Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

They sat in silence, sipping their coffee and watching the background of the video feed, hoping to see someone familiar over the shoulder of some schlub withdrawing a hundred bucks from the ATM. A second cup of coffee later, they were still in the same position and still without any leads. It was cases like this that made him miss the simplicity of a tactical hostage removal. Get in. Get out. Simple.

He hit play on the second set of videos. These were from a consignment shop on the corner with a limited view of Drea’s apartment. Ten minutes went by on quick speed with nothing but traffic snarl ups and people rushing toward the subway.

She gasped. “Hit pause.”

He right-clicked and took a closer look at the screen. It had been a while since he’d gone through a photo lineup of Diamond Tommy’s crew, but there was no mistaking Isaiah Knight’s neck tattoo that went from earlobe to collarbone. It looked like Knight’s neck had been slashed open and a three-headed skeleton was crawling out. Even in grainy black and white, it was something out of a slasher movie. The only thing good about seeing him, was the fact that Drea hadn’t been home when he’d shown up.

“That’s one of Diamond Tony’s most trusted enforcers.” That was the polite word for it. More like he was the guy who took enough sicko pleasure in intimidation, torture, and murder to make serial killers cross the street to avoid him. “We were acquaintances when I was still living part time on the streets and part time with my mom.”

She tapped the screen with her hot pink fingernail. “And that is Fergus.”

He looked closer at the guy walking next to Knight. “You sure?”

“No doubt.” Her tone was a mix of shock and straight-up fury.

At first blush, Fergus had looked clean on his background check. Single. Average bank account. No arrest record. He was a butler by day and ferret rescue volunteer by night.

Weasels. It figures.

Cam right clicked, and the video resumed. While Knight played it cool, strolling along like he was on his way to visit his grandmother for Sunday dinner, Fergus had the jerky movements of a guy trying to play it cool even though there was a bomb strapped between his ass cheeks. Cam could smell the flop sweat through the computer screen. The men disappeared into the building next door to Drea’s.

It wasn’t a smoking gun about the identity of the actual killer, but it was more than they’d had to go on before. Fergus didn’t seem the type. Knight did, but hiding behind poison sure wasn’t his thing. “Any way to get from that building to yours without being seen?” he asked.

She nodded, her gaze never leaving the screen. “There’s a rooftop bridge connecting them.”

“That way they’d avoid getting picked up by the security cameras in your lobby.”

Knight was the worst kind of stone cold killer—a street smart one. But everyone fucked up somewhere along the line. Knight wasn’t any different. All Cam had to do was find the weakest link, which right now looked a lot like a sweaty little butler who, despite appearances, just might have the balls to be a murderer.

The judge shuffled into the kitchen with a rolled up newspaper under his arm, looking looked like every one of his seventy-three years. He didn’t say good morning or make a move for the coffee. Instead, he jerked to a dead stop and served up a glare that had caused defendants to quake in their leg irons.

“Have either of you seen the paper yet?” the judge asked. He laid the paper out in the middle of the island. His age-spotted hand smoothed out the wrinkle in the front page and revealed the main headline.

THE LIPSTICK KILLER: SCORNED MAKEUP ARTIST TAKES HER REVENGE.

“I want to help, but as a former officer of the court, I can’t ignore the fact that one of my house guests has a warrant out for her arrest.”

She flipped the newspaper around and pulled it closer to her. She scanned the words with the intensity of a woman reading her own obituary, which—in a way—she was. He reached out to snatch it away from her and keep her blissfully ignorant of what an uphill battle they were facing, but she stopped him with a steely-eyed look.

She slid her gaze away from him and focused only on the judge. “Someone’s setting me up.”

“My dear, you wouldn’t believe the number of times a judge hears that while sitting on the bench, even during a short tenure like mine. You gotta have more than just words. You need proof.”

She leaned forward, and her limbs strained with tension as her no-shit stare dared the judge to look away. “And I’m betting my freedom right now that some of those people were telling it straight.”

The judge opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“It’s true.” Cam seized on the judge’s hesitation and brought his mentor up to speed on the surveillance video.

“Can’t say I’m seeing enough evidence to sway the police,” the judge said after the video stopped. “Most of it is circumstantial, or there’s no one to back up your side of things.”

Heat ate its way up his spine, hot enough to turn his internal organs to ash. “We just need some time.”

The doorbell sounded. He whipped his head toward the front but noticed too late the flashing red lights reflecting off the living room windows. Drea’s chair screeched against the tile as she shoved it back and jumped up. The judge must have called.

“I didn’t have a choice,” the judge said.

“There’s always a choice.” Cam snapped his laptop closed. He had to give it one last shot. “A two minute delay. That’s all I’m asking for.” It wasn’t. Not really. He was asking the man who’d saved him from a life of crime to send him back into it. They both knew it. “Please.”