Read the first three chapters of Mastering the Art of Deception
Chapter One
The phone slipped from Antony’s fingers and hit the floor with a heavy clunk, cutting off the dispatch officer’s voice as thunder growled through the walls. He sank to his heels, breath catching, eyes fixed on Sara Miles’s body sprawled across the bed. Strands of bronze hair tangled with the blood on her arms, thighs, and breasts. A penknife lay discarded on the bedside table.
But it was the purple bruising around her neck that told the story of her final moments.
A tremor crept up Antony’s fingers as he untied her hands and folded them gently over her chest. He steadied his breath, stroked her tear-streaked cheek—a futile gesture in the face of death. For one terrible moment, he almost sank to the floor. Gave in. Let it crack him wide open.
Instead—
He stood.
Fists clenched, he stumbled down the corridor, shoving the scene from his mind.
On the kitchen counter, an open bottle of Macallan beckoned. He grabbed it, took a long swig, and stared through the back door. Another swig. Then—
He squared his shoulders and stepped into the study.
The glow of Sara’s computer cut through the dark, guiding him to the desk. He squinted at the blinking cursor, still pulsing as if waiting for her return. He read the scandalous opening paragraph, set the bottle down, and leaned in.
The tremors eased as his fingers found the keys.
Clack. Clack. The sound rose above the wind stirring through the open doors. With a final tap, her words vanished.
He turned away—then stopped.
A gleam of polished wood.
He pivoted. Eyes locked on the box on the shelf above her desk.
A chill slid down his spine.
African blackwood. Carved from a single piece. Mother-of-pearl inlay. Seamless. Keyless.
Now stained with Sara’s blood.
The third piece of Rebrisi’s masterpiece—The Three Elements—sitting there like some kitschy op-shop find.
His jaw tightened. He crossed the floor. Paused—just for a moment. Then reached. Hands steady. Jaw set—
Bang.
He froze. His breath loud in his ears. Wind howled through the doors. Beneath it: voices—low, clipped, professional. A car door slammed. A radio crackled.
A knock. Followed by boots on pavement.
“POLICE. OPEN UP.”
His throat tightened.
The evening—already catastrophic—was about to get worse.
The box—forgotten. Sara’s body—cooling in the next room.
He rolled his eyes. Of course—discovered . . . with blood on his hands.
There was only one thing left to do.
He lifted the bottle—
and drank.
#
“You’re here about a disturbance?” Antony asked, eyeing the two officers across the threshold.
Detective Katrine Ratcliffe stepped forward.
Five foot seven, platinum-blond, and radiating restless energy, she moved with a predator’s grace—cool, composed, and taut with threat. She carried the presence of someone used to commanding the room.
Her partner, Detective Kyle Saunders, loomed a half-step behind. Broader, with linebacker shoulders and a flattened nose, he looked more like her muscle than her equal.
Antony exhaled slowly, hiding his bloodstained cuff beneath his palm as he stepped aside. Ratcliffe was already scanning the space with practiced eyes. Saunders followed, his bulk filling the doorway.
A dark blur shot through the entrance, claws skittering on hardwood.
“Shit!” Saunders flinched. “What the hell was that?”
A hiss answered as the Maine Coon crab-walked toward the kitchen, tail puffed out like a feather duster.
“Tib!” Antony dropped to his knees, his cool façade slipping. The cat halted, sniffed, and returned, pressing against his leg. A loud purr filled the foyer.
Ratcliffe’s eyes flicked between Antony and the animal, one brow raised. “Friendly, isn’t he?”
“Depends who you ask,” Antony muttered. “He bites.”
“So do I.”
Ratcliffe’s gaze snapped to the back of the house. “Right, then. What’s this all about? Dispatch said it was a domestic dispute.”
Antony scooped the Maine Coon into his arms and led them into the front room. Ratcliffe planted herself in front of the fireplace, arms crossed—the picture of quiet judgment.
At the bay window, Saunders scanned the street beyond.
