Page 63 of The Butterfly Killer

Usually, it was Mercer who noticed the signs first. He could see when Burns was investing himself a little too much into a case or was empathizing with victims a little too much. Understanding people was certainly an excellent quality to have in their line of work, but when it started to cross personal boundaries, that was when judgment became cloudy.

Burns was susceptible and that was why Mercer believed they made a great partnership. Mercer helped to regulate Burns’s martyr tendencies and Burns…well, he helped Mercer not destroy bridges with his less than palpable personality.

This all lead to Mercer letting Burns tire himself out over research. It was certainly much better to supervise the obsession he was currently going through. It was going to happen either way and Mercer would rather Burns do it under his watch. He didn’t know what he would do if Burns got in too deep, but he wasn’t against physical restraint.

Something stirred within him at the thought of tying Burns up. He adjusted in the uncomfortable wooded chair, turning the now lukewarm cup of coffee in his hand. Burns didn’t glance up from the book he was flipping through.

“If you’re tired, you can go back to your hotel.”

Mercer thought about that, but he wouldn’t be going alone. Then he thought about Burns tied up on his hotel bed, spread eagle like an offering.

“I can handle myself. Did you forget Albany?”

Burns gave a tired snort as he leaned back in his chair. He wiped a hand over his face as he smiled. “I swear you were on drugs.”

He stretched and yawned. His shirt, which he’d untucked from his pants, rose to expose a bit of skin. Mercer’s eyes darted to the flesh.

“I wasn’t,” Mercer spoke though he was half paying attention. “Needless to say, I can stay awake for days with the right amount of caffeine.”

Burns rolled his eyes. “And still look good doing it. Have you done your daily child sacrifice yet?”

It was Mercer’s turn to snort. He drank the rest of his coffee though it tasted ten times as awful than when it was piping hot, burning all his tastebuds and making the beverage tolerable. He sat it back down, his brows pinching.

“Have you found what you’re looking for?”

He almost expected Burns to make a sound of frustration like he usually did when things weren’t going his way. However, he was met with silence.

Mercer stopped staring at the cup of coffee and shoving thoughts of a naked Burns from his mind as he turned his head.

Burns was scanning two articles, his lips moving as he read them off under his breath. His eyes darted between the two of them, his face becoming more confused the more he read. When he got to the end of one of them, he turned to the other. He read them over and over until Mercer couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Burns. What have you found?”

Burns finally pulled away from the papers. His eyes were the last things to detach themselves. They met Mercer’s. The look in his eyes caught Mercer’s breath in his throat. The pad’s of his fingers pressed hard into the paper cup as he waited for Burns to drop the bombshell on him. He knew it had to be something big to give Burns that look.

It was anger and determination. It was almost akin to the type of darkness Mercer knew dwelled inside himself.

“Take a look.”

Burns pushed the newspapers that had gotten his attention toward Mercer. It took a second for Mercer to look away from Burns’s eyes—he didn’t want to look away at all but he folded.

The articles that had transfixed Burns so much weren’t at all what Mercer expected. The headlines didn’t at all contain what they were looking for, however, all the information was in the side columns or even on the third or fourth page into the newspaper.

“Michael O’Donell dead at sixty-five. Rosie Etenburg dead at thirty-two…just what am I looking at?”

The smile that stretched over Burns’s face was humorless. It was dark, hinting that what he was thinking was going to be gruesome.

“These deaths are announced one month before—wait for it?—”

Burns flipped over another newspaper. The headlines announced the death of a prominent cartel figure. “Killed at approximentally at six am on O’Donell street. His birth name? Michael. And another murder two weeks later. Killed on Etenburn street at two thirty in the afternoon. Nickname? Rosie.”

Mercer took his time reading each paper, soaking up the information. “Well, Burns, you’ve certainly found something.”

A huge grin stretched across Burns’s face. “Good. Because we’ve got reason to believe Mr. Cortez is harboring our suspect.”

Burns flipped the newspaper over to reveal a picture of an older man. Just about everyone—cop and agent alike—knew him. Dante Cortez ran the American side of the Mexican cartel.

And it looked like he was holding a fundraiser.

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