Darkness surged fast and cold as tidewater, and the world folded away.
Chapter Forty-Eight
(12:48 a.m.)
“You’re wasting your time, Slade.” Frost’s voice was silk snagged on wire, the faintest tremor running behind the smooth façade. He reclined in his chair, arms loose, the smirk working overtime. “You’ve got nothing on me.”
Rick sat across the table, feet planted wide, arms folded across his chest. The swing lamp hummed overhead, its cone of light bleaching Frost’s pale face and leaving the rest of the room in murk. Rick had sat through enough interrogations to know the rhythms—the liars who cracked too quick, the killers who couldn’t stop talking. Frost wasn’t like them. He carried himself like the whole thing was a theatre, and he was waiting for the applause.
“We’ve got enough to put you in front of a jury,” Rick said flatly.
Frost’s mouth twitched, just enough to flash teeth. “Circumstantial. It doesn’t prove I killed anyone.” He tapped a fingertip against the table, a quiet, staccato beat betraying nerves.
Rick let the silence spool out, watching the tick, the little leak in the mask, before leaning forward. “Then why the shrine in your study? The photos. The files. The notes on every victim, neat as a ledger.”
Frost tilted his head like a cat toying with a mouse. “Because somebody had to do your job for you. The people of Calgrave deserve to know what’s stalking their streets. Weeks of bodies piling up, no warning from you or your boys in blue. I was compiling a story, a record. If anything, you should thank me.”
Rick studied him. The gall, the arrogance. He’d seen murderers cloak themselves in justifications before, and Frost’s were ready for print. But worst of all, he didn’t smell guilty; no sour tang of sweat coming off his skin, no thrum of a racing pulse to betray him. Either he was telling the truth, or his mask was carved from stone. “How noble of you.”
“My college friend was one of the victims.” Frost’s voice dipped, as though pulling out a line rehearsed for pity. “That’s what prompted me to dig for the truth. I want the culprit brought to justice as much as you do.”
Rick’s lip curled. “And become a journalistic star in the process.”
“I wouldn’t mind some deserved recognition.” Frost spread his hands, bracelets clinking faintly.
Rick let a beat drag. Then: “So how did you know about the murders? You were already scouring the crime scenes before we even finished cleaning them.”
Frost’s eyes flickered away, then returned to Rick’s. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the table. “I… might’ve gotten myself a canary from your department.”
“A canary?”
“That’s right.”
“And I suppose you won’t tell me who it is?”
“A reporter never reveals his sources.”
“Right.” Rick resisted dragging his hand over his face. This was going nowhere. But he wasn’t about to show his frustration to Frost. “And what about the scalpel? Blood still on it. You telling me it sprouted legs and walked into your apartment?”
Frost sighed. “I told you, it was left in my mailbox. I hadn’t even opened the damn thing until your stormtroopers barged in. Someone’s framing me.”
Rick snorted. “And who’d bother with that?”
“Maybe the same people who’d rather my reporting stay buried.” Frost’s gaze sharpened, cutting. “Maybe even you, Detective. Wouldn’t that be neat? Make the nosy journalist your trophy while the real killer keeps hunting.”
Rick rose slow, looming over him like a storm front. He braced both palms on the table, leaned in until he saw Frost’s pulse jump beneath the skin. His voice dropped, stone and steel. “If I wanted to get rid of you, Frost, I wouldn’t waste my time with paperwork. I’d kill you and bury what was left so deep no one would ever find it.”
The words landed. Frost’s smirk cracked, fear flickering raw in his eyes before he slammed the mask into place. “Look. I’ve dug up dirt on half the big names in this town, Slade. I’ve exposed bigger fish than you could fry in a lifetime. Men like that don’t forgive. Maybe you oughta check their closets before you pin their skeletons on me.”
Silence stretched. Before Rick could speak again, the door swung open and Walter Neff swept in: sharp suit, sharper briefcase, every inch the high-class predator. Rick knew the type. Hell, he knew the name. Neff had gotten mob bosses acquitted, oily real-estate moguls walked clean, dirty mayors re-elected. Money didn’t buy him loyalty, but it bought his brilliance and ruthlessness in court. Of course it would be him coming to Frost’s rescue.
“Detective Slade,” Neff said smoothly, setting his briefcase on the table with a thud. “Interrogating my client without counsel present? That’s a civil rights violation, right there. I could bury you under paperwork until your badge rusts.”
Rick straightened to his full height, staring down at the lawyer. “We were just chatting. Off the record.”
Neff’s smile was as thin as a razor. He glanced at Frost, then back. Rick caught the flicker in his eyes, a shadow of unease at being towered over. Men like Neff didn’t like being remindedthere were forces in the world they couldn’t intimidate or sue into submission. “My client won’t bechattinganymore,” he said coolly.
Rick gave Frost one last glance, let the silence drag its weight across the room. He turned for the door, voice flat. “Fine. But he’s not walking out tonight.”
