Particles of Murder (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) (10 page)

My phone vibrates. I glance down.

Det. Roberts:
Murder &
robbery @ Contemporary Royalty jewelry store.

“I’ve got to go,” I say, grabbing a latent fingerprint kit. “I promise I’ll get lunch for you tomorrow, though, all right?”

He nods, and then I’m racing to the door.

* * *

W
hen I get
off the bus, the jewelry store is still about three blocks away.

With every step I take, I’m more certain that someone is following me.

I keep checking over my shoulder, but there are enough people on the street that it’s hard to keep track of who is lingering and who is simply trying to walk in the same direction that I am.

This whole case is making me paranoid. A silent, invisible killer. No traces. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I know people see things that they never thought they would see all of the time.

Hurried footsteps sound behind me, but before I can turn around, someone slams me against the wall. Their gloved hand is over my mouth. Their fingers wrap around my neck. My attacker has no face—all their features are covered by a ski mask.

They push down on my chin to force open my lips. I try to scream, but shock is still paralyzing me. They shove something into my mouth.

I slam my fist into their head.

The person stumbles back. I clench my fists, raising them up near my face. I prepare myself, every muscle getting ready to fight my way out of this.

The person runs.

I take a few steps to follow them, but they’re running much faster than I could, weaving through groups of people who are too blinded by their holiday shopping to pay me any attention at all.

I spit out whatever my attacker put into my mouth. It’s a strip of paper. Though it’s covered in saliva, it’s still easy enough to read.

“
T
here are only the pursued
, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

A
young woman
rushes over from the other side of the street. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I just saw you get attacked. I’ll call the police.”

“I’m with the police,” I say. “They’re at the jewelry store, and I’ll go to them now.”

She eyes me doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Thank you, though.”

She walks away and I consider the note in my hand.
The Great Gatsby
. I should have paid more attention in English class. Is this supposed to be a threat? Or is this person just notifying me that they know I’m trying to find them?

If they wanted to notify me, they could have found an easier way to send the message. This was just rude.

I continue down the street, looking behind me every few steps to make sure the person isn’t coming back. Snow begins to flutter down, but I’m too distracted to feel cold. Does the killer consider me this much of a threat that he would physically assault me?

Was the attacker male?

I try to remember, but everything seemed to happen so quickly. They were wearing all black, which made them appear slim enough that it could have been a muscular woman or an average man.

By the time I’m in front of the jewelry store, Detective Stolz is standing outside. I expect her to be angry that I’m not running to help her, but she takes one look at my face and takes several steps toward me.

“What happened?” she asks.

“I…was just attacked,” I say, disbelief coating my voice.

“What? Who attacked you?”

“Whoever has been killing the students at Tuskmirth College.”

“How do you know it was them? Did they say something? Did you recognize them? Start at the beginning.” She pulls out a notepad.

I shake my head. “They had their face covered with a snow mask.”

“Eye color?”

I flush. I should have been able to, but I can’t remember seeing them. “Brown, maybe?”

“Man or woman?”

I shrug.

“So, how did you know the person was associated with the college deaths?” she asks.

I pull the strip out of my pocket and hand it to her. She reads it.

“Dr. Zimmer received a similar note,” I say. “With a quote from a famous author—”

“Why am I just hearing about this now?” she asks.

“I couldn’t be certain that it was relevant,” I say. “For all I knew, he had written it himself and forgotten about it.”

She grits her teeth. “Fine. What did the original note say?”

“In writing, you must kill all your darlings,”
I quote. “William Faulkner said it. Or, at least, that’s who it’s attributed to. I researched the quote and it seems that it means writers shouldn’t hold onto anything they’ve written simply because they love it so much if it doesn’t fit in with the story. But…I’ve been thinking. Maybe the killer is taking a more literal approach.”

“He’s killing someone’s literal darlings,” she says.

“Yes,” I say. “The English department’s darlings. Both of the victims were considered especially gifted in the program. Now they’re dead.”

“Okay,” she says. “That makes sense…in a weird, sociopathic way. That would mean the killer is likely in the English department as well and is jealous of these students. What does this quote mean, though?”

I shrug. “The killer knows I…or we…have been searching for him.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “We shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions. We don’t know how they died yet. And you shouldn’t even be investigating. You don’t have the training to deal with these kinds of people.”

“I’m not weak,” I say, though considering my encounter with the killer, I don’t know if I should be pretending that I am capable of dealing with murderers.

“It’s not about weakness,” she says. “You need a weapon and you need training. Did the killer just hand you this note after attacking you?”

“No, they shoved it in my mouth.”

“Are you serious?” she asks, holding the note a little less tightly.

“Yep,” I say. “I’m guessing that either symbolizes how he—or she—wants to silence me or they just figured it was a way to humiliate me. I don’t know.”

“This is why you shouldn’t be investigating.”

“But I’m close to one of the professors,” I say. “I mean, not close, but he trusts me.”

“How do you know he’s not the killer?” she asks, shaking her head. “No detective would trust someone that closely involved.”

