Ed grumbled under his breath before taking a respectable bite of his muffin. “You know this is an active investigation, right? Meaning we don’t tend to share information with outside parties.”
My smile stretched. “Like a daughter.”
He gave me a disparaging look as he popped another bite into his mouth. “Your old man could take notes from you on how to weasel information out of cantankerous old detectives.”
“In order for him to do that, I actually need to be successful in that endeavor.” My fingers rolled across my cheek as I waited.
Ed casually scanned the bullpen before leaning into his desk. “We talked to an eye witness who reported seeing the same car parked outside of his apartment a few nights in a row leading up to Skovil’s death.” Ed peeled the lid from his coffee and dunked a chunk of his muffin into it. “The witness said there only appeared to be one person inside, most likely a man, but couldn’t make out any particulars.”
I rolled my chair closer. “You think this could be our killer?”
“I think it’s a lead. I’m not too excited over it yet, but it’s the best one we’ve gotten so far.” Ed hit Ignore when a call came in on his phone. “The Phantom would be a more accurate name for this Huntsman character. A summer breeze leaves more evidence of its existence than this clown.”
“Any additional details on the car? Make, model, color?”
When he frowned at my continued fishing, I brought out the smile once more.
“Newer sedan, light in color, probably silver or white.” He grabbed another muffin, grumbling as he did. “You want a pen and paper so you can write it down?” he jested.
“That description matches only about a quarter of vehicles on the road today.”
“Which means we can rule out three quarters of the vehicles,” he said through a bite of muffin. “That is, if the person in that car is actually our guy, which is a big if.”
My nose wrinkled. “I suppose it would be too much to expect our phantom-like Huntsman to cruise around in a neon green Hummer.”
Ed huffed. “This guy probably doesn’t come packaged with fingerprints or standard DNA either.”
Relaxing into the chair, I pointed at him. “What’s that itch inside telling you? Who is this Huntsman?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “I think he or she is exactly the type of person you wouldn’t expect. That’s about the only thing I’m certain of at this point.” His arms crossed over his drum chest. “I’ll put cash money down that when and if this Huntsman is ever caught, your jaw is going to hit to floor in surprise same as the rest of us. Probably turn out to be a PTO mom who drives a minivan.”
I blinked at him. “A PTO mom?”
His shoulders moved beneath his short-sleeve dress shirt that was one size too small and two decades old. “Or some grandpa who plays pickleball three days a week at the Y.”
“I think it’s a stretch that some baby boomer or suburban housewife is responsible for the murders of thirty-three men most people would cross the road to avoid.”
He swirled his coffee around in the cup, chunks of muffin floating in it. “Maybe. Maybe not. Why don’t you go ahead and solve the case, then let me know so I can take all of the credit?”
My eyes rolled. “We both know that no matter who catches this guy, my father’s going to find some way to take the bulk of the credit.”
He laughed. “Some truths go without saying.”
“If you manage to dig up any more information on this car lead . . .”
He waved me away as I rose from my chair. “I think I know who might be interested in knowing, yeah.”
“We’re going to find this guy. You or us, we’ll get him.”
His eyes creased at the corners. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Oh, no. Not you too.” My hand settled on my hip. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a fresh tattoo on your upper arm displaying a theta symbol.”
“You do this as many years as I have, kiddo, and you realize that even when your side or my side wins, it’s not a victory—not an actual one. Because there’s always some victim suffering behind that sentence, or future ones once that sentence comes to an end. No one wins in this game of crime we’re pawns in.”
Eighteen
Noah’s office was tucked away at the end of a long hall inside a bleak building on the cusp of where desirable neighborhoods met not-so-desirable ones.
Everything about the location was intentional, from its placement at the end of a hall to its address. Noah wanted his clients to feel comfortable and safe which, to me, were two emotions I wasn’t convinced they deserved, no matter the sentence they’d served or the restraint they showed.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to his office, but we’d decided it was the best place to meet before heading out for our first real date in ages.
Noah finished with his last client at six, so I was a few minutes early and elected to wait in the hall and catch up on a few texts I’d been neglecting due to a nonstop afternoon of court appointments. I was in the middle of firing off a message to check in with Andee when the exit door leading from Noah’s office opened. The man who slunk out was familiar in the kind of way that took a few moments to place.
He barely gave me a cursory glance as he trudged down the hall, flipping his coat collar up around his neck and plucking a fresh cigarette from his back pocket. My skin prickled as I recalled my colleague’s case a couple of years back, what the man had been accused of and the sentence he’d been given as a result. It couldn’t even be considered a wrist slap for his crimes. More like a back pat, a nod to the utter lack of accountability our legal systems demanded of the punishment matching the crime.
I didn’t stop watching him until he climbed onto the elevator and went about whatever plans the rest of his night included now that he’d sat through another hour of his count-appointed counseling sessions. Part of me didn’t want to consider where his forays might lead him, whose young life he’d forever change next. Fiends like him—crimes such as his—it wasn’t a matter of if he reoffended. It was a matter of when.
The main door leading into Noah’s office opened. “There you are.” Noah swept his arm inside his office. “I’ve got a moderately comfortable sofa inside for guests to wait on.”
My gaze remained fixed down the hall. “That bastard deserved more than a year for what he did.”
He leaned into the doorway, hands slipping into his front pockets. “We all deserve worse for our transgressions, whatever they might be. Mercy is a double-edged sword.”
“Mercy wasn’t created for men like him,” I said while Noah flipped off the lights and locked the office. “Based on all of your experience . . . what’s the actual likelihood of him not offending again? Truthfully.”
He stood beside me. “Some do get better. Not cured—because there isn’t a fix for that kind of affliction—but some do keep from reoffending.”
“There should be a cure by now,” I muttered as we started down the hall.
“The attraction toward children is no different than a man who is attracted to women or men. It’s part of the wiring they were born with.” His hand lifted when he saw me ready to argue. “You simply can’t change the wiring—you can only adjust the desire to act upon those proclivities.”