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

"Agreed."

The two left Charles to do his bidding. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the temperature dipped into the low fifties. The jolt of cool air refreshed him, also offering him a chance to remove the stink from his nostrils, if only temporarily.

"How are you holding up?" Kelly asked.

"Good as can be expected, I guess. I just never thought seven years later I'd be looking at..."

"I know." Kelly finished the thought without forcing her to. She shuddered. He knew it had nothing to do with the cold, but from the memory of that day.

"We're going to get this son of a bitch, Mike."

"There's no way I'm letting this break any other way." He was resolute in his statement and would do anything it took to see it come true. Not every cop had the same drive. To some it was a job. To Kelly it was a calling. Therein lay the difference. Some approached law enforcement like they would any other job, taking calls on cases as they came and doing their best to solve them while on the clock. Then there were those who took personal responsibility for the community they served. Those cops spoke for the dead left in the wake of someone's awful deed. Kelly fell into the latter. As did Barnes. For them and those like them, the job trumped everything. Kelly poured his heart and soul into every case, accepting nothing but perfection.

Boston was his city, his home. More than that, it was an integral part of his life. He had a strange symbiotic relationship with the city. He felt the bloodshed of its citizens as if it were pumped from his own heart. Having witnessed today's devastation, he was wounded. The wounds were invisible, but he could feel them all the same. He still felt the old blood of the amputee he washed off hours ago and smelled the burned flesh of the limo's occupants now coating him. Kelly felt it all.

A new scent cleared Kelly's mind almost immediately. He could almost taste the coffee brewing inside the shop. He envisioned himself as a cartoon character floating along on the visible tendril of a steaming pie as he approached the counter.

They made the return trip with three piping-hot medium cups of coffee. The warmth penetrated his skin, soothing against the cool air. He understood the company's decision to switch from Styrofoam to paper in an effort to be more eco-friendly, but after so many years, it felt strange. Nothing grows in stasis. Change is inevitable and must be embraced. His college sociology teacher's mantra replayed in his mind, minus the woman's annoyingly shrill voice.

They reentered the building through the side entrance. Kelly and Barnes took the stairs to the second floor and headed to the crime scene lab, passing by Homicide, which was still abuzz with activity. They fobbed their way into the lab. The PD electronic fob system tracked and logged any entry or exit from any secure room within the building. The crime lab had the most restrictive access.

Charles was still seated at his desk, but he was no longer hunched over the keyboard. The opposite, actually. He was kicked back with his hands behind his head and a self-satisfied look on his face.

"Please tell me you're not that happy just to see this cup of coffee." Kelly waved the cup in front of Charles's face. The liquid sloshed. The Dunkin’ blend was liquid crack for the man.

"I'd be lying if I said yes." Charles accepted the cup and then spun in his swivel chair back to the screen.

Kelly and Barnes once again took positions over his shoulder. This time, the stink was somewhat replaced by the sweetness of the cream and sugar blended into the cup hovering in front of Kelly's nose as he peered down at the screen. Two images sat side by side. Kelly recognized one from the scene. The second was a grainy black-and-white stamped March 4, 1997. The images of the phoenix were identical.

"You got a match?" Kelly's voice shook with excitement.

"I did. Just got off the phone with Mills and she confirmed it."

"Do we have a name?"

A couple of keyboard clicks later and an image populated the screen. Kelly stared at it. The thirty-seven-year-old man had red hair with thick muttonchop sideburns. His eyes, although a bright shade of green, were soulless, and he wore a white jumpsuit. The photo was dated the same as the signature image. The same day Liam Collins entered Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center, a maximum-security prison.

"Wait a minute." Kelly curled up. "Where's his exit photo?"

"I was waiting for you to ask why I hadn’t pulled up a more recent photo, license or social media-wise." Charles tapped a pen against the monitor. "That's because our young Mr. Collins is still enjoying early retirement at the supermax."

Barnes looked over her cup at Kelly as she took a sip. "How?"

"That's what we're going to need to figure out."

Kelly’s cell phone rang a split second later, and he looked down. He didn’t recognize the number, but at this hour, he assumed it had to be case-related. "Go for Kelly."

"Detective Kelly, this is Alexa Mills."

"Hi, Lexi. What's up?"

"We've got some news here."

"Same. Got the hit on Collins. I was going to call and let you know." Kelly wondered how long Mills had known before calling him.

"What do you know so far?"

"That he's still incarcerated. That's about it."

"Collins was a bad dude. An up-and-comer in a faction of fringe IRA members. Got picked up on a drug raid in '97. Been sitting in Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center ever since."

"Why isn't Collins at ADX?" Kelly asked. If Collins was picked up with bomb-making materials and connected to an extremist group, the case should've been picked up federally, and ADX Supermax in Florence, Colorado, was where they kept guys like Collins. "Former IRA bomber, seems like he should be spending his time at federal prison, not in the state's system."

"He will. Collins took the