Famished by Meghan O'Flynn (most popular novels txt) 📖

Petrosky ground his teeth together to avoid calling Chief Castleman a fucking asshole. Next to him, Morrison was stiff, the muscles in his jaw working in a decidedly un-surfer-like way.

“You can’t be serious,” Petrosky said.

“Detective Petrosky, Detective Morrison, this is not an attempt to freeze you out.” Castleman squared his chubby shoulders. “But we have a serial killer on our hands, and the Mayor doesn’t want to take any chances. A screw up is the last thing this city needs right now.”

“And I’ll screw it up?”

“This has the potential to go national, Petrosky. The only reason it hasn’t yet is that someone bombed a bus down south and killed a bunch of grade-schoolers. But that story won’t stick around forever. We don’t find this guy they’ll crucify us…and you.”

“I understand, but—”

“No buts. The FBI has far more resources at their disposal. And it turns out that Meredith Lawrence was the royally fucked-up niece of a radio show host up in Dryesdale. He’s making a big stink.”

“A radio show host? How the fuck does a radio show host get to tell us—”

“I expect complete cooperation on this. Agent Bryant Graves is waiting for you in the conference room with his men. Get down there and give them what they need.”

Dismissed, Petrosky left the chief’s office and stalked down the hall, Morrison beside him. Framed photos of dead cops stared at them from the walls with solemn expressions, as if they knew that one day he and Morrison would be underground too, their snapshots also mounted like prized deer heads. Petrosky wanted to mount Chief Castleman on the wall too, along with Agent Bryant fucking Graves.

“Was Graves the one in charge of that case in Frankfurt last year?” Morrison asked.

“How the hell should I know? And how do you?”

“Heard about it from Zajac over in traffic. He used to live up there. The name sounds familiar, but I could be wrong.”

Petrosky stopped. “You hang out with the traffic boys, too?”

Morrison stepped past him, leaning against the wall under a picture of an officer with brown eyes and an arrogant expression. He pulled out his phone and tapped a few buttons. “I met him at the gym…okay, same guy.” He pocketed the phone. “Zajac said the case was a couple of kids making pipe bombs. Burned two teenagers and a father unlucky enough to open his daughter’s mail. Turned out, that the kid making the bombs was the mayor’s son. The evidence was pretty substantial against him, but they ended up shifting the blame to the kid’s friend. There was a lot of suspicion within the department that Graves might have taken a bribe to keep quiet about it.”

“Sounds like a winner.” Petrosky glanced at the conference room and drew himself up as tall as he could. “Let’s go meet this asshole.”

Bryant Graves stood at the conference room window, phone to his ear, eyes narrow with concentration—or rage. “What do you mean, no one asked before?” He stared at Petrosky and Morrison as they sat across from two other men, presumably, Graves’s agents. The bald one exchanged a knowing look with the asshole with a buzz cut. Petrosky hid his clenched fists under the table.

“Call you back.” Graves slipped the phone into his pocket, his eyes radiating accusation. “Detectives.” He nodded to Petrosky’s side of the room. “Shall we skip the niceties and get down to business?”

Graves gestured to the whiteboard at the head of the table, where pictures of the three victims stared at them. Solemn mug shots for the girls, and a photo of Campbell in a red sweater from his mother, grinning at them with a much more optimistic expression than any photo in the hallway. “Meredith Lawrence, Jane Trazowski, and Jacob Campbell. Since this type of killer does not usually have such wildly different victims, there must be something that connects our working girls to Mr. Campbell. The first two had similar lifestyles and drug habits. Jane Trazowski and Jacob Campbell were both connected to Hannah Montgomery in the last six months.”

Petrosky’s temple throbbed. “Trazowski showed up at the women’s shelter after an altercation with a john. Apparently, he roughed her up pretty good; she was scared enough to leave her apartment.”

Graves glared at him. “Have you found the john?”

“No.”

“How about any connection between Hannah Montgomery and Meredith Lawrence? They may have met at some point due to Ms. Montgomery’s position with the shelter, particularly in light of Lawrence’s extensive domestic violence history.”

“We weren’t able to find any connections.”

“Then, we’re missing something.”

The throbbing wrapped around his forehead and expanded until Petrosky could feel his heartbeat in his eyeballs. “We questioned Montgomery about it, but the night of Trazowski’s murder, she was working at the shelter. We verified it with the woman she works for and with another woman who was staying at the shelter that day.”

Graves’s lips tightened, nostrils flaring like he smelled something foul.

“We also have video of her apartment building. She was inside the night Campbell was killed,” Petrosky said. Reading a note from her boyfriend’s lover and sobbing. But he’d let these haughty fuckers find that out for themselves. “She’s not a suspect here.”

“No one thinks Montgomery is a suspect, detective.” Graves leaned forward and put his hands on the tabletop as heat rose in Petrosky’s face. “But just