Antony’s voice darkened. “Not exactly.” His chest constricted, stomach churning. He lowered himself onto the silk sofa, the cat curling into his lap. “There’s been a murder.”
Ratcliffe’s brow lifted. “A murder? So, we’ve got a body, then?”
Antony nodded, stroking the cat’s fur with unsteady hands. “Before you ask, it wasn’t me. I tried to resuscitate her.”
She stiffened, shooting Saunders a look. He vanished into the corridor.
Minutes later, he returned, speaking into the mic clipped to his jacket. In his gloved hand: a Stanley knife and a roll of duct tape in an evidence bag.
“Affirmative, sir,” he said. “I’ll relay this to Ratcliffe now.”
Thunder rolled overhead as he released the transmit button. “Scene’s secure. Victim’s in the back bedroom. CSI’s already on the way.”
Another rumble shook the room. “We’ve logged multiple calls to this address tonight.” He paused, gaze fixing on Antony.
Antony’s hands stilled.
Ratcliffe gave a grim nod. “I’ll say it—looks like the work of the Bayside Ripper.”
#
Over the next hour, Sara Miles’s swanky bungalow transformed into the epicenter of a full-blown crime scene investigation. Police cordoned off the front and rear of the property, the driveway, and the garden, weaving a giant spiderweb of yellow tape. Inside, forensic techs in coveralls and nitrile gloves combed the bedroom, the living room, and the kitchen.
They spent the first thirty minutes photographing the body from every conceivable angle. Then came the bagging and tagging. Antony groaned as—despite his protests—the bottle of Macallan vanished into an evidence bag. With a resigned sigh, he returned to his perch by the window, settling Tib into his lap as more news crews gathered on the lawn.
Vans with swiveling satellite dishes jammed the street. Cameramen jockeyed for position, their broadcast lenses trained on anything that moved, while predatory reporters whispered into mics held centimeters from their glossy lips. Antony pressed his forehead to the cool glass, fingers sinking into the ruff at Tib’s neck. The cat’s low purr deepened.
Outside, Ratcliffe and Saunders stood on the veranda, their voices drifting in through the open doorway.
“You’ve been keeping tabs?” Saunders folded his arms, casting Ratcliffe a long, judgmental look.
She shrugged. “Gut feeling.” A beat. No longer than a breath. “On paper, she’s renting in Bayside, but no one’s seen her. Then she shows up tonight. With Landvik.”
Thunder rolled in the distance.
“He’s up to something—I can feel it.”
Saunders sighed. “So bring him in.”
Footsteps creaked behind Antony. He turned as an officer approached, carrying a pet carrier.
“What the hell?”
The officer gave a weary shrug. “I’ve been instructed to take the cat down to forensics.”
“Why?”
“Detective Ratcliffe says he bites. If he bit our perp, there might be DNA.”
Antony’s brows lifted. “You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. Tib growled low in his throat as she stepped closer, the door of the cage clinking open.
Antony’s grip tightened on the cat. “He won’t go in that.”
“It’s a workplace health and safety issue, sir.”
“Then do it here.”
“It has to be at the lab,” she said, her mouth setting into a firm line.
He arched a brow. “Why bother? Seems like a long shot.”
Her voice softened, though her patience was wearing thin. “Because any small detail might lead us to the Bayside Ripper.”
Antony huffed. “Well, I suppose you’ll take anything you can get. What is it now—four murders? Five? I’m losing count.” He turned back to the window and the circus on the lawn. Grief threatened to crack his tightly held façade.
“Your cooperation would be much appreciated,” she said, frustration creeping in. “It won’t take long. Just a DNA swab. I’ll return the cat personally.”
Tib growled again.
The officer sighed. “Fine. Have it your way. Keep the cat. But that means we’ll need both of you to come down to the station.”
