From his place beneath the sliding board, he had a clear view of the sprawling lawn that separated the playground from the thin walking paths. There were three of these paths in total, and two of them made circuits around the small yet quite beautiful duck pond along the far edge of the park. In just a matter of minutes, he expected his next victim to come walking along one of those paths... probably the one to his left. If humans could be counted on for one thing, it was sticking to a routine. Especially once they got up there in age.

  He had been watching his next victim for a while now. In a strange way, he felt close to the old man he was waiting for. There was a tepid sorrow that followed the old man like a secondary shadow. But more than that, the old man was lonely. It was evident in the way he walked and the way he paid so much attention to the ducks that made their way along the pond almost every morning.

  His name was Larry Hoffman, and he’d lost his wife three months ago. And for the past six weeks, after the old fart had managed to finally pull himself off of the couch and out of the house, he’d started coming out to the park. Every single morning, Monday through Thursday, and the occasional Sunday, Larry would come to the park and sit on one of the benches along the western rim of the pond. He’d bring a few pieces of bread to break up and toss out to the ducks, and then work on a word puzzle of some kind out of the local paper—he wasn’t sure if it was a crossword or not, because he hadn’t gotten close enough to see just yet.

  The old man also came extremely early. It was technically morning and the sun was indeed rising, but it was barely even light enough to be considered dawn. But that was all the better for him because there was very little traffic; he’d only seen one jogger, and they would be on the other side of the park by now.

  He sat under the sliding board and waited. Through the thin grove of trees and weeds that separated the playground from the small, scenic area that held the pond, he watched Larry Hoffman take a seat on the same bench he always sat on. He had his little baggie with a few pieces of bread, and thew newspaper tucked under his arm. As soon as Larry’s butt was on the bench, he slowly slid out from beneath the sliding board. Slowly, he made his way across the dew-tinged grass. He didn’t bother going for a shortcut, making his way through the trees and weeds. That would leave prints and evidence. There were far too many things that could go wrong.

  Instead, he made his way to the right, to the head of the playground where a sidewalk could take visitors either toward a single, decrepit softball field and the parking lots, or in the direction of the pond. He, of course, took a left to head over to the pond. He did his best to keep his footfalls soft; the park was dead silent, and he wanted to get as close to the old man as he could before being noticed.

  Not that it would matter. He'd discovered that, in the end, the fight just wasn't there. His victims seemed to want to die. And he didn’t expect things to be any different with Larry Hoffman.

  He got very close indeed, slowly making his way to the edge of the pond and heading for the benches. Larry looked up briefly, his bony fingers tearing apart the slices of bread. He gave the passerby a little smile but returned his attention to the bread.

  The ducks were meandering closer as he sat down by Larry. He looked over to the old man and saw that Larry wasn’t pleased to have the company.

  “Sorry,” he said to Larry. “It seems I’ve interrupted some private time.”

  “Somewhat,” Larry said as he started tossing the bread into the water. “But that’s okay.”

  “You’re hurting, aren’t you?”

  Larry turned his head slightly and let out a soft chuckle. “You could say that. Is it that obvious?”

  He became aware of a jogger near the other side of the pond. The jogger seemed to not even see them, but it still made him feel on edge. Maybe this wasn't going to be the best time to act.

  “Maybe not obvious,” he said, “but it shows to those that bother paying attention to others rather than staying isolated in their own little worlds.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I understand that,” Larry said. “Me, though…I suppose I’ve gotten used to the isolation.”

  He looked over and watched the jogger disappear around a curb in the trail that led away from the pond, leading him to the other side of the pond. The brief distraction had been enough of a reminder of how urgent his work was—of how quick and decisive he truly needed to be.

  “I can tell. But I assure you, Larry,” he said, quickly taking the switchblade from his pocket and instantly flicking out the blade, “the pain is almost over.”

  When he plunged the knife into Larry Hoffman's chest, the old man dropped the remainder of the bread to the ground. He didn't put up a fight, and he didn't even seem interested in trying to breathe just as soon as the knife pushed past his breastbone. In fact…he almost looked relieved.

  “Rest now, old man,” he said as he pulled the knife out of Larry’s chest.

  He wiped Larry’s blood off on the old man’s coat, retracted the blade, and put it back in his pocket. He then sat there for just a few seconds as the ducks came for their crumbs. he watched the ducks feed for a moment as more sunlight spilled across the park. Finally, a few minutes later, he left Larry Hoffman alone on the bench with his crossword left unfinished but is life (and pain) very much complete.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Hey. You awake?”

  Rachel was indeed awake, and she came even more awake at the sound of Jack’s voice. “Mmm hmm," she said, rolling over to face him. "Have been for a while. Which is odd because I was sure yesterday's little adventures would have worn me out."

  “Maybe there was too much adrenaline?”

  “I don’t know…there wasn’t much excitement.”

  They lay face to face, their noses just an inch or so away from one another. He'd stayed the night several times over the past six months, and Rachel had made sure to talk about this with Paige. Earlier on, the excuse of him staying just as one more person to take care of her was an easy one to sell. But things were different now. And the last thing she wanted to do was lie to her daughter. She didn't think Paige would care if Jack stayed over (she'd likely be very excited about it, in fact) but Rachel couldn't help but feel a little guilty about it.

