Page 30 of Bonded in Death

A lot of breaks, she decided, for an e-man.

And, so far, no medical report on the treatments.

Assuming Morris was with Rossi’s family, she sent him a text.

When you’re done with Rossi’s family, can you request Dr. DeWinter examine the body and the scans—the breaks? I’d like to date them as accurately as possible. Just crossing t’s.

Dallas

Probably chasing the wild goose, she thought.

“And that’s another stupid saying. Why would anyone chase a wild goose?”

Then it hit her.

“Okay, you wouldn’t. So that actually makes sense. Except.” When she caught herself trying to wind it around, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Never mind. I’m chasing the damn wild goose.”

She started a search on the Italian company, Sicurezza Informatica.

From the dates, it looked as if Rossi had gotten in on the ground floor there.

A good-sized company, she discovered, with its base in Rome, satellite offices in Madrid, Naples, Palermo. They offered their security services throughout Europe. Remote or on-site.

The full range, blah blah, for businesses, individuals, corporations, educational facilities.

They maintained a five-star rating.

It looked solid and standard to her eye.

With what was left of her Pepsi, she sat back, put her feet on the desk, and studied her board.

She studied Rossi’s ID shot. A nice, ordinary face, the face of a man who looked as if he enjoyed life, and should’ve had a few more decades of it.

And the crime scene still, of Rossi slumped on the leather seat, mouth agape, eyes red-streaked and bulging. Then the closed fist, the raw knuckles. And the card wedged between the index and middle fingers.

Frowning, she swung her legs to the floor and looked at the ME report again. Was it a coincidence he’d broken those same fingers at some point in his life?

“No, because coincidence is bollocks. You knew him, goddamn it. You knew about those broken fingers, and that means something. Personal, something personal. Using them? Just another little flourish.

“This is hate,” she concluded. “It’s hate. Not rage, not a kill for gain. It’s hate. What did a devoted family man, loyal employee, retired, enjoying his life do to generate hate?”

She put her feet up again. “Wasps sting. Who did you sting, Rossi?”

She closed her eyes a moment.

Hawk—they fly, they hunt. A predator. People say eyes like a hawk, so good vision.

Rabbit? What the hell did a rabbit do? Hop around, eat carrots? But they’re fast, she remembered. A suspect rabbits when they take off.

Fawn? Nothing scary about a fawn. A little deer. Pretty if you went for wildlife. Quiet maybe, looked harmless. Was that it—looked harmless?

People ended up with code names, even nicknames for a reason. Three animals and an insect.

And eight more, including the killer.

Twelve. A team of some sort. It had to be, and most likely with its roots in the Urbans. And, also likely, they’d all be over sixty.

Opening her eyes, she studied the photo of the canister.

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