Jack, page 9
part #2 of Hunted Shifters Legacy Series
Silence.
There was a long, deep sigh after, but Jack finally took the device and nodded. “Alright. Don’t go anywhere.”
She didn’t argue that there was nowhere she could go anyway, not when the frequency device didn’t report an address. She nodded and watched him climb the stairs, then sat back in her chair to watch the camera recording outside. Jack slinked off like a thief in the night, and her worry followed him as she put her special work headphones on. She checked and rechecked frequencies, kept herself busy for some piece of news that might make his search easier.
“I’m here, Kit. Can you hear me?”
The sudden voice startled her so much that she almost toppled from her chair. Somehow, Kit managed to clear her throat and respond.
“I’m here. I can hear you loud and clear.”
“We’ve saved the woman. I thought you should know.”
The relief that poured out of her nearly made her sag. Kit inhaled deeply to calm her trembling.
“Good. That’s so good to hear, Jack.”
“We’ve spotted the suspect. We’re on his tail and will catch him soon.”
“That’s bad,” she blurted out, the earlier relief spiking into another kind of worry. This one was more personal now. “Are you—”
“I’m with a colleague. I can’t stay and talk.”
“Okay.”
She heard footsteps, heard Jack talking in low tones to the police officer he was with. Then more footsteps pounded on the pavement, the soft breathing from time to time that indicated they were on an intense chase and focusing all their efforts into it.
There was radio silence after, indicating the device had been turned off. She obsessively checked the frequency again but heard no call for backup. In fact, it was so silent that the next sound—her actual phone ringing—caused her to jump.
“Hello?”
“Hey, DJ Kit,” Hunter’s warm voice greeted from the other line. “Did I wake you up?”
Kit shook her head before realizing the other party couldn’t see her. “No, I was awake. What’s up, Solis?”
“I sent you a text message, then an email. I need to have some documents checked. Ovie’s on it, but it would help if you work on it, too. Your sources are faster.”
“I’m on it,” she replied, accessing her email and reading the one he sent. Her blood turned chilly. “Oh, wow.”
“Yeah.” His tone was now grim. “It’s bad.”
“Two hunters spotted in Brooklyn, caught a wolf shifter…” she muttered some of the email contents, letting her mind wrap around it. “Clanless shifter?”
“Ovie’s checking on that one. He’ll be here soon for a rescue and to clear the area. The hunters left the wolf alone after I caused a commotion, and I’m following behind.”
Alarm raced through her. “Don’t. That’s a trap.”
“I know.” She could practically feel his sharp teeth bare. “I’ll handle this, Kit.”
The line went dead, but his tracker turned on. She kept her eye on it, watching over Hunter as she got to work and coordinated with Ovie regarding Hunter's location. Hunters were humans—the rare ones who did know about the existence of supernatural creatures and realms, and basically made it their living to get rid of every single one of them. As far as enemies went, they were one of the most dangerous, relying on high-tech weapons to capture, experiment on, or kill whatever they’d caught. But they hadn’t been a problem recently in New York, mostly focusing on smaller states, and the fact that two had been spotted now was a thing of concern.
The tracker kept moving until it didn’t, after which Hunter called again to report that he’d lost them and Ovie was already with him.
“Have Ovie turn on his tracker, please,” Kit requested.
“On it, DJ Kit.”
Now she kept her eyes on three trackers on her laptop screen: Hunter and Ovie in Brooklyn, and Jack somewhere in Queens. Because it wasn’t pinpoint sharp, she could only deduce their location but not fully identify it, and she satisfied herself with that as she waited for updates. Hunter eventually gave her one, stating that they could no longer find the hunters and preferred not to walk into a bigger, more elaborate trap. Because Kit agreed, she gave out a sigh of relief.
“Go home,” she pleaded. “Go get some rest, both of you. You already saved a life. I’ll keep checking the frequencies and report any new development.”
“Alright. We’ll be on standby.”
She didn’t contact Jack, and Jack didn’t contact her. She took small relief in the fact that his tracker was in the same area where his precinct was, and she let that relief ease her mind as she re-focused on other things. No call for help, no suspicious calls on the frequency. Except…
Got the culprit. Go to sleep.
She read Jack’s text twice, replied as the relief became sharper now.
The hours passed as Kit kept sitting, kept turning knobs, kept listening until her brain was foggy from lack of sleep and she knew she could no longer focus. She fought it, stubbornly holding on with her last surge of energy as she ate another tart.
When dawn passed and morning came, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the table.
Chapter 12
The man sitting on the metal chair was nervous, shifty, and restless—normally an indication that he was hiding something, but also an indication that he could just be an innocent man scared of being taken as guilty.
It didn’t help that he didn’t talk much, didn’t so much as budge or break down when they left him alone after the initial interrogation. Half an hour later, Jack knew they were wasting time, and Lemuel’s sour face when he entered the observation room told Jack just as much.
“I’m going in,” Jack said quietly, a decision that he’d wanted to act on from the very beginning. But there was still the female victim being interrogated in another room, and thankfully that was now over.
