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  “We’ll see. I take it you are about to bring in the suspect. Hope it’s good. I gave up my night for this.”

  “Wouldn’t be a brunette from the Bruins game last night?” Waters laughed. Brophy looked over at Waters. He shrugged. “I ran into McMann downstairs. Said he saw Kennedy with a brunette last night.”

  “We all have to make sacrifices, but you guys better have something good, because this is going to cost me to make it up to her.”

  Darren surprised Brophy with his demeanor. He didn’t often let his guard down about his private life. Darren quickly regained his concentration on the case at hand. “Been on the phone with the DA offices of the other two cases. You know, just shooting the breeze.”

  Brophy shook his head at Darren’s attempt at humor. “Well, hopefully, we will have something soon. Got the search warrants. Waters and I are going to bring the kid in for questioning.”

  “You think it’s the guy?”

  Brophy grimaced. “Let’s just say if he’s not the man, I think he has a connection.”

  “Then make sure you do everything by the numbers, boys. I want this one bad.”

  “Darren, I think we know what we’re doing.”

  “I don’t want any mistakes. I want to get this kid in here before he can lawyer up,” Darren reiterated. “You realize that the FBI thinks there is a connection between these murders and a series of murders in Virginia. They are sending over a forensic psychiatrist, a Dr. Malcolm Levy. I’ve already talked with him.”

  “Let me guess,” Brophy interrupted. His opinion of profiles was just a little higher than calling the psychic hotline. “Between twenty and thirty-five, white male. Probably severely abused in childhood by a trusted male. The killings are on the revenge type for that abuse. Killing a weaker subordinate to vindicate himself of probable sexual feelings he feels are wrong. With the amount of violence, the guy has a large amount of pent-up frustration and anger, and will continue until caught. We should have this wrapped up before midnight.”

  “You’re a funny guy, Broph. We have to work with them, or we’ll be pulled completely off it. Technically, we have our homicide. I would like to close it out on this one without the FBI. They can have him after we’re done with him.”

  “I wouldn’t get my hopes up that this kid is responsible for some sort of murdering spree, Darren. I have already told Centrello that my instincts say there is more going on here. Seems strange to me that all of a sudden we have leads. I’ve discounted a copycat. Might be a game of sorts.”

  Darren scowled. Brophy saw the idea of catching a serial murderer appealed to Darren, but never let it be said that Darren couldn’t call an audible.

  “You’re right. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s concentrate on this murder first. I have faith in you guys. Bring in the kid and see where it leads.”

  “It’s what I’m planning on doing.” Brophy tilted his head toward the door. “It’s where we are going.”

  “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll wait here,” Darren said. Then he nodded toward Waters. “Can you give us a minute?”

  “I’ll get the car. I’ll pick you up downstairs,” Waters agreed. “It’s not far anyway.”

  Darren waited only until Waters was out of earshot. He turned his attention to his brother-in-law.

  “You look like shit, Broph,” Darren said. “You should have called and told me.”

  In spite of himself, Brophy felt his stomach tense. The last thing he wanted was to rehash his situation. “Not much to tell. It’s final, over.”

  “I talked with Lauren. She told me it was official. Said you signed everything over.”

  Brophy shrugged. “Didn’t matter. She has the kids, so she needed the house.”

  “Where are you living?”

  A laugh escaped Brophy. “Why? You would put me up? I don’t think so.”

  Darren’s life was organized. Everything had a place, an order.

  “I didn’t say forever, but I have an extra bedroom.”

  “Nah, I have a studio for right now, close to Lauren and the kids.”

  Darren changed his tone. “You know I’m here for you, Broph. I know I’m the only family you have left besides the kids and your parents…but what the hell were you thinking?”

  Brophy suppressed an anger building up within him. He shot back, “You know, Darren, marriage isn’t a fucking walk in the park. I know you were married to my sister and thank God you made her happy, but you never had to deal with life’s problems day in and out.”

  “No,” Darren said briskly. “Just life and death.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m fucking trying to tell you. You have no idea. You have chosen to martyr Sara. You won’t know about a real marriage, because no one will ever be able to compare with the perfect Sara. I’m glad Sara was perfect, because her brother is far from it. You want to know what happened? I fucked up. I can tell you why.”

  Brophy took a deep breath in. Darren had asked. He might not like the answer, but by God, he was going to hear it now. “I crossed a line I shouldn’t have. Thought I could keep the affair under wraps. It worked out just fine until Josie wanted more. She started talking nonsense and clung to me. I broke it off and she went to Lauren. Didn’t take kindly to the fact I had no intention of getting a divorce. The affair meant absolutely nothing.” He gave a short laugh. “Now look at me. I confessed to Lauren and begged for forgiveness. Being the supportive wife, she kicked me out. No second chances for me. Said she was tired of everything…the late nights…something about it probably wasn’t the first time.”

  “Was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t. She was right. Now, brother, is that what you wanted to hear?”

  Darren studied Brophy for a moment. “You should have come to me. Could have helped you with the legal matters.”

