Your complimentary bonus story
Walking A Thin Line
Chapter 1
ALICIA
“Coffee?”
“Oh God, yes.” I snatched a cup from the tray, cradling it against my chest, enjoying the warmth as it seeped through my fingers.
“Tough day, Alicia?” my former partner asked, walking toward the edge of my desk in his usual, nonchalant manner. “Then again, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you relax and we’ve been working together for what, five years now? You’re going to give yourself a heart attack or something if you don’t slow down.” He poked my arm in a playful manner, trying to get me to crack a smile.
“Not everyone can be as carefree as you, Bill.”
“Who said I’m carefree? I have two little girls at home. They certainly are a handful.” He sat down at the desk in front of me. “Alright, spill it, what’s got you so worked up?”
“H.P. Emulsion.”
“He’s back at it again?”
I nodded solemnly, “He sent us another envelope this morning.”
“Have you opened it?”
I shook my head. “I sent it down to the lab to check for fingerprints.”
Bill gave me a reprimanding look as if I was one of his daughters. “You know you’re not going to find anything. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. He’s been doing this for months and he’s not going to slip up now.”
“You don’t know that. And I’d much rather waste a little bit of time than figure out later that I contaminated valuable evidence. Besides, it’s protocol.”
“You always were a stickler for following the rules, Alicia.” He sipped his coffee, “Yuck. I’m starting to think they’re legitimately putting liquid dirt in the coffee machine.”
I narrowed my eyes in his direction. “Don’t be so dramatic. The coffee is bad, but it can’t be that bad.” I said before taking a swig.
It was piping hot. So hot that it nearly burned my tongue. “Ow…” I mumbled, setting it down on top of some folders. My desk was so cluttered that there wasn’t even enough space for the cup. The unleveled surface soon caused the cup to topple over. Suddenly, it spilled everywhere, including on my lap.
I jumped up, trying to save the documents on my desk. If I got coffee on my police reports, I would be stuck in this office doing paperwork until Christmas – and it was July.
As I was frantically trying to salvage the situation, I heard Bill stifle a chuckle. “Don’t think I can’t hear you. Make yourself useful and go get some paper towels,” I snapped at him, my cheeks already bright red.
A few other officers were looking my way, hiding their laughter.
Great, now I was the laughing stock of the precinct. That’s exactly what I needed.
I didn’t even like coffee.
“Detective Fox?”
I whipped around to see the chief standing in front of me, a stern expression on his face. He was holding the H.P. Emulsion envelope in his hands. “Rough morning, I take it?”
“Just a little accident…” I said, clearing my throat, trying to look professional, even though my white blouse now had a giant, brown coffee stain. Quickly, I buttoned up my blazer and crossed my arms over my chest, feeling awkward.
“I see.”
“Here’s the paper towels you asked for. Maybe don’t ogle at me so hard next time and we wouldn’t have this problem,” Bill teased in his usual fashion.
“Am I interrupting something?” the chief asked, his foot lightly tapping against the floor. It was one of his ticks. He was definitely not amused. Leave it to Bill to get me in trouble… Maybe that’s why we weren’t partners anymore and why I had decided to go undercover by myself.
“Of course not, Harold,” Bill smirked. “You know I just like to have a bit of fun with Alicia here.” He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and squeezed me against his chest. “After all, she was like my second wife for a few years.”
“I’ve had enough of his nonsense!” the chief’s voice boomed through the precinct. Silence settled in the room. My heart thumped in my chest. Sweat dripped down my neck. I had come face to face with some of the worst criminals in the city through my line of work, but Commissioner Prescott was always the scariest.
“Yes, sir,” Bill said quickly before shuffling behind his desk, pretending to work on some reports.
“Fox. In my office.”
I nodded, following him into the small, cluttered room he called an office. I sat down on the worn-out leather chair in front of his desk, my hands on my knees, feeling the anxiety wrap around my chest, making it hard to breathe.
“You’ve been on the H.P. Emulsion case for almost six months now. Do you have any leads?”
I gulped down the rock that had formed in my throat. Overall, my success rate as a detective was pretty high. I had booked plenty of bad guys, picking up the tiniest clues until I finally got to them. Some of my co-workers had even started nicknaming me Holmes. I was just doing my job.
But then came H.P. Emulsion. He was like no other criminal. He was sophisticated. Smart. Cunning. For months he had alluded me, keeping me up at night, driving me to the point of insanity. I had to find and stop him, even if it was the last thing I ever did.
“No, sir,” I finally answered, my mouth feeling dry.
“Well, the lab came back negative for prints. We might as well open it. As we both know, time is of the essence.” He pushed the envelope in my direction.
