Page 7 of She Gives Love a Bad Name

Chapter Three

Grant

Upper East Side...twovictims...white male, age fifty-two...white female, age forty-seven...multiple abrasions and contusions...evidence of a struggle...both found with throat slit...forced entry and robbery confirmed...no evidence of sexual assault to either victim...no witnesses.

“Shit.” I close the file and toss it aside. It’s been eight months since the first case hit my desk, and I’m no closer to connecting the handful of unsolved murders plaguing the city.

I run my hand through my hair and groan at the ache in my shoulders before opening the second file to scan the contents.

Harlem...one victim...black male, age forty...gunshot to the chest...forced entry and robbery confirmed...no evidence of sexual assault, no witnesses.

It’s similar across the remaining three files. There’s no pattern in the relationship between the victims or the location of the thefts. Totally random. The only connection shared across five cases is that what started as a burglary ended with murder. Not a single cop in the city believes these cases are related.

Except me.

I rub my thumb into my temple and reach for the top drawer of my desk where I stash pain pills. Pouring two into my palm, I grimace at the possibility that I’m chasing a figment of my imagination. After swallowing the pills, I wash them down with the cold coffee in my mug. The bitter taste lingers in my mouth, and I shudder.

“How’s it going, Richards?” Mickey collapses in his chair on the other side of our two back-to-back desks. He glances at the files spread out before me. “You still looking for connections?”

I nod.

We’ve been partners for a few years, but I’ve known him since we went through the academy together. He works hard and holds up his end. I’m thankful for that, but he doesn’t believe me. Not about this.

“You sure there’s something here?” He arches a ginger brow when I shrug. “Half those cases aren’t even ours to worry about.”

“Yeah, I know...but I got this feeling.” My fingers drum on the desk, mirroring my agitation. “They’re connected, Mickey. I know it.”

“You need to find yourself a woman.” He scoffs. “All work and no play makes you a pain in the ass. Maybe if you got laid, you’d relax.”

My mood darkens at his statement. “I tried that, remember? It made shit worse.”

“I didn’t tell you to run off and get married to the first blonde who winked in your direction.”

I glower at him and say nothing. My ex was a mistake. A big-breasted, unfaithful, expensive mistake. Thoughts of her do nothing to improve my sour mood.

“Look, I’m just saying maybe you need to take a break. Find something outside of work to distract you.” He leans forward on his elbows, concern glinting in his eyes. “This job will chew you up and spit you out if you let it.”

“I just can’t help but think this is another Son of Sam situation.” I shake my head. “There’s a connection here. I just need to find it. Or find someone who saw something.”

“You sure you’re not just looking for something to keep your mind busy?” Mickey leans back in his chair.

I am. But he doesn’t need to know that.

Truth is, something about these cases bothers me. I just can’t put my finger on it. I had hoped my thief-turned-informant would have something for me, but I haven’t heard from her. She vanished into the wind. Which means one of two things—either she wised up and got out of the game or she hasn’t gotten caught again.

An unsavory third option leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I shake my head.

“You going to the pub tonight?” Mickey stands and pulls on his coat. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“No, thanks. I need to get some shit done before I head home.”

“Suit yourself.” He waves. “I’ll see ya around.”

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