Chapter One

Streets of New York: Heading To PCD HQ
March 28: 7:32 AM ETA: 36 Minutes and Counting

I hate Mondays. I especially hate Mondays when I am supposed to be at home but instead find myself in the midst of the drudgery that is the rat race—a.k.a. every job-having New Yorker heading to work and every job-seeking New Yorker searching for work in the same area.

After three hours of mulling over the contents of the surprise envelope I had received, reading the same three words again and again in hopes that they would somehow change or erase themselves, I knew that there was no way that I would be able to ignore their existence for an extra day. The images of those nameless face had be ingrained in my memory banks and burned into my corneas, flashing so clearly in my mind's eye when I tried to sleep that the jolt I was given was better than caffeine. And while the imagery was nightmarish enough to give a leading horror director in Hollywood enough material to make his next summer blockbuster a hit, I was more disturbed that I had been chosen to be the person recipient and my benefactor had disappeared immediately after delivery.

All this—coupled with the fact that my boss was an overprotective nut job who would have put me on desk detail for withholding this type of information for twenty-four hours longer than he deemed necessary—had me dressed in what my mother called my serious clothes and on the road by seven.

As usual, the ride to HQ had been smooth sailing until I was only a few miles away. Traffic that moved in baby steps was a common occurrence, one that I was accustomed to being a native, but I still let out my routine string of expletives. Going nowhere anytime soon, I cracked open the window of my sedan and reached blindly for the pack of cigarettes I kept nestled in the middle console. I pulled one of the white sticks out, silently noting that I would need to stop by a convenience store to stock up sometime within the day, and used the car lighter while making a half-hearted promise to quit yet again.

I had started my nicotine addiction my last year of attendance at the academy just around the same time I was granted entrance to places serving alcohol, something to calm the nerves that every cadet feels when they wonder if they will actually receive a position on the force. It was not a habit that I was particularly proud of having nor was it one that I knew would end anytime soon. But with the stresses of living next door to an emotionally broken mother combined with the grotesque nature of my job, I held onto it like a security blanket and wondered often how I had come to be in my twenties before the addiction had hit. After all, no one could say that I had had an easy upbringing and what had made me strong enough to do the work I do would have made a normal person crumble.

My car rolled forward another block and a half before I had to slam on my brakes with enough force that I was propelled forward, a consequence of a damned bike messenger getting too close to my front bumper. Laying on my horn and cursing the boy loud enough that he briefly glanced back at me with scorn, I took another drag of the toxic smoke and momentarily closed my eyes to keep my nerves from being frayed. I was the type of person who drew confidence from minimized danger and the majority of the city's population being on the road with me exceeded the acceptable level of danger in my book. These were the days that I wished driving a car was not in my job description and I wished I had listened when I had been advised to be a writer instead of a cop.

A writer...now that would have been the perfect career for someone like me to fall into. Tap into my creative side, legions of admirers who knew me through my fictional characters, enough flexibility in my schedule to allow time for any hobbies I decided to pursue to flourish and the ability to be a recluse if I so chose. I had even entertained the idea briefly during my first semester of college. However, one forensic science course and a seminar on the pathology of a serial killer put on by the FBI had me revisiting the euphoria I had felt as a teenager helping my crush hunt down the things that go bump in the night. Who would have thought then that I would wind up doing it for a living as an adult?

Snuffing out my cigarette, I was relieved to find that the traffic was beginning to thin as various cars broke away to travel down the many side streets. The tension in my muscles gradually relaxed and I was able to gather the nerves needed to go into HQ to deliver my late night package to not only my boss, but to the brand new partner I had yet to meet.

Partners...I was notorious in the NYPD for my ability to drive them away. I had had six in my decade long career in the force, two since joining up with the PCD. Men with alpha male personalities who drew strength in their ability to getting people to bend to their wills were no match for my caustic personality and the fact that I had the inability to feel threatened. Some were old-fashioned in their thoughts that female partners were on a level below theirs and would let their emotions overrun them on a job. As I had learned at a young age that any type of emotion could be used against you in any type of situation, I rarely deviated from my tough-as-nails persona. The fact that my partners never tended to last past the six-month mark had leant me the Ice Bitch moniker.

My last partner had been wary when he had learned that I would be his final partner before retirement, even more wary than he was when he had learned he was transferring into the PCD. I was no different with him and delivered my scathing sarcasm at regular intervals, hitting below the belt on more than one occasion. A month in, I could tell that he was ready to apply for early retirement but that changed the month after. One bad case, multiple deaths on each side, a bullet in my shoulder, and one perpetrator caught before my partner could be hit had changed his mind. The fact that I had taken him down with the injury I had received had earned his unfailing respect.

That was four years ago and I had to deal with his replacement a day earlier than I wanted in the midst of something I knew would be bigger than all the past cases combined. Thus, beginning the new cycle of chew-them-up-and-spit-them-out.

Whipping into the parking lot and pulling into a space next to a black-and-white, I pulled my auburn hair into a no-nonsense ponytail before grabbing the envelope off the passenger seat and exiting the car. I ignored the looks that I received from my fellow officers when I slammed the door a little harder than intended—the younger that were still strangers appearing confused and concerned and the ones who knew my reputation well looking like they wished the earth would open—and headed towards the nondescript brown building. There must have been something in my gait or on my face that screamed Do Not Approach because everyone steered clear, leaving my path clear both to the elevator and off of it once it had reached the floor where the PCD convened.

