“So?” he asked, tone casual. “Who’s this Declan Frost guy?”
Rick slowed to a halt, shoes set firm against the pavement. His face had gone stony, that mask restored. “He’s a journalist. Been sniffing around homicide scenes for years, but since this case… He always shows up first, even when the locations aren’t public. I figured he had someone inside feeding him tips.” His mouth flattened. “But if he’s tied up with Price…” He let the thought hang, jaw working. “That makes it one hell of a coincidence.”
Ash drifted toward the Harley parked nearby, its frame hunched beside one of the trees. He dug out the key from his pocket, metal clinking in the lock. “You think he might be the Sculptor?”
Rick’s gaze roamed upward, past the trees and closed windows, to where the towers cut a jagged line against a sliver of gray sky. “I’m thinking he just climbed to the top of the list.”
Ash swung a leg over the seat, the leather groaning under him. “So, do we go snoop around his place?”
“No.” Rick’s answer came measured, heavy, as if he was still weighing the options himself. “If Declan’s our guy, we go by the book. I’ll head to the station, dig up anything tying him to the other victims. With enough, we might get a search warrant.” He glanced over, hesitation wavering across his face before he covered it with irony. “Don’t suppose you’re itching to tag along for another thrilling day at the office?”
Ash let a smirk tug at his mouth, though it never settled. “Think I’ll dig from my end. Someone out there’s bound to have dirt on the guy.”
Rick turned sharply, shoulders taut. “Absolutely not! I’m not letting you strut through cheap joints and back alleys alonewhile some butcher’s out there carving up boys much less pretty than you. It ain’t safe.”
Ash’s fingers tightened on the bike’s handlebars, the leather grip digging into his glove. “Letting me?” The words stung sharper than they should have. He told himself it was only a slip, nothing more, but the old burn surged forward anyway, the vow he’d etched into himself years ago never to depend, never hand over the reins, never let anyone put a chain around his self-sufficiency. “Last I checked, you don’t own me.”
Rick stepped closer, too close, his jaw working like he was grinding down words that wouldn’t behave. “Don’t be stupid, kid. You know that’s not what I meant.” The growl in his throat hid something rougher than anger, but it scraped Ash raw all the same.
He gave a short laugh, cold as the breeze curling around them. “Oh, so now I’m stupid, too? Nice.”
Rick’s hands curled into fists at his sides, chest heaving with a rough breath. For a second, Ash thought he might lunge, grab him, shake him, or maybe just hold him there so he couldn’t take off. There was a wildness in his expression, not only fury but something hotter, more desperate, the kind of look that made Ash’s gut twist. When Rick finally spoke, the words came out raw, frustrated, like he’d lost the tight grip he kept on himself. “You certainly act that way.”
The second it left his mouth, Ash saw the regret flicker there, the blunder Rick couldn’t take back.
The engine coughed awake under Ash’s twisting hand, loud and alive between his thighs. He could’ve stayed, let Rick stumble through an apology in that stiff, awkward way of his. That would’ve been the grown-up thing. But pride had sharper teeth than logic. He snorted, hit the throttle. “So long, copper.”
“Ash, wait…” Rick’s voice cracked around the words, anguish bleeding past the cracks in his control. “I didn’t mean…”
Too late.
Ash kicked off the curb, Harley leaping forward in a snarl of steel and smoke.
“Ash!” Rick called after him, but his words were swallowed by the roar.
The city blurred into wind and noise, high-rises slicing the sky into slivers of glass and steel. Traffic surged around him, taxis honking, the sour stink of exhaust catching in his throat. He didn’t glance back. Let Rick stew in his own words. Still, the sting rode with him, sharper than the cold, dogging his heels no matter how hard he pushed the throttle. And there was no way to outrun it.
Chapter Forty-Four
(3:15 p.m.)
Rick entered the Spire with the grit of Calgrave clinging to his coat, the sour sting of diesel and damp asphalt lodged in his lungs. Afternoon light slanted low through Venetian blinds as the station carried its usual hum: keyboards rattling in bursts, phones ringing with their tinny insistence, the occasional bark of laughter from Vice down the hall. The air was thick with cigarette haze and old coffee, the kind of atmosphere that never cleared, no matter how many windows you cracked.
“Kitty,” he called over the bullpen, his voice cutting across the din, “I need all you can get me on Declan Frost.”
The room shifted around the name. Conversations faltered, a couple of detectives glanced up from their desks, paper stacks frozen mid-flip. Kitty blinked at him from behind her monitor, glasses slipping down her nose, her expression somewhere between startled and spooked.
“Frost?” she echoed, too loud in the hush.
“Yeah.” Rick didn’t slow his stride, weaving between desks with his coat brushing chair-backs. “Dig into his background—school records, phone logs, anything he’s published in the last year. I want names, places, patterns. If he so much as sneezed in theGazette’scopy room, I want to know about it.”
He felt the bullpen’s collective stare drag along his spine, the murmurs swelling behind him as he reached his office. But his track record kept the mouths shut; by now, they knew better than to doubt him.
“What’s this about?” Kitty called after him.
“I’ll let you know when I find out.” He tossed the words over his shoulder, hand already on the doorknob.
“Right,” she said, half to herself, still not moving. He caught the stunned set of her mouth before the door swung shut, the noise of the bullpen dimming into a muffled hum.