Chapter Two
Annouie Bach stepped off the last train to Haynes Park, her boots thudding softly on the platform. She moved with loose-limbed precision, scanning her surroundings, unfazed by the unseasonable warmth. A bronze statue loomed—some forgotten general astride a rearing horse—but she barely glanced at it. Something was off. She could feel it.
The river path lay ahead. Warehouses lined the edge, their shadows spilling into the night. She felt him before she saw him: the man tailing her, keeping his distance. Easy enough to lose him in the warren of streets south of here—but as she already knew who he was and what he wanted, she didn’t.
She ascended the ramp into the wooded park. Beneath a flickering streetlamp, she checked the time. Just on two. Her tail lingered in the dark, watching.
Through the deserted play area, then out onto River Street. She didn’t break stride. Halfway down, the old mill rose—four stories of crumbling brick swallowing the sidewalk in shadow. Faded print on a plaque: The Old Paper Works, Circa 1876. A gust tugged at an official-looking notice taped to the door.
She ripped it down. FINAL DEMAND glared in red ink—a sharp reminder she was behind on the protection payments. As she crumpled the notice, a flicker of flame lit the street. Her tail stepped into view, cigarette glowing.
Mentor. Handler.
The reason her dad was in prison.
“John Chrysler Anderson,” she muttered.
Tall. Dark hair curling against his scalp. A broad nose hinting at African ancestry.
He flicked ash to the pavement.
“You’re off the Denny Maxwell case,” he said, mellow baritone cutting through the air.
“What?” Her voice cracked. “Why?”
He pulled a tablet from his coat. “Got something else for you. More urgent. And it pays better. You can say no, of course—but you won’t.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If this is another shitty honey trap—”
“Not a honey trap. Surveillance. But you’ll need to get close.” He passed her the tablet.
Newspaper headline. Transcript. A headshot.
Antony Meyer-Edwards. Disgraced concert pianist. Devil-may-care glint in his eyes.
She stared for a long beat—then shoved the tablet back. “Go fuck yourself.”
Anderson leaned in. “What if I told you he has Rebrisi’s Second Element?”
Her breath caught. “The missing manuscript?”
For a moment, her eyes lit up with curiosity. There were whispers on the dark web: the first piece, a painting, hanging in the Fonteyn Gallery. If the second was in play—
She snapped her defenses back up. “Still won’t touch it.”
He smiled. “Not even for two hundred grand?”
Her heart kicked. “Two hundred thousand to get close to him?”
Tempting. Too tempting.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. You’re a world-class musician. You’ve got the look. The attitude. All you have to do is audition."
“I was expelled from the Conservatory.”
“All taken care of.”
She blinked. “How?”
He shrugged. “Everything has a price in this world.”
He handed her the tablet again. “So. You want back in?”
She did. But Antony Meyer-Edwards? Arrogant. Infuriating. Magnetic.
The man was trouble in an Armani suit.
“Study your mark,” Anderson said. “Know him better than yourself. I can’t interfere with the selection process. It’s all up to you.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“You’re up against hopefuls who’ve had months to prep. Bring your A-game.”
He flicked his cigarette to the pavement and buttoned his Louis Vuitton jacket.
She hesitated. Two hundred thousand. Reinstatement. It was almost too good.
“I’ll take it.”
A flash of teeth. “Knew you would.” His gaze roved over her face, settling on her lips. “I’ll be at the Dorset.”
She exhaled slowly. “One more thing—I want half up front.” A calculated risk—but who else could he get?
Anderson blinked. “You want what?”
“One hundred thousand now. Or find someone else.”
His jaw flexed. “That may be difficult to arrange.”
“Then we don’t have a deal.”
He sighed. “Fine.”
“And the phone call you promised. I want that too.”
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Anything else?”
“That’s it.”
She watched him disappear into the dark, then put her shoulder to the door.
The factory yawned open—ruined floor, stacked beams, broken bricks. Moonlight spilled through clerestory windows. Beneath them—a battered broom and a wheelbarrow. She moved through the space, climbing the new metal stairs to the foreman’s office.
