Page 4 of So Bleak

How could anyone think that Dr. Franklin West was anything like that dumb dipshit Ramirez? Dr. West was the kind of man who came along once in a lifetime, maybe even less often than that. He wasn’t like the Night Stalker. He was more like the Zodiac Killer or Jack the Ripper, a legend who inspired terror in the hearts of everyone who heard his name.

Except those killers had never been caught. West had been caught because of that bitch, Faith Bold.

It wasn’t fair. A man like West shouldn’t have fallen victim to some stupid FBI agent and her stupid dog.

It wasn’t fair.

But she would get them back. She would avenge West.

“For you, my love,” she whispered.

She stiffened when she realized she’d said that out loud. Damn it, she needed to be more careful.

She left the dumpster and headed to her car. She’d find the cheapest TV Walmart sold and when she returned, she would make her plan.

Count your days, Faith Bold. West will still break you.

CHAPTER THREE

Faith sighed in frustration as she pulled out of the parking lot and switched the radio on. News radio was once more spouting off about how West resembled past serial killers.

In fairness, the news radio show was talking about likely similarities in the upcoming trial rather than the killings. That irritated her, too, but it was easier to swallow than comparing West to the media's favorite celebrity killers. Some degree of media theatrics was expected in a high-profile case like this one.

"While he was incarcerated during the trial, jail employees heard Ramirez plan to kill the prosecutor with a gun he'd get from an ally in the courtroom," one of the panelists said.

“Yeah. They put in a metal detector and even searched the lawyers,” another replied.

“Is this something West is likely to plan?”

“Sure, but it’s unlikely to have much success. The screening process for this case will be far beyond anything we’ve ever seen. West is a sly one, but I don’t see him having any more success than Ramirez did.”

“Damn it!” Faith shouted, quickly turning the volume back down. She’d intended to change the station but had moved the wrong button. She turned the radio off instead. She felt like ripping it right out of the car and throwing it on the ground.

Turk instantly came to alert, barking and growling and staring out the window, searching for the threat. She sighed and patted his flanks. “Sorry, boy. Mommy just got upset at the radio.”

Turk looked at her, then looked at the radio. He seemed confused, but he growled a warning at the offending box anyway. She laughed and patted him again. “It’s okay, boy. I turned it off.”

Turk barked once at the radio, as though warning it to stay down, then settled back into the passenger chair. She grinned at him. “You’re the best dog ever. You know that?”

He gave her a slightly incredulous look. Well, duh, mom.

She laughed again and scratched him behind the ears.

In four-hundred feet, turn left.

Faith frowned at her radio. She thought she had turned it off, but if she hadn’t, then why was it giving her directions? She drove a 2009 Crown Victoria, and while it was a far cry more modern than the venerable ’96 Crown Vic it replaced, it wasn’t equipped with navigation.

Turn left, then you will arrive at your destination.

She felt a vibration on her left leg and realized that she was hearing her phone. She had looked up directions to the restaurant when she left her apartment and forgotten to turn the navigation software off.

Her cheeks burned, and she was glad David wasn’t here to see that. She would never hear the end of it. Faith Bold: thirty-four, eleven-year veteran of the FBI, detective extraordinaire, doesn’t understand how smart phones work.

She pulled into the parking lot and found a spot near the entrance.

You have arrived.

“Thank you, Google Maps,” she said drily.

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