“Agent, I was hoping you wereavailable.” It was Sheriff Petrovski. Did she not know that Zoe was off thecase? “I’ve just seen your partner drive out of the parking lot, so I figuredyou might be better positioned to respond. We’ve got a new body.”
Zoe blinked. Petrovski knew nothing.The rookie hadn’t told her, for whatever reason, and Petrovski must havethought that Zoe was still the senior agent on the case. “He has struck again?”Zoe asked, her mind racing. How long had it been since the last murder? Shehadn’t heard the time of death estimation, but from her own observations it hadhappened maybe nine hours before they’d arrived at the scene. That meant it wasonly a maximum of eleven hours between two kills.
“Not exactly,” Petrovski replied.There was something in her voice, something that she wasn’t saying. “You’dbetter come out here and see this for yourself.”
“Right,” Zoe said, then hesitated.“Agent Flynn has our rental car.”
“I’ll have someone come by andpick you up,” Petrovski replied. “We need you on the scene here, as soon aspossible. I know you’re chasing down leads, but this might be a big one.”
“Of course,” Zoe murmured, givingthe sheriff the details of where the deputy should pick her up.
Another body. She knew she wassupposed to be backing off, going home, but this was big. Important. And ifFlynn was otherwise occupied, the least she could do would be to go and takenotes for him, be a body on the ground.
At least, that was what Zoe toldherself—because there was no way in hell she was walking away now, with amysterious body that had to be seen to be understood and what could possibly bean escalation of the behavior of a serial killer.
***
Flynn pulled up outside theapartment complex, barely waiting for the engine to stop rumbling before he wasleaping out onto the sidewalk. He glanced up at the building, trying to figureout what kind of situation he was walking into. The apartments appearedwell-kept from the outside, many of them set up with tables and chairs on smallbalconies if not flowering plants, and there was no graffiti or sign ofvandalism. It looked like a nice enough area.
He just hoped that rang true forthe people living inside—and that he wasn’t about to run into serious problemstrying to tackle a murderer.
He strode in toward the doors andhit a number at random on the intercom. When the resident answered, he barked, “Deliveryfor you,” and was soon inside the building. Not the most honest way to gainentry, but there was always the worry that people would deliberately excludelaw enforcement. He could worry about explaining that later. Right now, he hada murderer to stop.
Flynn rushed up the stairs to thesecond floor, reading signs as he went that directed visitors to the outdoorpool, the basement laundry room, the upstairs apartment numbers. He turned leftas soon as he reached the next stairwell to head in the right direction.Apartment 415 was on the left-hand side of the hall, the opposite to the sideof the building he had been able to see from outside. Flynn hesitated for thefirst time; he leaned his head against the door for a moment silently,listening. There wasn’t a hint of movement inside, but it didn’t mean there wasno one there.
Flynn checked his gun, made surehe had easy access to it, but left it holstered. He didn’t want to exacerbatethe situation—there was a chance that the man would come calmly now that heknew he’d been caught. Or else use the arrogance that tended to come along withserial killers, believing that he could talk his way out of it.
Flynn squared his shoulders, thenreached out and rapped smartly on the door. “Open up,” he shouted, followingthe procedure he knew was the safest, both for him and the suspect and anyoneelse who might be inside. “FBI!”
There was a pause, and Flynnthought he heard footsteps behind the door. There was a scrambling sound then,and footsteps moving rapidly away, and he swore under his breath. Something washappening. The suspect, this Tom Taylor, had looked through the peephole toverify who was knocking for him, and now he was running—either to try to escapeor to locate a weapon, or even to destroy evidence, Flynn couldn’t be sure.
But he couldn’t just wait out herein the corridor to find out. He gritted his teeth and stepped back, bracinghimself against the opposite wall before using his full force to kick out atthe door, right below the handle. There was a splintering sound, but no visibleeffect, so he kicked again, and then a third time. Finally, the wooden doorgave, the lock dangling uselessly in the air as the rest of the panel brokearound it, and Flynn dashed forward.
He looked ahead, left and right,seeing rooms in all directions. There was a cold breeze coming from onedirection, and Flynn instinctively followed it, putting his hand on his gun ashe ran headlong around the tight bends of the entrance hall and into an openliving space. There was a wide set of double glass doors at the far side of theroom, thrown open onto the balcony.
And the man who Flynn knew must beTom Taylor was already halfway over it.
“Stop!” he yelled, gaining aprecious second as the man looked toward him in a panic but then redoubled hisefforts. He was climbing down, Flynn could see—moving onto the front of thebalcony and the precarious handholds that it afforded, ready to swing to thenext balcony along. If he made it, Flynn would only be able to follow him—therewas no time to try to break into the next apartment and the next and the next,while Taylor monkey-barred his way along the building.
By the time Flynn climbed downthere himself, Taylor would have a huge advantage. Not only that, but Flynnwould be endangering himself by attempting the climb. There was only one optionthat came to his mind as he hit the balcony bodily, his legs skidding forwardwith momentum and only the railing stopping his progress, looking down at TomTaylor and the one hand he
