Page 64 of Vicious Hearts

My phone buzzes in my pocket. A message from Roxy.

Graham attacked Oliver and left. No idea where he is now.

I dash off a quick reply.

Stay where you are. Don't try the prison again. Whoever has been drugging Farraday might be willing to kill him.

What a fuckingmess. It's no wonder I didn't work it out—how many psychos are in this? At least three, including me.

Hillard's desk is cluttered. Nothing stands out. It's just piles of paper. On the walls are photos in frames and Hillard's awards for excellence, going back to the start of his career.

I thought he was a clean cop, and so did everyone else. Is he just a narcissistic bastard with enough power to hide in plain sight? It fits the profile well enough. I said the killer would be self-obsessed and grandiose, concerned with his unique wants and needs, and unable to perceive other people as human beings. Whether Hillard is the killer or just covering for Graham to save himself, it takes a special kind of self-adoration to feel justified.

One of the pictures on the wall catches my eye. I'm unsure what drew me to it, but I can't look away.

It's Hillard and Graham Fisher in black tie, standing in front of a Fisher Pharma ad board. It looks like a hotel foyer. A corporate event.

So they know each other quite well. No surprise there. That tells me nothing.

I can't stop looking, though. It's as though I've seen the picture before, but where?

Hillard.

Graham Fisher.

Fisher Pharma.That garish red logo of holding hands inside a cross. I've seen it. It appears on pill bottles and –

Shipping containers. I've seen it on a shipping container. Why?Where?

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Come on come on come on come on –

A crime scene photo. The final victim was wedged under a jetty at Port Jersey. Found without her fingers, just like the rest.

Simon Farraday told police where to find the body, and the fingers were in his house.

My profile said the killer would need privacy and plenty of space, most likely a large private home. Fisher Pharma ships medicines by the ton, stopping all along the coast.

I remember seeing it. Fisher Pharma in the background of the crime scene photo, on the side of a shipping crate.

Could The Dollmaker really have used a shipping container as a portable cell for his victims?

That's just fucked-up enough to be true. After all, Graham's house was searched repeatedly when his son went missing, and he always has visitors. The company presumably has any number of commercial properties he could use to hide his activities, but they wouldn’t be private enough.

He's a devious bastard, but the urge to show off might be his undoing. He dumped his final victim yards away from his lair, presumably so he could revel in his own cleverness. It's the sort of thing I might do in the same situation.

I snatch the picture from the wall and smash the frame on the desk, pocketing the photo.

Time to end this.

* * *

It seems to take forever to get to the port. I hit several red lights but went through every one of them.

At least one person is gonna die today. Hillard, Graham, me—who can say? But Roxy is gonna make it even if I don't. She's safely behind closed doors with my best friends. Good people that I don't even deserve.

Get angry, go on a rampage, and regret it later. You'd think I'd learn.

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