The French doors hung open. She crossed to them.
The river surged below, muscular and dark, moonlight catching on the current like spilled milk. The air was briny, laced with a pungent note of rotting fish. For a moment, she lingered—a tiny concession, barely a heartbeat, to remember who she had been before Security and Risk.
Before Anderson.
Not the spy. Not the thief. Just Annouie.
A moment. Then—
She turned away.
In the bathroom, a claw-foot tub gleamed, its antique showerhead a lucky thrift-store find. The boiler beside it, salvaged from the curb, wheezed softly.
She twisted the ancient tap. Water hissed from the bronze showerhead. Stripping, she studied herself in the mirror: a purple bruise on her hip. Jagged scratches across her back. Reminders that sometimes even her skill wasn’t enough.
She stepped into the tub, the hot water stinging. Then soothing. She scrubbed until the last traces of the night’s mission—and Denny Maxwell—swirled down the drain.
Gone.
But not forgotten.
She shut off the water and stepped from the tub, pipes singing as she knelt beside her bag. Inside: Denny’s files. Decrypting them would be tough. Linking them to the numbered accounts? Tougher. But without them, there was no proof her dad hadn’t known about the art, the auction site, or the embezzled millions.
She had to crack them. There was no Plan B.
She reached for her corset. Removed the drive.
And the business card.
The elegant typeface glistened in the poor light.
Timothy Gibson
Artist
What it didn’t say: forger. Criminal. The architect behind her dad’s imprisonment.
Below: a number and the Fonteyn Gallery address.
She had the accountant.
It was time to go after Gibson.
She flicked the card onto her desk and began to dress—already running through her next moves.
#
Three wooden barstools stood before the marble-topped kitchen island—purchased with five percent skimmed from the Milan job. The matte navy cupboards mounted on the cement-rendered wall? Ten percent from a surveillance gig. The freestanding oven, all old-world charm and a gas stovetop? Everything from her six grueling months undercover as a paralegal.
Annouie stepped onto the factory floor, eyes narrowing as she scanned her surroundings.
Dust coated the unfinished floorboards. A pair of carved wooden columns framed the divide between the kitchen and dining room. Between them, flanked by a half-rendered wall, stood a gleaming oak table—the room’s centerpiece.
A nine-foot grand piano sat on a riser in the far corner, the golden letters visible even at a distance—La Belle Dame.
A scuff drew her attention. Then a rattle.
The front door burst open.
Andre Landvik—former MIT tech prodigy— strode in, right on schedule, his Jimmy Choo high-tops whispering across the concrete floor. A leather messenger bag thumped against his chest; a paper bag swung from his hand.
“Coffee,” he called, his dark Eurasian eyes glinting as he set two large paper cups on the kitchen counter.
Annouie turned from the piano, eyes closing as the aroma hit her. Medium roast. Arabica blend. With chai.
Andre slid onto a stool and nudged her cup toward her. “What did the dean say?”
She sat opposite, lifting the cup to her lips. “Never got to speak to him,” she lied, taking a sip. “He canceled at the last minute.”
We won’t be overturning your expulsion at this time.
Andre’s mouth flattened. Without a word, he pushed his coffee aside, slung his bag onto the counter, and withdrew Version 1.1—his sleek laptop prototype.
“Say the word and I’ll expunge the record for you,” he said, flipping open the lid. The screen flared to life as his fingers hovered over the keyboard.
“No need. Anderson took care of it,” she said, watching him over the rim of her cup.
“He did what?” Andre’s fingers flew over the keys, hacking the conservatory firewall in seconds. “If Anderson did that—” He sucked in a breath. “Your record’s gone. Not even a blip.” He turned to her, eyes sharp. “What’s he up to?”
“We have a new assignment.”
“And?”
“The mark is Antony Meyer-Edwards.”
Andre’s brow lifted. “The musician?”
She nodded. “I’m auditioning for him at eleven. Catch is—if he doesn’t choose me, the deal’s off.”
