With Ties That Bind: Book 3 (The Broken Bonds 6)

Once I’ve gotten the unis and a few club stragglers out of the way, I instruct officers to focus on the scene and not their dicks. I usher a pair of strippers to the back room, out of sight, where interviews are being conducted.

Near the front of a makeshift stage, yellow caution tape marks off the main crime scene. I step over the tape and pull on a pair of gloves. The bodies of Lewis Sellars and Marcus Right are lying on their sides near each other, as if they were sharing the same table. Angling Marcus’s chin up, I tilt his head to examine the bullet wound.

Direct fucking hit to his forehead.

The second vic has an identical wound. Nine millimeter by the size, and the shooter is an excellent shot. According to Rollins, most witnesses claim they only heard two shots, some say more. I factor in the loud music and altered perception due to alcohol and drugs, and conclude the shooter only fired off two shots. His precise aim decides this more than the statements.

“I have unis canvassing the club for bullets,” Rollins says. “Just to be sure.”

I nod. It’s probably not needed, but best to be thorough. I promised Avery as much. Looking over her dead kidnappers should spark some emotion, but I’ve got nothing—nothing but resentment, since I now have to find another way to get my message to the Alpha.

The letter Avery received makes this all the more urgent, and for a split-second, I consider using the darknet to get his attention. I shut that idea down just as quickly. Giving the Alpha any access to her at all will only fuel him on. He’s not getting a response. Not from her.

The alternative is to use the Alpha’s inside connections. Go public with Wells’ trophies, without implementing Wells in the serial murders. Avery and Sadie can’t be questioned in connection to his death.

Jesus. I have no right to ridicule Rollins on his crime scene etiquette. I have one raging shit storm of my own.

A flash of white catches my notice. I bend down and swipe shattered glass aside to reveal a business card. It’s blank on one side. I nod for a CSU tech to get a picture of it before I flip it over.

The doer alone learneth.

What the hell?

“Nietzsche,” Rollins remarks, reading from over my shoulder. “Studied him in college. Strange choice for two thugs, though.”

Only the card wasn’t on either of their person. It was beneath a broken glass. I look at the overturned table. The tumblers, the alcohol pooling on the floor. “Do we have all the wait staff in questioning?”

Rollins confirms this with an officer, and I order the uni to separate the wait staff until I’m able to speak with them. The shooter might’ve sent the perps a message beforehand. The doer alone learneth. Question is, who was the message for? The perps or Avery?

“All right,” I tell the CSU techs. “Tag ‘em and bag ‘em to deliver to the crime lab.”

I wander toward the back door. Before I even locate Maddox, the scene already looks staged. Completely opposite to the hastened murders inside. Flashes light up the night as techs photograph the scene.

Maddox is slumped along the brick wall, legs splayed, arms draped over bags of trash.

“Symbolic.”

I turn a glare on the agent, but having no sympathy for the dead lawyer, I shrug. Truthfully, whoever arranged the scene had a morbid sense of humor. “They make a valid point,” I say. “Maddox protecting his trash until the end.”

“Two of his clients are shot dead, then he gets his throat slit.” Rollins works it out. “McGregor calling hits from behind bars. He doesn’t need Maddox any longer to represent those two if they’re dead.” He nods toward the club.

Maddox was trying to get the Alpha’s men off on accidental imprisonment charges, but then Maddox was tied to one of the murders. Rather than going through the trouble of hiring a new lawyer, the Alpha has the perps killed. No need to worry about them making any deals.

Rollins and I are on the same page there, except for the fact that McGregor didn’t call in the hit.

Deep in thought, I nearly forget the Feds—and everyone else, for that matter—are still fingering Dorian McGregor as the crime lord solely responsible for the sex trafficking ring on the east coast.

I could use Sadie’s input, or even Carson’s. Someone in the know, who trusts my insight, to work out theories. Until then, I log every detail. My little black notebook is about used up on this case.

“Why here?” I glance around the alley, wondering if Reed ever installed cameras after the last ca

se. I don’t see any from this angle.

Rollins picks up on my train of thought. “No witnesses. Or again, could be symbolic. Putting a dirty lawyer out with the trash.”

“Except he wasn’t killed here.” I’m no doctor, but even I can see he’s been dead longer than the shooting. A few hours to maybe a day. His dress shirt skips a button, like someone did a poor job of redressing him. There’s no blood on the collar. Some dry flakes, smeared staining, but it should be covered in blood from a slit throat.

Damn. I do need Avery on this one. I tussle with whether to call her here, then ultimately choose her safety over the sanctity of the scene. More proof that I shouldn’t be the lead detective any longer.