  Slowly, Jack lifted his head and looked to the bedside table behind Rachel. “It’s five after six. You wake up Paige at 6:30, right?”

  “Yeah.” She loved that he knew these little details about her life.

  “Well,” he said, his arm snaking over her wait beneath the covers. “What on earth could we find to do for the next twenty-five minutes?” He pulled her closer and kissed her lightly on the jaw.

  “Jack, I know you don’t stay over very often,” she said, “but you know the rules. I won’t kiss you if I have morning breath.”

  “That’s fine,” he said, moving his lips from her jaw to her neck. “I’ll just have to find some other places to kiss.”

  As he moved from her neck to her collarbone, his head slowly moving under the covers, Rachel gave into the moment. It was more than just the feeling of Jack’s lips on her—which were still moving teasingly lower and lower—but the idea that despite all she’d been through, she could still be this happy upon waking up in the morning. She could recall being this happy with Peter near the start of their marriage, but when it became clear that her career was going to take a lot of time away from them, he'd grown slowly distant. So, to wake up to something like this after so long was a true gift… in more ways than one.

  Jack was taking his time and had made it to her navel. She was tensing up slightly in anticipation of what would come next, as his slow progress was the ultimate tease.

  So when his phone began to ring from his nightstand, she wanted to reach out and smash the damn thing. Worst of all, it wasn’t just any ring…it was the ring he’d assigned specifically for Director Anderson.

  Jack’s kisses came to a stop, and he listed himself up a bit. She peered down at him as he peered up like a child hidden away in a blanket fort. "If it wasn't Anderson, I'd let it ring," he said.

  “I know,” she said, surprised at just how frustrated she was at the situation. “But the next time we get the chance—”

  “I’ll gladly pick up where I left off.” With that, he scrambled to his side of the bed and grabbed up his phone. “This is Rivers.”

  Rachel nearly got out of bed and started to get dressed. But instead, she lay there propped her head up on her hand. She watched Jack move, his back slightly arched downward as he half-leaned off of the bed. She took in the bulky shape of his shoulders and the way the muscles moved slightly. he readjusted his body, the sheets slipping slightly to show his hips.

  Okay, yeah, I damn well better get out of this bed now or Paige is going to be late for school.

  With a heavy sigh, Rachel slipped out of bed. She and Jack were beyond modesty, so she changed out of her sleep clothes—an old band tee shirt and a pair of basic underwear—and into a tee shirt and jeans right in front of him. He watched her as he listened and, again, realized that she’d forgotten what it was like for a man to study and appreciate her body. It made her want him even more…enough to make her wonder if a side effect of the treatment she’d been receiving was periodic surges in sexual appetite.

  She did her best to listen in to the conversation Jack was having with Anderson. But, as was the case with most conversations with Assistant Director Anderson, Jack’s part consisted of a few “Yeah”s and “Okay”s until he ended it with a, “I’ll be out there in half an hour. Oh, of course. Thanks.”

  When he ended the call and got out of bed wearing only his boxers, Rachel made herself turn away. She walked into the master bathroom and began brushing her teeth. before placing the brush in her mouth, she asked: “Was that a break on our case by any chance?”

  “Might be. We’ve got a murdered elderly man at Rogers Park. By himself, all alone on a bench. Anderson figured it seemed just sad enough to be linked to our other two victims.”

  “Yeah, that does sound like a pretty sad scene. Next question…a bit awkward. Am I supposed to come as well?”

  “Yeah, he specifically asked that you come along.”

  She nodded and, though her first reaction was one of excitement, she also realized it would be the first time in a long time that she wouldn't be taking Paige to school. She wondered if breaking such a routine would throw her off and bring up that dreaded conversation about what this new life after cancer was supposed to look like. What truly surprised her, though, was to understand that if Paige did have issues with it, then Rachel had no problem choosing her family first. She’d explain that she had to go this morning because her boss had already asked, but she’d make every effort to make sure it didn’t happen again for quite some time.

  “Now I have an award question,” Jack said as he slid into a pair of slacks he grabbed from the closet. When he’d started staying over on occasion during the worst of the treatment’s effects, he’d left a few changes of clothes for future occasions.

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you think Grandma Tate has already shipped up anything for breakfast? I’d really like to grab something quick before we head out.”

  ***

  Rachel hoped the ease of the morning at home was a sign of things to come. Grandma Tate had whipped up something; she’d tried her hand at a Nutella crepe recipe she’d seen the day before and had a warm plate of them ready and waiting when they came downstairs. Not only that, but when Rachel pulled Paige to the side and told her about needing to leave for work early, she took it well. Actually, she took it very well. Rachel could only assume Paige was seeing this as a return to normalcy—a life where they didn’t have to constantly worry day after day if her mother was going to die less than a year after her father had been murdered.

  It had sent Rachel and Jack out toward Rogers Park with a positive outlook on the day—or, rather, as positive as it could be knowing they were about to step onto the site where an elderly man had been killed.

