Boston Blues - BLACKBIRD book 2

8. early consult

Gillian disconnected, not feeling quite right about what she'd just done. She'd spoken as if she were positive, and it wasn't true. It wasn't right, gambling lives on pride. Well, not pride, but rather the opposite. It wasn't pride what kept her from calling Brock—actually calling Russell to ask Brock's number—but being awkwardly aware that Brock didn't like her. However, it was a personal issue, so she texted Russell, not knowing if he was awake.

Her friend was already up, and scoffed at reading her text: "Mulder around? Need to ask him something."

Russell's call caught Brock in the bathroom, shaving. He scowled, surprised at his question, but said, "Send me her number, I'll call her."

It was Gillian's turn to be surprised when, not a minute after texting Russell, her phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number. Brock's cold voice at the other end of the line caused her a chill, as if a gust of the freezing January breeze had sneaked into the quiet office.

"Lieutenant, it's Brockner. Coleman told me you needed to talk to me," he said, his phone on speaker by the sink as he kept on shaving.

Gillian forced herself not to stutter an apology, and automatically felt stupid as usual, and blushed. Damn, she hated this man for turning her into a dumb rookie with a simple greeting. Yet she found a way to hide it and speak in her usual firm, plain way.

"Yes, sir, good morning. Sorry to bother you this early. It's about what you said yesterday about my case, the hired gun taking down—"

"Dealers, yes, I remember. Two down, two to go."

"Exactly. You mentioned a pattern. Can physical proportions make one?"

Brock paused to frown at himself in the mirror, considering her question. It would be rare for a professional assassin, but not impossible.

"What do you mean, Lieutenant?" he asked, looking down at his phone.

Gillian didn't feel comfortable at all, elaborating one of her 'crazy theories' for him. But she had to if she wanted to know what he thought about it.

"There's no progression in ages or alphabetical order, nor in neighborhoods. I can only see two options here: he's taken down white males, leaving an African-American young man and a white woman for last. If there's a pattern, I have no idea if he's gonna stick to gender or race. The other option is physical proportions: he took out the tallest and fittest and his friend first, and then the next one in that progression, alone."

"And what makes you think this is the one?" he asked, truly curious to know.

"The reduction of violence. With the first victim, the subject attacked at a friend's house, killed them both and staged it to look like they killed each other."

"You don't think they did."

"Everything looks too neat to be true. But with the second victim, he attacked at his target's place, took his time and didn't apply any direct physical violence."

"You mean the subject went for what he thought the hardest target on his list first. To clear the way and make sure he'd be able to complete the job."

"Exactly, sir." Stupid bitter man, he was so frigging brilliant. Two words from her and he'd seen the whole picture.

Brock finished shaving and washed his face, thinking about it. Gillian waited, hearing the little noises he made at the other end of the line. Maybe his silence meant that he didn't agree.

"It would point to a physically small subject," he said then.

She gawked at the board. That had never crossed her mind, yet now that he'd mentioned it, it turned out to be lousily obvious.

Brock went back to his room, and left the phone on the chest of drawers to stand before the mirror and fasten his tie. A part of his mind was aware of how fluent the dialog flowed, acknowledging he didn't expect it. This time wasn't like that lunch back in November, when she was full of questions. This was a smooth brainstorm. They were thinking aloud together, to force notions and gut feelings into language structures and give them a more-defined shape.

"You mean he applied direct physical violence with the first victim to subdue him and his friend before they could resist?" she asked.

"And only applied a promise of violence with the second victim. Most likely a threat with a hand weapon to back it up."

"Anyway, he dared to hit someone else's apartment, and successfully controlled not one but two men."

"The other man, was he fit?"

Gillian smirked—elementary, Watson. "No, he was smaller than the dealer."

"So you think now he's going for the only man left and leaving the woman for last."

"Yes. Does it make any sense, sir?"

Brock frowned at her question. "Why wouldn't it?"

"I don't know, sir. I don't think I have enough elements to be so sure."

"But you have your observations and your experience." It was so odd, somebody like her showing doubts openly. And him, taking a reassuring role with her. They actually sounded like a teacher encouraging a promising student.

"Yeah, guess so," she muttered.

"The other dealers are being watched?"

"Yes, and I think the killer's not waiting two more days. I'm sure he's already spotted the tails, so he will strike right tonight."

"That figures."

Gillian just nodded, eyes still on the board, pondering what they'd said. Brock's silence made her snap out of it.

"Thank you so much, sir. I really appreciate you taking the time for this. It's been most helpful. Have a nice day, sir."

"You too, Lieutenant," he managed to reply, a little surprised at the abrupt way she ended the conversation.