Lemuel waved a hand. “Go. I’ll watch.”
With a curt nod, Jack entered the interrogation room, watching as the man’s head snapped up. Dark gray eyes followed his movement, wary and nervous, until Jack sat on the chair opposite him.
“Good morning, Adam Jones. It’s been a long night for you.”
“Yes,” was the croaked response, right before the man cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “Can I leave now?”
Ignoring the man’s question, Jack opened the folder he held and pretended to read the files inside. In truth, he already had it committed to memory.
“Petty theft, some scuffles in bars…you certainly have a long list in your record, Mr. Jones.”
“I was a minor when those offenses were committed,” Adam blurted out, eyes widening. Now he was bristling with defensiveness. “You can’t keep me here for those.”
“We can’t,” Jack agreed. “But we can keep you here for something else. We just got back from a very thorough interview with a woman named Isabel Long.” A pause. “Do you know Isabel Long, Mr. Jones?”
“No,” was the fast response. Too fast.
“Funny.” Jack placed the folder down, letting his fingers drum on the table. He watched as Adam’s eyes followed those fingers. “Because the person who made the call on our hotline was Miss Isabel Long, and she was the one we caught you following earlier before you tried to bail on us. In fact, it looks like this isn’t the first time you’ve been following her, Mr. Jones.”
A vigorous shake of the head. “I didn’t. I don’t follow her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.” Jack stood up, sighing deeply. Deliberately. He walked towards Adam’s side of the table, hand held out as if asking for a handshake. Eagerly, the man took the hand and was just about to shake it.
Before he could, Jack snapped into action, moving with speed that could pass as human—but still very fast, as he gripped Adam’s shirt collar hard and yanked him up until they were nose-to-nose.
“What the fuck?” Adam spluttered out. “What—”
Another snap and the man’s head was pressed against the table. Jack’s other hand slapped a picture beside the head, a duplicate of the one he’d shown Kit during that first night. He watched the man take in the sight, felt the man’s body go still. He waited, sharply taking in every minuscule detail and waiting for the smallest of telltale signs: a tremor, a glint in the eye. Some kind of smug, internal joy, anything to indicate Adam was hiding something underneath the false bravado.
There was no glint, no tremor. Instead, Adam paled so thoroughly, the shock making his gray eyes glassy and lighten in color. There was revulsion, horror, and fear so stark, it could practically be tasted.
Jack took advantage of it.
“This is what happened to the last two women who called in and reported that they were being followed. This is what you’re suspected of planning to do to Miss Isabel Long if we hadn’t arrived there in time. She made the same call. We found you following her, and we connected the dots. You were planning to cut her to pieces and—”
A choking sound interrupted his monologue, followed by a great wracking.
“No, no,” Adam sobbed, voice hysterical. Scared shitless. “I wasn’t planning to hurt her. You’re right. You’re right.”
And there began a confession that the man knew Isabel Long and had a crush on her, which resulted in him stalking her to find out her interests and use them to get closer to her. Every word spoken tinged with rawness, and there was no doubt that every word was true—that Adam was a stalker, not a murderer. It should’ve given Jack relief, but now all he felt was frustration as he realized they hadn’t caught the killer.
When the confession was done, they passed Adam over to a different handler, where he would be informed that Isabel had already filed for a restraining order against him and he would be given the proper warning. Lemuel approached Jack, shaking his head.
“That was…”
“A waste of time,” Jack finished, voice short with impatience. “I’m getting out of here—”
Lemuel’s phone rang, and he removed it from his pocket. He pressed a button, then answered.
Jack stilled when he heard the other line.
“Murder in a warehouse in Queens, address forwarded, calling in for officers to come to the murder scene…”
No. No.
Lemuel kept barking questions as they both moved, and dread simmered inside Jack’s stomach as no concrete details were given. They both got in the car, drove off to the address.
Despite the lack of details, he already knew what he was going to see.
* * *
Predicting what he was going to see wasn’t the same as actually seeing it, and Jack felt his frustration rise as he finally arrived at the scene. It didn’t help that it was the exact same setup as the first two victims, and it didn’t help that while this was being called in, he and Lemuel had been busy interrogating innocent people.
It also didn’t help his suspicion that this was all deliberate, the decoy a distraction as the killer was on to their hunt for him.
Jack kept all of this locked under a veil of calm as he did his task: took pictures, made notes, talked to the first cops at the scene of the crime. It became a blur of questions and procedures, a different scene as this one happened early in the morning instead of at night.
After a while, he felt some new presence in the sea of old ones and looked up to find a younger, posh-looking man approaching them. The pinstriped suit and shades looked expensive, and polished leather shoes moved over the warehouse’s damp concrete as the man walked towards Lemuel. Everything about the movement and clothes screamed important, or at least tried to broadcast it.
“Good morning. Are you the officer in charge?”
Lemuel nodded, then tilted his head slightly in Jack’s direction. “I’m the officer in charge of the cops here, but he’s the crime analyst.”
“Good. I’m Killian Malkovich.”
