Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) Brian Shea (black authors fiction txt) 📖

taunted him, a visual reminder of the disparaging status difference between him and his boss.

A misty rain began to fall. Simpson stopped to clear his glasses again. Brake lights illuminated the darkness as the limo approached the corner. In a split second, dark gave way to light as his vision was blinded by a bright orange flash.

The limousine morphed into a ball of fire. Simpson felt the concussive blast before he heard it. The force knocked him backward and slammed his head into the concrete wall of a nearby building.

Dizzied by the blow, Simpson tried to clear his vision. He was without his glasses and blindly searched the area around him for them. A searing pain in the back of his head caused him to momentarily abandon his efforts. His hand went to the source. The gash behind his right ear was deep, his hair already slick with blood. That was when he noticed the chunk of metal protruding from his ribcage. Even without his glasses, Simpson could see it was bad.

Simpson panicked. He had no idea what to do about his predicament. He'd never even broken a bone. His most recent experience with injury came last week when he'd gotten a paper cut. He thought that hurt like hell. Looking down at the shard of metal, he saw the lettering of Jordan's personalized license plate. He still couldn't feel it, and his mind tried to make sense of it. Should he try to pull it out? Or leave it in? His only reference came from a couple war movies he'd seen. Simpson knew he wasn't capable of doing either.

A dark pool spread out slowly onto the concrete beneath him. His blood-soaked fingers blindly navigated their way into his pocket. He felt the edge of his cell phone and worked to retrieve it, careful not to bump the shard of license plate. The effort became too much and his hand fell limp, still halfway inside his pocket. Simpson willed his arm to move but it wouldn't cooperate. Breathing now became a conscious effort.

Abandoning any effort to move, Simpson slumped.

Orange flames yielded their claim over the night. Darkness returned. Wailing car alarms harmonized with sounds of approaching sirens as Simpson slipped from consciousness.

8

Kelly and Barnes arrived on the scene less than twenty minutes after the initial call had come in. Patrol was already there and had set up a wide perimeter. Unlike the carnage of the earlier bombing, this one, while devastating to the occupants of the vehicle, had no related civilian casualties. The impact resulted in only one injured bystander. The constant chatter piping through Kelly's coms confirmed the scene was still very much active. Street bosses were tasking their subordinates through amped-up commands, adding an additional layer of calamity to the chaos.

Kelly came up Fleet Street and pulled to a stop at Hanover. The line of yellow tape was being extended to the intersection. The patrolman responsible for running the tape nodded in Kelly and Barnes's direction when they exited the vehicle. Kelly could see the carnage a block ahead at the intersection with Prince Street.

"Widening the scene?" Kelly asked as he approached.

The patrol officer wrapped the roll of tape around the light pole twice and then stopped. "Found an ear outside of the line. Sarge told me to move back."

Kelly nodded. If Mainelli were here, he would've made a witty offering to the effect of, "I hear you," but he was depleted from the morning's attack. He didn't have the energy for the dark humor typical of any scene.

And now, without even having a chance to go home and reset for a minute, he was back at another scene. Making a joke took more energy than he had, so Kelly opted out by offering a simple nod followed by a shrug.

Another patrolman approached and took their names and badge numbers for the record, entering them into the crime scene log. Both detectives signed next to their names and noted the time. They'd have to do the same thing anytime they came and went. Scene integrity mattered. And looking for evidence on a scene like this was comparable to searching for a needle in the proverbial haystack, so it mattered even more.

Kelly and Barnes started forward. The patrolman held up a hand, halting them. Kelly did little to hide his annoyance. "What gives?"

The patrol officer flipped a page in his notebook and referenced a list. "Sorry, Detectives. I was briefed by the sarge that this is an FBI investigation. I've got to run everybody against the list."

Kelly tried unsuccessfully to get a look at the approval list. "We're Homicide. And we should definitely be on that list."

Kelly's comment only worked to further fluster the young officer who was clearly overwhelmed. "I'm not seeing…wait a minute." He flipped another page in his book.

The kid was green. It wasn't only evident by his youthful features. His experience, or lack thereof, showed in the wide-eyed fear permeating his light blue eyes. Kelly didn't feel like berating the young man but needed to get to the scene so he could begin working it. "We're part of the task force. We're working with Agents Langston and Salinger, who are on their way. We should be on an approved list. Check with your sergeant. Do whatever it is you need to do but know this: we are going to the scene."

He turned another page. "Here it is. Looks like you're both good to go." Relief washed over him as he closed the logbook.

Kelly took in the scene. The cold drizzle began to fall more steadily. He had come to hate rain, especially since moving to Homicide. Heavy rains were hell on evidence. He had just stepped toward the carnage when the patrol asked, "Any idea who's behind this?"

Kelly's gaze rested on an enormous twisted metal sculpture of what used to be a limousine. "Not yet. But we're working on it."

"Good luck."

Luck hadn't been on their side thus far, but with a new scene to