Kate wasn't surprised when Captain Jeffries called her into his office. It was just that kind of week. He looked at her over the top of his glasses as she sat down across from him. Dr. Freud, ready to start his analysis. She could have given him some fun delusions to work with, but she kept quiet and tried to look contrite.
"Lockley," he said, "you told me you could handle this."
"I still believe I can, sir."
"Do you?" His brow furrowed. "First you're here all day and night, not that you work with anyone, then you ditch for an hour with no explanation. You're not stupid. You've got to realize that you're acting—"
"Hysterical?" She regretted the barb as soon as it passed her lips. Jeffries wasn't a bad guy. One of the old guard, sure, but unlike her father, he at least tried to keep up with the times.
"Erratic. I've seen this before. Plenty of times, plenty of cops. You all just like to pretend it's business as usual." He turned to his computer and cleared his throat. "I'm just glad the psycho's off the streets. Best closure there is."
For a second Kate didn't recognize his words. Then it hit her: he was quoting from her psych evaluation, the one they'd made her sit through after Penn abducted her. That had been a tough role to play. They'd believed a man had threatened her, and she'd killed him, simple as that, and she'd tried to shape her trauma to match. "Thought that was supposed to be confidential," she said.
"I only have the highlights. Looks like you didn't say much." His eyes met hers. "This must be a nightmare for you, seeing it happen again."
"It's just a copycat."
"Sure. And back then it was just an incident in the line of duty." He shook his head. "But I'm not your shrink, Kate. I'm your captain, and I'm telling you to go home and get some sleep. Come in tomorrow afternoon. You're off the case."
She'd prepared herself for this, but it still stung. "Sir—"
"That's an order. Fight it, and I'll start thinking about suspension."
Suspension might be the better option. No way could she go into work the next day and return to the ordinary cases, the paperwork, the brutal bullshit people did to each other. She kept her face blank as she nodded. "Yes, sir."
. . .
Kate packed up the books and papers she'd collected on Angelus. She didn't trust her X-files to the computer system. Weird, how little the captain's order hurt. A year ago—a few months—being a good detective had meant everything to her. Tonight she had bigger concerns. Jeffries had been right about one thing: she needed more sleep if she wanted to keep functioning. But there was still time for one last casing of the crime scene. Now that she knew some non-vampire had helped Angelus, she might pick up on evidence unrelated to sunlight and sewer entrances.
The descent into the station's parking garage made her tense, and she kept one hand clenched around a vial of holy water. Angelus could be waiting anywhere in the shadowed space or outside in the night. She made it into her car, the doors locked, and the engine started. One step closer to the grave, maybe, but at least she wasn't in it yet.
The drive went by in a blur. They'd removed the cordon on the crime scene early that morning, but the place was empty now. It was a corporate garage, and all the commuters had cleared out hours ago. Parked close to where they'd found the body, Kate forced herself to pick up her phone and dial. If something happened, she'd regret not making the call.
Her father answered on the third ring. "Katie."
"Dad. Hi." She bit her lip. "Look, there's something—"
"I know about the case." That old sigh in his voice, like it tired him out just to speak with her. His old buddies were probably laughing about his dysfunctional daughter.
"Right." She steeled herself. "I just called to ask for one thing. Promise me you won't let anyone in your apartment in the next few days. Strangers, I mean. And Angel."
"Angel? That guy you're seeing?"
She almost laughed. "Ugly breakup."
"You know, I'm not senile yet. I still have my gun."
"Just promise me."
A few seconds passed in silence. "Sure. I'll be careful." He spoke more gently than usual. It was the tone cops used on trauma victims.
He might still keep her warning in mind. "Thanks," she said. "Have a good night."
"You too."
She shoved her phone into her pocket, checked her weapons, and stepped out of the car. The fluorescent lights buzzed high above, and her breath scissored through her chest. Here Angel had sucked the life out of Leila Parks. A performance staged for Kate's benefit. She tried to focus on the facts of it. It was most likely that he, or they, had used the sewers. The security footage showed nobody entering or leaving the garage around the approximate time of death. But the camera coverage wasn't perfect. She decided to start with the basics, pacing the perimeter and working her way in.
Nothing stood out at first. As she rose up a level from the basement, she began to doubt her own motives. She was walking around one of the most dangerous places in the city for no specific reason. Maybe she just wanted to force a confrontation—a confrontation she'd obviously lose. Maybe she blamed herself for not killing Angel when she had the chance. Then something clicked. A small patch of gray paint on the concrete wall beside her shone in the light. It was a simple graffiti cover-up, nothing significant, except that she'd seen the same thing on the other garage walls she'd passed.
She increased her pace and made her way through the garage. The gray paint didn't appear on any of the higher levels, just the four walls closest to the ground, and on those the patches were positioned at the walls' exact midpoints. The paint must have already been in place when the police arrived, or else the graffiti would have been photographed and booked. It might mean nothing. She could be grasping at straws, so sleep-deprived that her paranoia had kicked into overdrive. But from her experience, graffiti artists didn't care much for precise measurements or places that nobody but some office drones would see.
In front of the patch on the south basement wall, Kate pulled out her pocketknife. It took long, tedious minutes to chip away the top layer of paint. When she was finished, she sat back on her heels for a minute and squinted at what she'd uncovered. It wasn't a message. It wasn't written in blood or anything else remotely menacing. It looked like a squiggle of black spray paint.
She took a photo of it and moved on. Underneath the other three patches, she found the exact same shape. Either she'd wasted plenty of time on somebody's stupid joke, or this was some magic garbage that she was enormously underqualified to handle.
Time was edging towards midnight, and the garage seemed to have given up all its secrets. Kate barricaded herself in her car and headed home. She debated who to call about the graffiti. Angel's pair of friends had told her pretty firmly to keep herself out of the case—to stay safe, as if she could—and she didn't know if she could trust them to remain objective about what had to be done. But she had no other real options. Better the teenager and the dork than the Wolfram and Hart goon, though she still kept his card in her wallet.
At her apartment building, she took the stairs. They gave the illusion, at least, of an escape route. She was out of breath by the time she reached the sixth floor. Despite everything that had happened at the station, she felt like she was moving forward. At least she'd survived another day. As soon as she was inside her apartment, she decided, she'd call Wesley. He couldn't be sleeping all that well himself.
She turned a corner in the empty hallway, and her door came into view. Something lay on the floor in front of it. A bouquet of red roses. For a moment she froze where she stood. Move, she told herself. He wouldn't kill her yet. It was just one step in his game.
Her hands trembled as she pulled out her key, but she managed to open her apartment door and step inside. From the slight safety of the doorway, she bent down and examined the bouquet. "For my dear Kate," the card read, "from your loving Angel."