Page 30 of Cat and Mouse

I'm dead asleep when the doorbell rings, jolting me awake with a start. My brain's a scrambled mess of confusion and dread. Who the hell is ringing my doorbell at this hour?

I groan, rolling out of bed. The old wooden floor's cold beneath my feet, but I barely notice. I shuffle toward the door, rubbing my eyes. I'm still in my pajamas, a far cry from professional attire, but I don't give a damn. I yank the door open, and there it is—a small plain package sitting on the welcome mat. No sign of who left it, just the package and the eerie silence of the night.

I grab the package, my fingers brushing the cardboard. I head back inside, setting the package down on the kitchencounter. My heart's racing again, but this time it's because of the package, not the intrusion.

With trembling hands, I start to open it. The cardboard flaps peel away, and inside, there's a creepy puppet. Its eyes are too big, its mouth twisted into a ghastly grin. It's the sort of thing you see in nightmares, not in real life. I pull out the note beneath it. The message reads, "WRONG verde. Try again."

I toss the puppet aside, my frustration bubbling up. What the hell does Verde mean? And what's wrong with this clue? I glance at the numbers from the earlier crime scene, still scribbled on that piece of paper. I've stared at these numbers until they became just a jumble of digits, but something's got to connect. There's a pattern here I'm missing, I just know it.

"Come on, think!" I mutter, pacing around the kitchen. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I need to crack this code, figure out what's next. I keep mulling over the numbers—4739 2184 1093. They've got to mean something, and I can't let this bastard outsmart me.

After what feels like hours of staring, a thought strikes me. What if these numbers are for something practical? Like a storage unit. It's a long shot, but I pick up my phone and start dialing.

The storage unit place downtown isn't too far from here. It's a nondescript building, just rows of metal doors and a security guard who barely looks up from his newspaper. I pull up and flash my badge.

"I'm looking for a storage unit registered under Leonardo Moretti."

The guard's eyebrows shoot up. "Moretti? That's unusual."

"Yeah, well, I'm here on business," I snap, trying to keep my irritation in check. "Can you just check the records?"

He reluctantly flips through the register, his eyes scanning the names. "Unit 319," he says finally. "That's registered to Elizabeth Moretti."

I nod, heading toward the unit. The door's heavy, and the lock is cold against my fingers. I pull it open and step inside, flicking on the light. It's a small space, dusty and dim. The first thing I see are files stacked neatly on a metal shelf. I walk over, feeling a pang of curiosity mixed with unease. I start flipping through the files, and sure enough, they're police clearance files for cases from Milwaukee.

On top of the files is a phone. I pick it up, my fingers brushing over the screen. No missed calls, no texts—just one number saved in the contacts. I tap it and hold the phone to my ear, my heart thudding as it rings.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end is cold, mocking. It sends a shiver through me that I can't ignore. The Phantom.

"Who the hell is this?" I demand, trying to keep my voice steady.

"It's a pleasure to hear your voice, Elizabeth," he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I'm talking as a little compensation for what you went through in Milwaukee. Consider it a token of my appreciation."

"Appreciation? What the hell does that mean?" I snap. "I'm not interested in whatever sick game you're playing. I'm busy hunting a serial killer."

"Oh, really?" he chuckles. "You're hunting me, but I don't feel like you're putting in enough effort."

My jaw clenches. "Why did you kill Robert Marshall tonight?"

"An answer for an answer," he says, amusement lacing his voice. "You first. What color are your panties?"

I nearly drop the phone. "Are you kidding me? I'm not playing your twisted games."

"Fine, fine," he says, his tone suddenly impatient. "But don't pout. Just tell me."

I run a hand through my hair, my frustration boiling over. "Black." I can hear the growl in his voice, and it only makes me angrier. "Why did you kill the accountant?"

He laughs, a dark, humorless sound. "The bastard was trying to scam me. People have no morals these days."

"Rich coming from a serial killer," I retort, my anger flaring.

"Awful judgmental of you," he says with a chuckle. "I thought you were born and raised Catholic."

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to scream. "What does my religion have to do with anything?"

"Everything," he says, sounding almost pleased. "I've got a soft spot for those who claim to have high moral standards."

I'm done with his games. "Look, I don't care about your personal vendettas. I want answers. You've got files on Milwaukee cases here. What do you want from me?"

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