Page 1 of No Surrender
1
VIC
“Since when do serial killers get fan mail?” Homicide detective Vic D’Amato fumed. “How fucked up is that?”
“They don’t just get fan letters; they get marriage proposals,” his partner Ross Hamilton replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t get it, but that doesn’t stop it from being true.”
Vic took a slug of coffee from his stained mug and barely kept from grimacing at the bitter taste. Hospitals and police precincts always made the worst java. “I guess it’s like the people who follow all the true-crime podcasts. We get paid to be hip-deep in the worst humanity has to offer, but doing it for fun? People are weird.”
“You’ve been a cop for how long, and you’re just figuring that out now?” Ross teased.
Vic shrugged. “Every time I think that I’ve lowered my expectations too far, reality says—‘Here, hold my beer.’”
“Yeah, well. I’m right there with you on this one.” Ross chuckled. “Have you heard whether you and Simon will have to testify at the trial?”
“Pretty certain. Of all the charges, Fischer shooting Simon is the most ironclad, with plenty of witnesses,” Vic replied. “I’m not in any hurry to be part of the media circus, but I don’t see a way to avoid it.”
“Lucky you—the Slitter trial is shaping up to be the biggest deal Myrtle Beach has had in a long time.”
Vic grew up in a family of cops back in Pittsburgh. For generations, D’Amatos had been proud to serve. His father, brothers, and other relatives were still on the force up north while his sister was studying criminology. But an encounter with something supernatural Vic couldn’t explain had made him unwelcome with the Pittsburgh police. Vic had relocated, started over in Myrtle Beach—and met the love of his life.
“I don’t want to put Simon through what happened the last time,” Vic confided.
“Not sure you’re going to have much choice about it.” Ross finished his coffee and set the cup aside. “The closer we get to the trial date, the more reporters will be angling for a scoop. I’m surprised there haven’t been some camped out in front of the store already.”
“I suspect Simon boosted the wardings against nuisance as well as malice. I tried talking him into going down to Charleston to spend some time with his cousin, but he flat-out refused to leave me here alone during the run-up to the trial.”
“Alone—with me and the captain and the rest of the department, plus a squad of lawyers and witnesses?” Ross joked.
“And not one of you with any magic, in a trial where the killer used spells to help him get away with murder,” Vic answered. “Simon doesn’t want to be in the spotlight—or the crosshairs—but if it comes to that, I don’t doubt he and his friends will come up with ways to protect us.”
Simon Kincaide, Vic’s fiancé, ran Grand Strand Ghost Tours. The boardwalk shop also offered psychic readings and séances, showcasing Simon’s abilities as a psychic medium as well as his knowledge of the spooky side of local history and his background as a former folklore and mythology professor.
When an impasse in the hunt for the Strand Slitter brought the investigation to a standstill more than a year ago, Vic tamped down on his deep skepticism about the paranormal and asked for Simon’s help as a psychic. Their first encounters with each other were prickly, and Vic accepted much of the blame for that since he had doubted Simon’s abilities and hated needing his help.
Simon turned out to be the real deal, and his visions plus the ability to communicate with the ghosts of the Slitter’s victims cracked the case—nearly costing Simon his life. In the year since then, Simon became an official police consultant, working cases with Vic and Ross when a supernatural connection seemed likely. Vic and Simon fell in love and now had a wedding to plan.
“Just because you and the Captain believe in Simon, that doesn’t mean the defense attorneys won’t try to make him—and us—a laughingstock,” Vic warned, voicing one of his fears about the weeks to come as the trial played out in the spotlight. “Remember how the media sensationalized it before?”
“Not like I could forget.” Ross rolled his eyes. “If it wasn’t reporters talking about ‘ghost whisperers,’ it was the holy rollers shrieking about devil worship.”
“Wearein South Carolina,” Vic said.
“I’m more concerned about the way the news has turned William Fischer into some kind of dark rock star,” Captain Hargrove said, walking up to their desks with his coffee. “Like he deserves the attention. This is where copycats come from.”
“Hey, Cap.” Vic looked up. “What’s it like outside? Still got groupies?”
Hargrove glared at Vic and pinched the bridge of his nose as if to forestall a bad headache. “Only you, D’Amato. Yes, your ‘groupie’ reporters are still blocking the sidewalk—which is public property, so we can’t make them go away. I’d suggest going out the back way to avoid most of them when you leave.”
“The last time I tried to sneak out the back, I got shot,” Vic reminded his boss. “So I’ll take my chances parting the crowd.” He glanced at Ross. “Or we could feed Ross some bean burritos and let him plow the road.”
“Pretty sure poison gas is against the Geneva Convention,” Hargrove said with a smirk.
“Hey! I am not that gassy,” Ross protested.
“Yes, you are!” Vic and Hargrove said in unison.
“Remember that stakeout last summer?” Vic asked.
