Catch a Killer by Kris Rafferty

Author:Kris Rafferty
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-04-11T11:17:59+00:00

Chapter 11

Her case was breaking wide open. No, Jack’s case was breaking wide open. She’d lost control of this case because she’d become a target. Apparently, because Jack pretended to die. The repercussions of his mistake kept hitting her. It wasn’t fair.

Hannah consoled herself that she was still on the case, not sidelined because of her impatience at the yacht, so that was good. Still… Life had become a game of give and take. Jack was alive. Yay! Hannah wanted to kill him. Boo. New leads coming in fast and furious. Yay! But she wasn’t leading the case. Boo. Jack was alive and seemed happy to be an instant dad. Yay! Try as she might, she couldn’t find a boo to counterbalance that yay.

“So, Deming.” Hannah rubbed her face, trying to wipe stress from her expression. “What now? The killer failed. Will he escalate or back off and regroup? Or am I right? Jack’s alive. I’m safe.”

Ferguson bristled with impatience, pacing behind his desk. “She doesn’t have a crystal ball, Hannah. Charlie’s report on the bomb should tell us about this guy’s intent. Maybe we’re looking at a prepper, a vet, maybe a disgruntled ex-cop.”

“Who likes poetry?” Vivian said.

“Charlie’s report”—Ferguson stopped pacing to scowl at Vivian—“will be based on measurable intel, will lead us in the right direction with facts, not voodoo psychology. Sorry, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the last thing Hannah should do is assume she’s safe.”

“Hear, hear,” Gilroy said. Hannah scowled at the bald man. She didn’t know much about him, but from what she’d gleaned from the short time she’d been around him, he was a stick-in-the-mud. Gloom and doom.

Hannah caught the profiler’s attention. “Deming?”

“Vivian,” Deming said, “the perp is using poetry. Doesn’t mean he likes it.” Then she shrugged. “I agree with Gilroy.”

“You mean me.” Ferguson narrowed his eyes at her. The profiler ignored him.

“Our guy lacks a signature,” Deming said. “To conclude that you’re safe, Hannah, would be insane. The way he kills is different every time. Odds are we’re looking at two possibilities. He freaks and comes at you with everything he’s got—”

“Not what a planner would do,” Jack said.

“No, but he’s never failed to kill his intended target,” Deming said. “Not that we know of, anyway. It might push him into doing something rash. That’s my point. We don’t have enough information to predict his behavior.” Deming wrapped her hair into a scrunchie. “I’m beat and my brain isn’t working anymore, but having said that, yeah, you’re right. If you don’t fit his guidelines for a kill, you’re safe.”

“If,” Gilroy said, “she’s right. We can’t know for sure what motivates this guy until we catch him.”

“Poetry.” Ferguson sneered, kicking his desk before sitting down again. “Why couldn’t it have been a good Grisham book? Are you sure the perp isn’t a chick?”

“The poem was written by William Blake,” Hannah said. “A man. Men have written most poems in existence.”

“If we don’t include Anonymous.” Deming winked at Ferguson. “And female serial killers are rare.

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