Carefully, I picked it up, sliding my finger under the seal, breaking it with ease. H.P. Emulsion always used the same exact envelopes. Our team had already tried to pinpoint any retailers, but it was a rather common item, sold in over twenty stores in Hyannis alone. Sure, we could go to each one and interrogate the employees, but we honestly had no idea if H.P. Emulsion bought them locally, outside the city, or if he ordered them online. It was just one of the many dead-end trails I found in the pursuit of the notorious serial killer.
“Detective Fox?” the commander’s voice broke me out of my semi-trance.
“Sorry.” I composed myself before sliding out the photograph I knew would be in the envelope.
“Ricky Montague.”
I nodded, agreeing with my commander, “Seems to be Emulsion’s next target.”
“I don’t get it,” he continued, getting up and pacing around the room. As he looked out a small window, he ran his hands over his bald head. “There seems to be absolutely no pattern to his targets. One week he might kill a well-known criminal, but the next, it’s some random prostitute. What’s his motive?”
I had been asking myself that same question for months.
What’s his motive?
“Sir, let me find Montague. We both know he’ll be down by the West Side.”
“You think he’ll let you take him in willingly?”
“He might if he knows there’s a hit on him.”
“There’s always someone trying to kill him. He won’t buy it. He’ll think you’re trying to take him into custody.”
“Maybe I should. We have more than enough to convict him on drug charges alone. At least if he’s in a holding cell, Emulsion can’t get to him.”
“You can try. But be careful out there.”
I nodded, “I will, sir.”
***
The West Side was the poorest part of the city. Houses were crumbling to the ground. Kids played on the street, wearing tattered and dirty clothes they got from the Salvation Army. Most men sat on street corners, taking swigs from brown paper bags.
A few suspicious eyes watched my car as I cruised along, looking for signs of the Red Crosses.
Finally, I noticed a group of men huddled in a circle, passing around a joint. Tied to their jeans were red bandanas, showing off their allegiance.
I parked my car and got out, a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I knew it was dangerous to just walk up to these men; that they could open fire at any moment, but I had to find Montague before Emulsion did. I couldn’t let him outsmart me again. I just couldn’t.
One man turned and looked at me. His eyes were bloodshot as he sauntered up to me, acting like he owned the whole world. “What are you doing in these parts, pretty Momma? Don’t you know a girl like you could get hurt?” His face was so close to mine that I could smell the tuna salad he had eaten for lunch.
“I need to see Montague,” I answered, my voice unwavering. After years on the job, there wasn’t much that could unnerve me. Especially not a bunch of teenage kids who thought they were cool by getting high and messing around in gangs. They would all be crying when they found themselves behind bars, becoming someone’s plaything.
“What do you want with the boss?” another boy asked with his hands in his pockets. I could see the faint outline of a gun… or maybe he was just excited to see me.
“Someone’s planning to kill him.” I reached into my jacket, pulling out the picture. “H.P. Emulsion is a serial killer that photographs his victims before he kills them. He never lets them live for more than twenty-four hours after he has sent their picture to the police department.” I glanced at my watch. Eight hours and counting…
“Wait… you’re a cop?” one of them blurted out, his eyes narrowing into tiny slits. “I should’ve known you’re a dirty rat. You smell like one.” He pushed me against the wall, his arm against my throat.
I was just about to fight back when a blood-curdling scream rang through the air.
Everyone froze.
Seconds later, a scantily-dressed prostitute came running out of an alleyway, flailing her arms about. Her ankles nearly buckled as she attempted to run in her unpractically high heels.
I used the distraction to escape the man’s hold, running up to the woman. “What happened?”
“I… I was going in there for a smoke… saw this guy just lying there…” she trailed off, running her fingers through her dirty blonde hair. She started to pace around, mumbling to herself in a thick Boston accent.
“Ma’am,” I placed my hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. “Please. I need to know what happened.”
“See for yourself!” she pointed to the alleyway. “I think I’m going to be sick…”
“Please, stay here. I’m going to have to ask you a few more questions.”
She nodded, sitting down on a nearby bench.
I watched her, making sure she wouldn’t book it before I grabbed my phone, dialing the precinct. I was definitely going to need backup. It took a lot to scare a prostitute on this side of town.
Carefully, I tiptoed into the alleyway, my gun at the ready. As I rounded the corner, I spotted a body. A man was lying in a pool of blood, a bullet hole through his forehead.
I couldn’t remember hearing a gunshot, which meant whoever did this had used a silencer.
Using the flashlight on my phone, I examined the victim, but it wasn’t hard to see that it was Ricky Montague.
On his chest was a small photograph, taken by a Polaroid camera. It was a picture of the deceased, right after his death.
This could only be the work of one man.
H.P. Emulsion.