The clacking resumed, sharper now. “He’ll choose you.”
Annouie offered a tired smile. Her gaze drifted to the clock above the stove. Almost three. She smothered a yawn. “How’s our crooked accountant?”
Andre flicked his pastel-pink hair from his eyes. “Denny’s pissed, as you’d expect. Not thrilled about sitting tight at the safe house. But once I explained his role—and the immunity deal—he came around.”
“He agreed to link the accounts?”
Andre nodded.
“And the files? Can you decrypt them?”
He pounded the keyboard. “Depends on the algorithms. Won’t know until I take a crack at it.” He held out a hand. “Stick.”
Annouie pulled the drive from her vest and slid it across the marble.
Andre plugged it in and waited for the directories to load. With a few deft clicks, he selected all the encrypted files and dragged them into an app labeled Decryptomagic.
“This’ll take a few hours to run,” he said, watching her over the screen. He gave a sharp exhale. “You don’t have to do this. I can handle it. You could lie low until it’s over.”
She shook her head.
“What if you get caught?” His eyes shone. “You heard what happened to that operative in California. They still haven’t found the rest of his body.”
Lightning cracked over the river. Rain began to pepper the pavement beyond the windows.
She shrugged. “I’m not getting caught. Because unlike Enrico Sanchez—I don’t get sloppy.”
#
A few minutes after five, Annouie’s phone buzzed.
Anderson: A phone’s been smuggled into Isidore. I hope you appreciate the lengths I’ve gone for you.
She let out a dry, bitter laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she glanced toward the open French doors, where the river’s low rumble mingled with the rush of a cool morning breeze.
Lengths?
The wrought-iron bed creaked as she shifted. She dialed, hit speaker, and held her breath, counting each ring as it echoed through the room.
Isidore picked up on the fifth.
“Oh, God!” she whispered, her throat tightening.
“Breathe,” he said, his voice crackling through the line.
She closed her eyes, letting the familiar warmth of his mellow tenor wash over her.
“I—” She exhaled. “Isidore—”
“Call me Dad.”
A beat.
“Dad.” The word slipped out on a breath, vanishing into the chill air. “I found the accountant.”
The words hung there, suspended.
Finally, he broke the silence—his voice low, strained. “My lawyers came today. They’re confident. Think they can mount a good defense. I’ll be out before you know it.”
She leaned forward, gripped the phone tighter. “That’s what they said last time. I have a plan—"
“Annouie.” His voice cut in, sharper now. “Stay out of this. Some very bad people engineered those accounts. They’ll do anything—and I mean anything—to protect their interests.”
Her jaw clenched. “So will I.”
A rasp of breath slid down the line. “Let it go. For all our sakes.” A pause. Then, softer: “I’m fine. That’s all you need to know. Trust me on that.”
Another beat. Then a hurried whisper—
“I’m sorry—I’ve gotta go, sweetheart.”
She opened her mouth—
But the line was already dead.
Chapter Three
The police cruiser rolled up to a red light. Saunders swiveled to glance at Tib. “You really think this furball’s gonna help us catch the Bayside Ripper?”
Antony scratched behind the cat’s ears. Tib snuffled once, curled up in his lap, and began to purr.
Police chatter crackled from the radio, underscoring the lull. The light turned green, and the V6 surged forward.
Ratcliffe flicked the turn signal, guiding the cruiser down a narrow side street.
“If the cat nipped our perp, forensics might pull DNA,” she said.
Antony tightened his hold as the gray bulk of the precinct loomed ahead.
“How long is this going to take?”
No one answered.
The cruiser bounced over the curb cut, passed through the security gate, and slid into a space at the back of the lot.
The moment it stopped, Saunders and Ratcliffe stepped out without a word.
Antony grabbed the door handle. Nothing. He yanked harder.
Saunders leaned in and popped the lock.
“You locked the damn doors?” Antony muttered, climbing out with Tib in his arms.
