Cook sipped her coffee as she wrote her Patient Care Report. The door opened and Robson stepped in, a wallet in hand.
“Your patient is James Duggan. Sixty-eight years of age. He has a record for two dozen impaired driving charges. His license has been suspended many times, but he keeps drinking and driving. The most recent charge was from a month ago, and his license was suspended for six months. We found his car. It has tons of scrapes and dents. Appears he played bumper car a few times after nights of drinking.”
“Ironic that he gets hit while drunk.”
“Even more ironic if the hit-and-run driver was drunk.”
“True,” Cook said. “Any word on that car and driver?”
Robson shook his head. “Not yet. Downtown cruisers are searching. It’s likely the car was stolen. Frequently, the drivers dump the car in an underground parking garage, then take a cab home, or get a friend to drive them. We might need to wait until morning and see who reports a stolen car. The Crime Scene Unit might get some paint samples from the scene or Duggan and tell us what model of car we’re searching for.”
The overhead speakers came to life, and a calm voice said, “Code 99, trauma one. Code 99, trauma one.”
Cook glanced at Robson. “You’ve got a traffic fatality now.”
Chapter Eight
When Sergeant Caterina Toscana arrived, the scene was a hive of activity. She slid her five-foot-eight frame out of her van, black Sorel boots crunching in the snow, and walked toward Briscoe. Biting wind whipped her short, raven hair around her face. She pulled out a police-issue fake-fur hat and shoved it down on her head. She hated the hat and reminded herself to get a wool watch cap. She leaned into the wind as she pulled on insulated gloves. At least she’d remembered to bring these tonight.
Sergeant Jerry Briscoe had everything under control. Fifth Avenue was barricaded to traffic, and police tape encircled the entire block. His police issue parka wrapped his thick body and was zipped tight to his jaw. Unlike Toscana, Briscoe seemed to love the fake-fur hat—maybe it kept his bald head warm. He had the flaps down over his ears and tied under his chin.
“Where the hell were you?” Sergeant Briscoe peered eye to eye with Toscana.
She could tell by his scowl this would not go well. “It’s barely after eleven. I just got on duty.”
Briscoe shook his head, chewed his bottom lip, and snarled, “You’re a district sergeant now. You’re at a higher standard. If you’re on time, I consider you late.”
Toscana rubbed her gloved hands against her arms, frowning. “But, Sarge—”
His thick finger was in her face so fast, she stepped back. “And don’t ever backtalk me. Now get up to date on what is going on here and manage this scene.”
“Yes, sir.” Toscana headed over to the Crime Scene Unit huddled in the middle of the road.
Sergeant Sturgeon pushed off the road, stood, and buttoned his brown knee-length overcoat. “Got in shit, did you, missy?”
“He’s an ass.”
“That he is.” Sturgeon shrugged. “But he’s also right.”
“He’s not my boss,” Toscana said. “I’m a district sergeant just like him.”
“Nope, not like him,” Sturgeon said. “You’re new to the job.”
“I’m thirty-one.” Toscana’s brown eyes blazed. “Young has nothing to do with it. He does this shit because he can.”
“He’s got ten years more experience, and in this case, he’s right.”
“I know.” Toscana gazed away.
Sturgeon blew on his gloved hands. “Do you want to know what we’ve got?”
She nodded, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, that’d be great.” Toscana’s enthusiasm was back.
Sturgeon grinned and rubbed his gloved hands together. “Not much.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Oh.”
“Luckily, we don’t need much.” Sturgeon smiled. “There are no skid marks. The driver didn’t hit the brakes. Some witnesses say the car was accelerating.”
“Trying to make a yellow light?”
“Nope. Witnesses all say the light was red for traffic, and the walk light for the victim was activated.”
“Another drunk?”
“Possibly, but that’s your job,” Sturgeon said. “We’ve found shattered glass from a headlight, likely the right one, and a few flecks of paint. Once we analyze it, we’ll know the car and model. But for now, you are searching for a dark-brown car. That should help for your cruisers circulating through downtown.”
“That’s all?” Toscana’s shoulders sagged.
“All for now. We’ll keep the road closed until mid-morning so we can investigate in daylight.”
Toscana nodded, then she heard her radio call sign. “501,” dispatch said. “522 found the suspect vehicle. It’s on the third level of The Bay’s parking garage.”
“I’m on my way.” Toscana glanced at Sturgeon.
“I’ll send a team over.”
She jogged to her van, keying her mic. “501 responding. Tell 522 not to approach the car and to seal off that parking garage.”
Chapter Nine
Dice exercised, eyes gleaming and with a wide grin, rock songs blaring from the stereo. It was the ultimate high—the thrill of ending a life. Sleep had been impossible after the Saturday-night killing of the drug dealer.
Everything about that night was incredible. How easy it was to pick a target. The stupidity of the dealer. But most of all, the feel of the knife as it thrust upward. The first pop through the skin, then the second as the knife breached the diaphragm. For a moment, the heart pulsed through the blade to the handle. Then the dealer’s wide-eyed terror. The warmth of the blood and watching the dealer’s soul, if there was such a thing, leave his body and journey to Hell—the perfect destination for him.
Drugs wouldn’t stop flowing because the dealer was dead. Someone else would sell the drugs under the broken streetlight. Let him go for it. Perhaps Dice would strike there, again.
Last night’s hit and run hadn’t been as up close and personal, even so, there was the thrill when the man’s body collided with the bumper, windshield, and finally, as he bounced off the trunk.
Thanks to thorough research, Dice knew the man’s habits—boring habits. Still, when it was time, there was