“I don’t trust him,” I say.

“Well, keep that in mind.” She indicates to the jewelry store. “Come inside. This guy was shot point-blank and the cameras were stolen, but this robbery was done so well that I have to think this guy is in our databases.”

I follow her in. I’ll have to tell John about this. This killer is getting bolder, and that means everyone is at risk.

* * *

A
s I enter
the English building, I can hear John's voice. I stop at the short stairway where I can see the back of his head. His voice drifts down to where I am.

"...highly intelligent and a heart that instinctively cherishes everyone. I understand how difficult is it now and you should mourn as long as you need to, but you should know you're the strongest person I know. If anyone can deal with this, it's you."

"Thank you," a young female voice mumbles. "That means so much to me."

"You should get to class. I'll see you tomorrow."

John turns and begins to walk down the stairs. He stops when he sees me. A smile breaks out on his face and he skips the next few steps until he reaches me.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s going on?”

“
There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired,
” I quote.

He tilts his head. “
The Great Gatsby
. I didn’t picture you as a reader of the classics.”

“I’m not,” I say. “That was written on a note that the killer shoved into my mouth.”

“Wait, what?” he asks. “When did you encounter the killer? Was he arrested?”

“Well, I don’t know if it was a male or female, but, no, he or she wasn’t arrested because they attacked me and then ran off when I hit them. If you see someone who looks like they’re suffering from a headache or has a big welt at the left side of their head, that’s the killer.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “This only happened because I dragged you into this. I didn’t think…we must have talked to someone and tipped them off.”

“I would normally think that,” I say. “But this is a college. I’m sure word has traveled fast that I’ve been involved with the investigation and that one class that you had that Everett died in…they all know I was involved. It could still be anybody.”

“You probably shouldn’t be here then,” he says. “If the killer sees you—”

“I shouldn’t be afraid of the killer seeing me,” I say. “He—or she—should be afraid of me seeing him. Or her.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re tough and all, but this person can kill in a way that we don’t understand yet,” he says. “It’s better to be cautious.”

“If this person wanted me dead, I’d be dead.” I cross my arms. “By chance, do you know anyone in this college who sells drugs?”

“What?” he spits out. “Now you want me to get you a drug dealer?”

“No—though, after this conversation, getting high sounds like a good plan,” I say. “Everett Pine had cocaine residue above his lip. We think he may have gotten killed by something in the drug.”

An emotion crosses his face that I can’t quite decipher. It could be anxiety or concern.

“I don’t do drugs, so I wouldn’t know where to find them,” he says. “Maybe you should try the chemistry department.”

“Are you sure you don’t know?” I ask.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“If the label fits,” I say. “You are the one who steals your students’ lives to make stories.”

“I don’t know anyone who deals drugs,” he states. “I once heard a rumor, though, that the school newspaper,
The Noise
, somehow uses a code that tells people which room to go to if they want certain kinds of drugs. I don’t know if it’s a legitimate thing or just a conspiracy theory. If somebody was doing drugs, there’s an easier way to get them.”

“Thank you.” I glance up the stairs. “Who were you talking to on the second floor?”

He raises an eyebrow. “One of my students.”

“You seemed awfully close to her.”

“I’ve had several classes with her,” he says. “I know her very well and I expect she’ll do great things.”

“Are you going to base a book off her too?”

He shakes his head. “Look. Sometimes, when you’re a teacher, you become a parental figure to some students. It’s something I generally try to avoid, but…it’s not something that can be controlled. You aren’t jealous, are you?”

“No, I just have a hard time trusting a professor who spends all his time around twenty-year-olds, talking to them about their
hearts.
”

“Maybe I lay it on a little bit thick, but I mean it,” he says. “Nothing I tell my students is a lie.”

“What about your girlfriends?”

“I don’t have girlfriends,” he says. “Just women I sleep with after meeting them in bars and who kick me out the moment they wake up.”

“That’s really interesting because I don’t have boyfriends—just men who I kick out of my apartment, but continue to pop up in my life.” I shake my head. “You should be prepared. Not only is the killer getting bolder, but detectives will probably be coming around more often.”

“Are you showing actual concern for me?”

“Maybe I don’t want to be forced to collect any evidence around your dead body.”

“You’re not fond of your job, are you?”

“It’s you that I’m not fond of,” I say. “I now have some crazy psychotic person after me because you insisted that I help you.”

“You wanted to investigate this just as badly as I did.” He indicates to my wrist. “And I bet it has something to do with that bracelet.”

“This has nothing to do with me,” I say. “And you can’t use your fake compassion to get me to tell you anything, so stop trying.”

He takes a step to the side. “I have to get to my office. My office hours started a couple minutes ago and my students might need me. I’ll…see you later.”

He walks away as students flood the hall. I wonder if this is how his students feel when they talk to him: he’s so close to my own emotions, it’s like he immerses himself in each one, but I’m still so far from him that I could not tell you what his favorite food is.