The name rang in Jack’s mind as he shook the man’s offered hand. “Detective Malkovich from the homicide division. I’ve been sending over my reports and documents to you.”
The man looked pleased that he was recognized but nodded and got down to his business face right after. “You’re Jack Stallone?”
“That’s right.”
“I’d like to ask you some questions, Mr. Stallone. Actually, I’ve been meaning to communicate with you since the second murder, but you’re not easy to find.”
Lemuel gave Jack a look, then excused himself to return to the crime scene.
“I've been busy. It’s the reason why I’m not a full part of the police force anymore.”
“I understand. Are you available now? I can see you’ve gathered evidence, and I would like to pick your mind for your predictions on possible causes and such. Your report hasn’t been completed.”
There was an admonishing tone there as if the investigator didn’t like it at all. Because Jack worked with investigators before and knew this was their way of psyching minds, he nodded his head and didn’t let any of his earlier frustration show.
He was the part-time worker, and Killian was the actual one in charge. Some things, Jack just had to accept.
“I’ve got some time now.”
“We can head to a coffee shop—”
“Let’s discuss in the precinct, Mr. Malkovich. Easier and faster.”
And that was that.
Hours later, Jack left the precinct and checked his watch. Almost noontime. He stopped by a coffee shop, then a pizza parlor, ordering takeout. It wasn’t until he was in front of his destination that he realized he hadn’t driven to his apartment but to Kit’s, whose garage door immediately opened for him. Downstairs, she was waiting, though he had to give her credit for not immediately pestering him for information. She took the boxes to the kitchen counter, ushered him to sit and eat. They went for the pizza and ate in different kinds of silence: him in a disturbed, tired state, and her in bated anticipation.
Finally, after the third slice, he turned to her.
“There’s been a third victim.”
There was a flicker of hesitation before she nodded. “I know. I was woken up by the radio report of the murder.” Guilt sparked. “I fell asleep when the victim called in, so I didn’t hear it. If I could have...”
“No one’s fault,” he cut in firmly. “You weren’t supposed to hear. We all have to sleep sometime, Kit.”
“I know.” She sighed. “So what happened?”
Quietly, slowly, he told her every detail, starting from when he chased after the first alleged suspect and ending with his conversation with Killian Malkovich. She frowned, then made some complaints about investigators half-assing it and relying too much on data instead of committing to the scene. Jack acknowledged the complaint, but reasoned that Killian was a rookie and would soon learn to be hardened when faced with harsh reality.
Kit stared at him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she muttered, standing up. Then she was holding on to his shirt and tugging him up. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Bedroom. You’re tired.”
“How am I tired?” he asked, curiosity getting the best of him as he followed her. “Also, I can take the couch—”
“I already slept, and my bed is much better. Also, I can tell you’re tired because of those bags under your eyes, you’ve barely eaten any pizza when you usually inhale that shit, and the fact that you defended Killian when you usually blast the likes of him.”
“I did blast him earlier.”
“Alright. Rest, anyway,” she said cheerfully, practically pushing him to the bed. To his bafflement, his body easily went, climbing in and lying sideways.
It was the best feeling ever.
“I’ll just take a few minutes in, then I need to be up again.”
“For police work?”
“No, just some errands: laundry, dry cleaning, the likes. All police work has been passed on to Killian for now, and he’ll call me if he needs help. I have a list in my pocket, and I need to get to it today…”
His words faded off as he fell asleep.
The bedsheets smelled of Kit, something earthy and absolutely wonderful.
Murmurs came and went, some bustling, and Kit’s pleasant, cheerful voice in his ear. When he jerked to wakefulness, the first thing he did was check the clock and note that it was past five and he’d slept for a substantial amount of time.
The second thing he did was check on Kit, who wasn’t there but had left a note on the nightstand with a smiley face and very short details.
I’m off to cover for some mates at the station. Don’t be mad, but I did your list of errands. They were on the way to my errands, so might as well. Ordered food, heat it up if you want to eat. Your files are all on the table beside the couch. Hope you slept well.
He frowned, reading the message thrice and trying to make sense of the warmth spreading over him. That warmth intensified when he gave Kit a call, and her tone was softly delighted.
“Hey. Did you just wake up?”
“Yes.” Jack rubbed a hand over his face, removing any traces of sleep. “Are you on your way to the radio station?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll get out of your way as soon as I can—”
“No rush, take a shower, and get yourself well-rested. Your files are there, so unless you have more errands than the list I took stated, there’s no rush to go anymore. My home is your home.” A pause. “I would say that in Spanish, but I might butcher it. Funny, because I said the same thing to Celine when she and Hunter took you in here that first night...well, when I brought them here, technically.”
Odd how he could practically feel her dorky grin through the phone. Odder how he could feel his lips tugging in response, and he finally allowed himself that smile in her empty bedroom. He wandered over to the fridge, amused when he found his favorite sweet and sour pork dish ready to be heated.
“Alright. If you insist,” he deadpanned.
“I do insist. Anyway, I’m in the building, and I’m next on the segment, and I’m kind of running late. But…Aidan, I’m here! Don’t despair.”
