over the case and get rid of that damned geezer," he grunted.

Brock raised his eyebrows. Yes, Gillian would certainly accept his profile without question, and work according to it. But then she'd come up with something like auctioning her own kidney on the internet to get the subject. And all of them would end up playing cowboys to save her from being dumped in a tube full of ice—or worse.

Russell's phone buzzed and he picked up right away. "Gosh, it's good to hear your voice!" he said. "I was just saying I wish you were here, working this case with us."

Brock turned back to the files, knowing Russell would take his time on the phone. At least he'd be in a better mood after talking to his friend. They went through their usual chapter of spicy teases, then he told her about their case and asked what she was working on.

"Okay, that's weird," Brock heard him say. "No signature? At either murder scene?" Brock's attention shifted from the files in his hands to his partner's conversation. "But, Reg, no signature is a signature in itself. D'you have any idea who hired him?" Russell sat down at the desk opposite Brock, eyes down. "And what about some of your friendly inmates?" He frowned. "Nothing? That's weird. Pros usually know about each other. Hold that thought..."

He turned to Brock, who looked up at him—giving away that he was actually eavesdropping on Russell's call.

Russell covered his phone and whispered, "Hey, Brock, mind if I put Reg on speaker? Maybe you can give'er some idea to help'er with a case."

Brock nodded, wearing his most distant and blank scowl, as if Gillian could see him. Russell left the phone on the desk between them. "Tell me more about the case, Reg," he said.

At the other end of the line, Gillian waited for her takeout order and didn't notice she was on speaker, so she quickly summed up what she had.

"...so all I can tell is that we're looking for a white male in his early thirties. But that's about it."

"Early thirties?" repeated Russell, and saw Brock's nod, agreeing.

Gillian explained, "Well, he studies and follows his victims, waiting for the best moment to strike. He's organized, patient, and he's a chunk of ice. A younger man wouldn't be so patient and controlled; an older man wouldn't be so quick to get in and out through the fire escape. Obviously a psychopath—and a sadist, to sit and watch people stab each other or drink themselves to death. But that's all... He's pretty much any hit-man around the world. And his keeping pictures of his victims as a trophy doesn't give us any clue about his identity. Tanya is going through street cams' footage, to see if we can find any overlap of cars on the nights of the hits, but those neighborhoods ain't exactly camera-land."

Russell glanced at Brock.

He scowled deeper and took a moment to take in what Gillian had just said. For some weird reason, he always tended to focus on her annoying, reckless, smartass ways, and forget how intelligent she actually was. So her skill to connect the dots and apply what little she knew about profiling ended up coming as a surprise to him every time.

"Is there any pattern to the killings? Age, race, gender... Alphabetical order in the victims' names?" he asked. "Anything to help you figure out which one of the two dealers left will be next?"

There was a silence at the other end of the line, and both Russell and Brock assumed she was thinking about Brock's question.

Actually, she was pressing a hand to her mouth to keep from swearing out loud, as her cheeks and ears blazed up.

Russell frowned when there was no answer. "Reg...?"

Shit! She'd kill Russell for this, slow and bloody! Why didn't he mention she was on speaker and the stupid bitter man was listening!? Shit, shit, shit! One doesn't go around discussing brain surgery when the best surgeon is there! And she'd just blurted all that out like the worst jerk on earth! Gosh, she could so picture Brock's disapproving scowl. And once more she blushed and felt so utterly stupid, and hated his guts, but hated her own guts much, much more.

"I—I gotta go, Russ, call you later," she managed to say, and disconnected.

In Augusta, Russell frowned deeper, muttering, "Okay..."

Brock raised his eyebrows, with the awkward feeling that she'd ended the call so abruptly because of him, even though he couldn't tell why.