The Dark Places by R. Whitfield (novel24 TXT) 📕

pace back and forth in the impressive living room, talking out loud to herself. A few of the other detectives, including the chief, had stopped to listen, but she didn’t notice.

After a minute or two of silence, her head snapped up. “Current boyfriend, agent or manager,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Round ‘em up, get their DNA and you have your killer.” She walked back over to the chief. “This was not him,” she said, “so basically, someone woke me up for a garden-variety crime of passion? I’m going back to bed.” She motioned in Parker’s direction. “Let’s go.”

The car ride back to Surin’s apartment was a quiet one. Parker watched her out of the corner of his eye. Her features were quite breathtaking. Black hair, thick and long, tied back messily in a plait. Almond-shaped green eyes that were maybe a little too big, giving her a doe-like appearance. She was five-foot-seven and slim, and he was sure that if he ever got to see her actually genuinely smile, that it too would be perfect. Unfortunately, there was a chip the size of Mars on her shoulder that he was pretty sure no person would ever be able to grind down. There is a story there, he thought.

“Who’s ‘him?’” he asked, after twenty minutes of silence.

Surin looked over at him and shook her head. “You read the paper, Rhodes?”

“In all my spare time? No, not really. I see enough to know the media is full of it.”

“Good answer,” she replied. “It wouldn’t matter anyway because I have made it my personal mission that what I’m about to tell you does not hit the paper for as long as physically possible.”

“OK,” he answered hesitantly.

“We have a serial killer in Baltimore who likes young, pretty, dark-haired women.” Surin looked straight at Parker. “Pull the car over.”

“What?” he asked. “Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious, Parker. You need to learn that sooner rather than later.”

He hit the brakes, and the car screeched into the kerb. He flicked his hazards on and turned to face her.

“What is so important that you have me pull over at six thirty in the morning on the side of the freeway? You’re going to get us killed!”

“I have the case file in my bag.” Surin reached into her briefcase in the backseat of the car.

“You carry it with you?” he asked.

“Of course,” she answered, staring at him earnestly.

He laughed out loud, a rich, full laugh, and she looked up at him, confused.

“Of course you do, let’s have a look then.”

She produced a large, thick black file. “OK, at first the chief thought I was nuts,” she stated. Parker shifted in his seat. “I saw that look, Parker, let me explain.” She opened the folder to a five by seven headshot of a gorgeous college-age girl.

“This is Emma,” Surin said quietly. Parker heard the sadness in her voice. “As far as I can tell, this was his first victim.”

“His?” Parker questioned.

“I’ll get to that,” she replied.

5

He liked to watch. Everything. The way she walked, small, fast steps with her head down, clasping her bag to her side, cringing from the sharp wind, how she adjusted her clothes self-consciously as she walked past a shop front. He loved how strands of her ebony hair flew free from the constraints of her matronly bun and that she often teetered in impossibly high heels but continued on at pace.

This is why he chose her, all these reasons and more. He glanced down at his vibrating phone and before answering, chanced one last look in her direction. She was talking to a street vendor selling flowers and smiled shyly before paying for a bunch of yellow daisies. Soon, he promised, and turned and walked away.

6

Parker sat on Surin’s couch, cradling a large cup of coffee.

“Do you want something to eat?” she called from the kitchen. “I keep forgetting we have been up since three. I think I’m running on fumes!”

“No, I’m fine thanks,” Parker replied.

He glanced around Surin’s living room. White, functional, clean. The sofa was a deep-grey with a matching ottoman. There were large floor lamps which made the room feel cosy and warm. The main feature, a giant black-framed mirror, hung in the centre of the room above a flat-screen TV. It was bordered by two small canvas paintings depicting tiny black birds in vintage-style cages.

A decorative bowl was the centrepiece of a smooth snow-white buffet, overflowing with various keys and knick-knacks. There was a photo frame with a black-and-white picture of a happy couple at their wedding, her parents he assumed.

“OK, let’s get started,” she stated, walking back into the living room with a large pot of coffee.

“Figured we might need this,” she said as she set the coffee on the small side table and then sat on the couch tucking her legs underneath her.

“So, last year I was called to the scene of a murder in Heathwood. It was a college student, Jessica Moroe, twenty-two-year-old, raped, murdered and then her body dumped. When I got there and saw her, it felt so familiar. I couldn’t shake the feeling, like déjà vu, you know what I mean?” Surin gestured towards him. Parker nodded, allowing her to continue. “So, I started digging. Old case files, the papers, the internet, you name it, and that’s when I found Emma.” She shifted slightly in her chair. “I remembered back in my rookie days reading about a young waitress who went missing for four days and was then found raped and murdered not far from her home in Banyo, well that was nineteen-year-old Emma Silverman. Then I found another victim, Kara Pettiman, murdered three years ago in Petersburg, well, they literally could have been twins. Beautiful, dark hair, around the same height, same build, both missing for four days, both