  It was just shy of 7:00 when they arrived. The runners and dog-walkers had started to show up, but the park was still quiet. Located fifteen minutes away from Rachel’s house, Rogers Park was relatively small. It consisted of just a few pavilions for picnics and gatherings, two separate playgrounds (one for toddlers and one for older kids), a duck pond, and about three and a half miles of trails that wound around the park and slightly into its wooded borders.

  The information Jack had been given led them to the western edge of the park, where the duck pond was located. When they arrived, each entrance to the pons and the small walkway that circled it had been blocked off by crime scene tape. Three police officers were already on the scene. One was taking copious notes about the area, another was on the phone, and another stood just outside of the crime scene tape, standing guard.

  They flashed their badges, and the office on guard nodded, gently lifting up the tape to let them through. They ducked under and came face to face with the dead man. The officer who had been taking notes walked over to them, frowning.

  “It’s bad enough to see this sort of thing,” he said, nodding to the dead man on the bench, “but it’s so much worse when it’s a kid or an elderly person.”

  “Do we have a name?” Rachel asked.

  “Larry Hoffman, aged eighty-nine.”

  “Did you get that from his wallet?”

  “Nope. The body hasn’t been touched yet. But there were only three vehicles in the lot when we arrived. We ran the plates. One belonged to a woman of twenty-two, another to a gentleman that works the grounds here, and then one that belonged to an eighty-nine-year-old man named Larry Hoffman. The faces on the records we pulled matched.”

  Rachel nodded as she and Jack stepped closer to Mr. Hoffman. From first glance, it appeared that he'd been stabbed in the chest, high up near the neck. The wound had bled freely, staining the front of his button-down plaid shirt. His head was tilted back, his stringy grey hair tossed gently by the slight morning breeze. She took note of the plastic nag on the bench beside him. There was a whole piece of loaf bread and a partial one inside the bag. The partial one looked like it had been torn apart.

  “A forensics team is on the way,” the note-taking office said. “I expect them any minute now, actually.”

  “Great, thanks,” Rachel said. And then, without saying anything to Jack or the cop, she turned slightly away and pulled out her cellphone. When she pulled up the document she’d been keeping her notes on and then copied and pasted a phone number into her dialer, Jack stepped behind her, looking over her shoulder.

  “Dr. Jensen?” he asked.

  “Yes. I figure we can ask if she ever had Mr. Hoffman as a patient. If she did, then I think the link becomes pretty solid and undeniable.”

  “Yeah, but her alibi was pretty solid, too.”

  “I’m not thinking she’s the killer…not really,” she said as she placed the call. “But maybe another patient, or—”

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Dr. Jensen,” Rachel said. “This is Agent Rachel Gift….from yesterday. I’m sorry to call so early, but I have a very quick question for you.”

  “Of course, go ahead.”

  “Have you ever worked with a gentleman by the name of Larry Hoffman?”

  There was a pause of only two or three seconds before Dr. Jensen said, “No. That name doesn’t sound familiar. Should it?”

  “Maybe not. We’re just….just checking up on something. Dr. Jensen, can you tell me what you’ve been up to this morning so far?”

  “Well…I woke up at five and met an old patient of mine for coffee.”

  “Where?”

  “The Starbucks out on Memorial.”

  “When did you meet this former patient?”

  As she asked this, Rachel became aware of two other people approaching the crime scene tape. The lab kit being carried by the woman in the lead indicated they were the forensics team. On the other end of the phone, Dr. Jensen didn’t sound irritated as she went on, but it was very clear she knew exactly what Rachel was searching for.

  “I met her at 5:45. I had a London Fog and a danish that was disappointingly dry. My friend had some weird vanilla cold brew thing. I’d say there were about five other people there when we sat down and had our coffees. I returned home about half an hour ago. I cannot give you the name of the friend because, as I said, she’s a former patient. But I can provide the receipt if necessary.”

  Rachel didn’t feel at all attacked; in fact, she appreciated the forthright nature of the reply. “That seems a bit early to meet up with someone for coffee.”

  “She works horrendous hours. I met with her as she was clocking out of her night shift as a facilities supervisor at the hospital.”

  “Ah, I see,” Rachel said. There were just far too many details to the story to get hung up on. She would be incredibly surprised if Jensen were lying. And she had a receipt as proof. “Thank you, Dr. Jensen.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, thank you. Have a good day.”

  She ended the call and turned back to the scene. Jack had walked over to where the forensics team was taking their positions. The next few moments would consist of searching for hairs or fibers and dusting for fingerprints. And until they got results, there was nothing they could do at the scene of the crime.

  “Jensen never had Mr. Hoffman as a patient,” she told Jack as she stepped up beside him. “And she was also otherwise in engaged when it appears he was murdered.”

  “So…shit, there goes our only potential lead.”

  “Seems that way. But maybe…”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe there’s something else.” She looked over to the note-taking man and said, “Do you have an address for Mr. Hoffman?”

  It was the other cop who answered, as he was currently standing by with nothing to do while waiting for forensics to wrap up. “What’s your email address? I’ll shoot you what we have. Address, list of previous employers, everything.”

 

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