The Delilah Complex

Fifty-Two

Jordain, Perez and Butler were all hunched over the last set of shots Young had received. They were still waiting for all but a few enlargements they’d requested. But there were more than enough to work with. Or to be frustrated by. Everyone on the Delilah team was overworked, overtired and feeling the pressure of an investigation that had never gotten past go.

“Delilah is nothing if not consistent,” Perez said. “Look at this. Every one of these four guys has marks around their wrists and ankles at the same points. It’s almost as if he uses his own previous photos as a template to make sure that the restraints are exact.”

When Jordain went to sleep at night, he saw multiple images of these men, all four of them, as if his brain was a hall of mirrors. They went on into infinity, their ghostly figures screaming at him for not stopping this carnage.

He stood up and paced from one side of the room to the next, letting his eyes relax and scan the hundreds of photos that now entombed him. If he stopped focusing, perhaps he could pick up a pattern that they might have overlooked.

Just one more clue.

The two detectives plus Butler, as well as dozens of other cops, continuously mined the photos for something that might lead them to the discovery of the bodies or the apprehension of the killer.

All they had was the tattoo, but they still didn’t know what it meant. Perez had sent out copies of the small interlocking shapes to police departments across the country, as well as the FBI. If they could figure out what the mark signified, they would at least know what tied the men together.

“We need one fucking break,” Perez said as he popped the top on a can of soda. His back was killing him. They’d all been working sixteen- and eighteen-hour shifts for days, and he was overtired.

“We have to make the break ourselves. We can’t wait anymore,” Jordain said.

“What can we do that we haven’t done?”

“Find the fucking connection.” It was not like Jordain to raise his voice, but neither was it like him to be involved in a case as cold as this one. In his fifteen-year career with the police, he had never had a murder investigation with less to go on. “For Christ’s sake, we don’t even have the bodies. Why? What possible reason is there for the killer to be hiding these bodies from us and yet giving us the proof of his crimes?”

Perez had nothing to say.

“That’s a really good question, Noah,” Butler said.

“It’s only a good question if it gives up a good answer. Right now it’s just more bullshit.” He slammed his fist down on his desk.

Butler jumped.

“Listen, this is not doing any of us any good,” Perez said.

“What isn’t?” Jordain asked.

“Losing our tempers. Not sleeping. Looking at these damn pictures hour after hour when there is just nothing here.”

“Do we have anything new on Young?” Jordain asked as he broke stride in order to pour himself yet another cup of coffee.

“No. Nothing. We’ve had this tail on Young 24/7 since day one. And the only thing the woman has done is go to work, go to the gym, go visit some friend over on East End Avenue a few times, and go to Dr. Snow’s office with a wig on. Three Monday nights in a row. And one Saturday afternoon. If anyone knows anything, it’s your friend.”

Jordain glared at his partner. “We can’t get the reporter to reveal her sources. We can’t get the doctor to violate privilege. There’s nothing illegal about her going undercover to get a story or wearing a wig to protect her privacy at the clinic.”

“Then we aren’t going to get a break. It’s that simple. Something has got to give. One of these women has got to decide that she wants to help us more than she wants her own professional-”

Jordain held up his hand. “You’re right. We’re tired. Let’s not push it. Neither of these women is breaking any law. We have to assume that neither of them knows who the killer is, because if she did, and she is any kind of human being, she’d tell us. Even a seasoned reporter jonesing for a big story can’t just sit back and let more and more and more men be murdered. And that goes for Morgan, too. Privilege be damned.”

Noah was holding back a dozen emotions. He was furious with his partner for even suggesting Morgan might be withholding information, and he was guilty for wanting to protect her if she was involved. He was frustrated that he didn’t know how to reach her emotionally and that he still cared about her. He was angry that the case was getting in the way of him having any kind of time with her, if she would even agree to see him again.

He was forty-one years old. He’d been trying to give up on the idea of finding his ideal for too long. He’d pretty much assumed the best he could hope for was that one day he’d get tired of looking. Then he knew he’d finally have a shot at a decent relationship. He’d almost gotten to that point when he’d met Morgan.

Morgan.

He knew better than to think he could ever fix what was wrong with anyone, but he was certain that he was what she needed. And he was even more certain that if Morgan had what she needed in a man, she could finally heal herself.

His cell phone rang. He pulled it off his belt, opened it, barked a hello and listened.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said as he shut the phone and headed to the door. “We might finally fucking have something. Fast.”

Perez wasn’t sure, but he thought his partner sounded frightened. He’d only heard his voice like that once before. The night that Morgan Snow got herself trapped in a madman’s apartment.