“Standard procedure,” Saunders said with a shrug.
“Thought I wasn’t a suspect.”
“Everyone’s a suspect.”
He gave Antony a light prod toward the building.
They climbed the stairs. Saunders swiped his access card, and the rear door buzzed open. Harsh fluorescent light spilled into the narrow corridor as they stepped inside.
Ratcliffe pushed through a metal door, leading them into the station’s busy reception area.
She pointed. “Take a seat. We’ll be right back.” The door clanged shut behind her.
Antony scanned the room. Behind the plexiglass counter, an officer helped a drunken woman file a report. Phones rang. Emails pinged. Voices buzzed in every direction.
He sank onto the nearest metal bench, nose wrinkling as the sour reek of vomit wafted his way. A man two seats over muttered to himself, swaying.
Antony shifted away, murmuring to the cat in his arms.
A door creaked open. Ratcliffe reappeared—this time with a pet carrier.
Her eyes locked on him. “Mr. Edwards,” she said crisply. “Give me the cat.”
Tib squirmed, claws digging into Antony’s sleeve.
She stepped closer. “Can’t have animals in here. Hand it over, and then we can talk about what happened tonight.”
She set the carrier on the floor and reached. Tib hissed.
Antony stood, grip tightening. “Tib stays with me.”
Her scoff was sharp. “Not procedure. It can’t come into the interview room.”
“He’s a he, not an it. And I’m keeping him with me.”
Ratcliffe turned toward the glass. “Detective Saunders? A little help here.”
Moments later, Saunders emerged. “Would you mind stepping into the hallway, sir?”
Antony exhaled and followed, Tib clutched to his chest.
The door clicked shut behind them. Saunders turned, brow furrowed. “I feel like I’ve seen you before.”
Antony shrugged. “Yes. At the house.”
Saunders squinted. “Never been booked?”
Antony’s pulse ticked higher. “Never.”
A small lie.
They locked eyes for several long seconds.
Antony backed up.
Saunders’s jaw clenched. “We can do this the easy way or—”
He lunged.
Tib exploded from Antony’s arms—an eruption of claws, teeth, and fur.
#
Antony winced, face throbbing as he pressed the ice pack to his swollen eye. Tib was gone—locked somewhere in the precinct. He sank into the seat as the interview room door swung open.
Ratcliffe strode in and dropped a stack of folders onto the desk with a dull thud.
“Apologies for that,” she said. “Things got out of hand. Detective Saunders will be along shortly, as soon as the medic finishes with him.”
Antony raised a brow. “He’s hurt?”
Her lips twitched. “He’ll live. Mr. Edwards, correct?”
“Meyer-Edwards,” he corrected.
“Right. Meyer-Edwards. Apologies for the wait—it’s been a busy night. Would you like something to drink?”
“Bourbon, neat.”
Her smile was quick, razor-sharp. “Just tea or coffee, I’m afraid.”
“Fine. Coffee. Black. Lots of sugar.”
She stepped into the corridor, issued instructions to someone unseen, then returned—posture straight, boots clicking. Everything about her—crisp white shirt, tailored navy jacket—broadcast calm control.
“Food?” she asked.
Antony grimaced. “God, no.”
She didn’t press, sliding into the plastic seat opposite. A moment later, a uniformed officer arrived with a mug, a teapot, and a plate of sandwiches. Ratcliffe nudged the mug toward him and claimed a sandwich for herself.
“Should take the edge off,” she said, biting into it as she flipped open the top folder. Statement of Mona Rees was scrawled across the top.
“Before we begin, this interview is being recorded. For the record, please state your full name, age and address.”
He rattled off the information while she leafed through more pages, then—
She pulled a pen from behind her ear, opened her notebook, and fixed him with her predatory ice-blue gaze.
“You told my colleague you’d spoken to the deceased earlier tonight.”
He nodded.
“You argued?”
“We disagreed.”
“About?”
“An article she was writing.”