I was one of the few people who could barge into our fifty-two-year-old captain's office without an invitation, whether or not he had a meeting going on, and not receive some kind of consequence. I suppose it had a little something to do with the fact that he was a bit sweet on my mother and many in the department commented that it was because I reminded him of the daughter he lost when he was a young beat cop. But mostly, it was because I was not the type to give a damn about protocol or hierarchy. My captain had learned this early on in our relationship while others were more hardheaded on the topic (i.e. the stuff shirts on the Wizard Council).

Slamming open the door to his office, I offered only a fleeting look at the dark-haired main sitting in one of the chairs before proceeding the few steps it took to stand before Captain Abe Campbell's desk. "Well, isn't this a nice surprise?" Abe commented as he stood, his six-foot frame towering over me. "I should've known that you'd give up a day off to initiate your new partner into the fold."

"That must've been sarcasm, Abe, because you and I both know that the last thing I wanted after Lou's retirement was another dim-witted partner who doesn't know his ass from his gun," I retorted.

Abe chuckled at my response, his azure eyes twinkling with mirth. He was used to such scathing remarks and commonly claimed ignorance when many other department heads would reprimand. "Yeah, but we also know that the chief would have my head if I let you out on the streets without some type of supervision. So, let me introduce you to Lieutenant Liam Quinn."

I turned to gauge the man who was getting to his feet as he offered a hand that I promptly ignored. He was taller than Abe by a good four inches but where the captain was barrel-chested and think-limbed, Lt. Quinn was lanky and his muscles sinewy. Groomed dark hair with equally dark eyes, a crooked nose, and square jaw encompassing a crooked smile reminded me greatly of a boy that I had once loved. While others would have been mildly offended that I had chosen not to shake their hand, Liam Quinn merely smirked as he let the proffered appendage drop.

"So, where did the chief dig up this one? He doesn't look old enough to be on the road to retirement," I said.

"I'm a good fifteen years away from my gold watch," Liam replied.

A brow rose before I could control the muscle that lifted it. "Damn and here I was hoping that our relationship would be a short one. So, let me guess, you caused some trouble—nothing too big because even you wouldn't be that dumb—in your last unit and instead of firing you and opening up the chance for a lawsuit, they stuck your ass here because out of sight is out of mind."

"They told me you were hot but a handful that could be more dangerous than the criminals we're after." Leaning forward so his lips brushed the shell of my ear, he whispered, "That's okay, I like my partners feisty."

"Just remember, I have a gun and an aim that makes numerous snipers jealous. I also have friends who can make it where no forensic evidence linking me is ever found," I whispered, an innocent smile plastered on my face. He visibly swallowed as he backed two steps out of my personal space.

"If the two of you are done with the kindergarten routine, maybe Harper could tell me just why she's here on her day off? And I know it's not just because you felt a need to intimidate your new partner.

Knowing that was the metaphoric bell ending the match, I threw the mystery envelope containing the photos onto the desk. I watched as he scattered them onto the surface of the desk, his lips forming a hard line and a prominent tick showing as his jaw clenched together. Sinking down into his chair, he ran his hands continuously over his face and through his salt-and-pepper hair until he resembled the grizzled homicide detective he once was instead of the distinguished department head he was currently employed as. All the scenes that were captured on film were horrendous in their own rights but I knew that it was the ones of children that were getting to him in particular.

"Where did you get these?" he inquired softly, the deep baritone sounding gravelly as he tried withholding his emotions.

"My doorbell wouldn't stop ringing at three-thirty this morning. I thought it was one of the teens in my building—they play harass the cop on dares—but when I got there to give them a piece of my mind, there was no evidence anyone had been there except for this envelope," I told them. "And before you think that I was a little drunk from Lou's party and stepped over it without realizing when I got home, trust me when I say I would've noticed."

"And you're certain this isn't just some kid's idea of a sick joke?" Liam asked.

"Kids tend to think on a smaller scale when it comes to torture and death. The neighbor dog no one likes, the stray cat no one would miss. It's also rare to find a kid who'll stick to this kind of ritualized killing with technology that keeps their attention going ten different directions at any given time," I responded. "It's the generation of ADD and no amount of Ritalin can cure it."

"The carvings also lean towards a more paranormal aspect, symbols that wouldn't be found on the more typical killings. Says the killer believes something will happen—whether it be good or bad, I don't know—if these symbols are put upon the victims' bodies," Abe said.

"There's one more thing—" I pulled the scrap with the inscribed message out of my pocket and presented it to them "—I don't think the killings are going to be over any time soon. I also don't think that the person who left the envelope is the killer. The message feels too much like a warning to me, like the sender himself can't stop it but knows that I can. And that I will."

We all felt the foreboding that comes with knowing that a case is going to become a lot worse before it has a chance of getting better. Abe pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath in, letting it out in a sigh. It was his indication that he was going against every fiber of his being by making the decision to give me the case.

However, seeing as I was the recipient of the envelope, he really had no choice this time. "Okay, you take the lead. How should we go about starting this?" Abe inquired.

"There's a number on the corner of my desk calendar for a tech analyst named Gracie Payton at the FBI. Have Potts contact her to run the photos through facial recognition and find out just who our unfortunate souls happen to be. Also, get her to run that note, see if anything pops up with the handwriting even if it's doubtful there will be," I ordered. "She'll probably give him some shit because that's just the way she is but just tell her that it's for me and that she owes me one."

"And dare I ask what you're going to be doing?"

One corner of my mouth lifted in what Abe once called my trouble smirk. "Oh, I think this might be the perfect time for my new partner to get acquainted with the Wizard Council and vice versa, don't you?"

TBC...