Her brow lifted. “So you went to confront her about it?”
“To talk.”
“And when you arrived, she was already dead?”
“Yes.”
“What time was that?”
“About eleven-thirty.”
“Anyone who can verify that?”
“No.”
She flipped to the next page and slid a typewritten report across the table. Antony squinted, scanning the redacted lines.
Incident Report 1
At 5:22 a.m. on February 12, I was dispatched to 56 Turnbull Avenue. Mrs. Gilda Forrest reported finding the body of her neighbor, Rita Holmes.
Holmes returned home around 8:00 p.m. with a man believed to be Mr. Peter Darby of Lomanville. Reddish-brown hair. Over six feet. Lean. Notably handsome.
They entered the house. Three hours of quiet. Music started around 11.
Mrs. Forrest went to bed. Woke again at 2:00 a.m. to loud music. Knocked. No answer. Saw Holmes through the sidelight: naked, bound, gagged. Hair hacked off. Multiple stab wounds.
Called emergency services. Confirmed deceased upon entry.
Antony pushed the report away. “What’s this got to do with me?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Ratcliffe said, pen poised.
He frowned. “I’m not sure what you’re driving at.”
“Ring any bells?”
“No bells ringing.”
She made a note. Denies knowledge of previous victims.
“What about Sara Miles?”
“What about her?”
“You were overheard arguing. In your dressing room. Want to explain?”
His irritation flared. “It was over the phone. And ‘arguing’ is generous. It was a discussion.”
“Did you take a prohibited substance this evening?”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Did you do drugs before the concert?”
“I have a prescription. For anxiety.”
She arched a brow. “Why did you go to Belmont Beach?”
“To talk about the article. As I said.”
“Did you threaten her?”
He met Ratcliffe’s gaze. “Only with legal action.”
“Care to elaborate?”
He sighed. “No. Not unless you’re planning to arrest me. Am I under arrest?”
Her smile thinned. “Were you and Ms. Miles ever romantically involved?”
“Briefly.”
“She ended it?”
“Yes.”
“Because she found something out about you?”
He tilted his head. “Such as?”
“Shady past? Drug habit? Moonlighting as a serial killer?”
“Jesus.”
“Well?”
“Am I under arrest?”
Her tone cooled. “Did she have a reason to fear you?”
He snapped, “Answer the damn question. Am I under arrest?”
Ratcliffe leaned back. “We can detain without charge if needed to secure evidence.”
“So, no,” he said, already rising. “Not under arrest.”
“Sit down, Mr. Meyer-Edwards.”
“Either arrest me, or I walk.”
She slid a photograph across the table.
A blonde woman, her hair hacked off like Sara’s.
“The Bayside Ripper’s first victim,” Ratcliffe said.
Another photo followed. Deeper wounds. Bloodier.
“This was his second. Those injuries? Done with a penknife.”
Antony stared at the photo. “Like Sara’s?”
“These women were murdered in Bayside. Until tonight, we thought our perp favored the Lower North.”
She slipped the photos back into the folder.
“Where were you on August 12th?”
He shrugged. “No idea. Not Bayside.”
“September 15th?”
“Probably in a bar. Still not Bayside. Are we done now?”
The door swung open. Saunders entered, ice pack pressed to his cheek.
“Chief wants us in briefing.”
Antony stood. “Guess that means I’m free to go.”
“Afraid not.” Saunders shook his head. “Knew I’d seen you somewhere. Warrant was on my desk.”
“What?”
Saunders straightened. “Mr. Meyer-Edwards, you’re under arrest for disorderly conduct and public disturbance.”
Antony froze. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.” Saunders shrugged. “Acting on a complaint.”
“Whose?”
“Thibault Messier. On behalf of the Friends of the Town Hall.”
Antony scoffed. “That old fraud!” He dropped back into the chair with a bitter laugh. “Fine. Do I at least get a phone call?” “Sure,” Saunders said. “Right after we book you.”
Hooked?