  Tired, Brophy needed to concentrate on the case. He breathed deep. He wasn’t going to tell Darren he was embarrassed. He had never thought about the consequences of getting caught.

  “It’s over now.”

  Darren slapped Brophy on the back. “Family is family. Let me know when you bring in the suspect. I’ll be waiting.”

  Brophy nodded, turned and made his way down to the car. Much as he hated to admit it, he felt a weight had been lifted, but he let it go. He didn’t have time to think about it. The only thing that mattered at the moment was the suspect he needed to pick up.

  Chapter Five

  Brophy drove down Huntington Avenue with Waters. As with most Saturday nights, the street was filled with walking shadows. Dangerously, cars turned without warning, bicyclists rode with no regard of traffic laws, and drunken students stumbled out into the street without a thought to the oncoming traffic.

  Waters parked on a side street by Zachary Quinn’s dorm. A sudden breeze gusted when Brophy got out of the car, the promise of the coming snowfall. He hoped to have his suspect behind bars before the storm broke.

  Brophy took a quick glance around the area. The black-and-white sat at the front entrance. Brophy grimaced. He didn’t like it that they had no one inside the lobby. The kid could have gone out another entrance…but it was early yet. Maybe, they would luck out. He had images of having to hunt him down in the midst of a snowstorm. Not what he had planned for the night.

  Brophy motioned for the uniforms to join them. Then the four of them walked into the building, only to be halted by the kid behind the dorm’s reception desk. He refused to buzz them in. Brophy almost laughed. He thought for a moment that Waters was going to go through the glass door to strangle the kid.

  The kid reached for the phone. “I just need to call security.”

  Waters slammed the security glass. “Obviously, I haven’t made myself clear,” Waters said to the kid behind the reception desk, holding up his search warrant and badge. “This little piece of paper tells me I can enter and these two uniforms are here so there won’t be a problem. Will there? Now open the damn door or it will be you I arrest for obstruction.”

  I
mmediately, a buzz resonated in the small entrance. Waters swung open the door, only to halt before the elevators. “Damn!” he muttered under his breath. The elevator had an out-of-order sign plastered on its door. It meant walking up seven flights.

  Brophy smirked. He pointed to the other side of the room. “There’s another set of elevators down the corridor.”

  Waters frowned. “I knew that.”

  Brophy said nothing. His partner’s impatience stemmed from a family dinner party he was missing. He had promised Tanya he would be there. But like so many promises cops make, duty got in the way.

  A moment later, Brophy exited the elevator into a narrow hallway and pointed the way down to 739. He had learned a long time ago never to dismiss a seemingly innocent scene. He took note of his surroundings before he knocked.

  The hope of picking up Mr. Quinn quickly and without incident dwindled as Brophy knocked for a third time. Before he could knock again, the door opened slightly.

  Brophy held up his badge. “Zachary Quinn? Boston police.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed his way into the room. The place was filled with secondhand furniture. The cluttered room cried for a good cleaning: beer bottles littered the coffee table, while trash from fast food blanketed the floor. An old couch sat in the middle of the room over an old worn rug. Nothing unusual for a boys’ college dorm. Brophy expected it was much like any other boy’s room.

  It wasn’t his source of irritation. It was the kid standing in front of them. He wasn’t Zachary Quinn.

  This boy had a head of red hair, five nine, five ten tops, athletic build. Brophy quickly determined it was probably his roommate. The boy didn’t look good. Reddened eyes, white face. He looked sick—or more likely, hung over.

  “Can I help you? Zach’s not here,” the kid managed, grimacing as if he was in pain. “Look guys, I’m not feeling very well here. What do you want? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “Do you think he should be?” Brophy countered. Waters walked around, checking out the place. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Yeah, over at Allison’s, I think. I’m not sure. It’s some girl’s place, would be my bet. What do you want with him?” he asked again.

  Brophy watched the kid clutch his stomach, probably in an attempt to stop his stomach from churning. Then he saw the kid’s legs buckle and he eased over to the edge of the couch.

  Brophy ignored the question. “You would be?”

  “Randy Harrison,” he answered bluntly, not offering anymore information. The tone of the detectives finally registered with the kid that it was serious.

  “Do you know where he was last night?” Waters took his turn at questioning.

  “Yeah. We were together. At least until we got over to his sister’s.”

  Brophy and Waters exchanged looks. “Where’s that?”

  “Off Beacon Street. Why?”

  “Why were you over there?”

  Randy sat, confusion written all over his face, staring at the two detectives. “Food. And she always gives us money. Before you ask, she’s a nurse at Beth Israel. We usually go hang there while she does our laundry.”

  “Where did you go when you went out last night?” Brophy pressed.

  Randy shook his head. “Nowhere. All I remember is we had a drink before we were supposed to head out. The next thing I remember is waking up in Cam’s apartment, sick as a dog. Zach dropped me back off here. I think he said he was going home to Hull. Didn’t want to catch what I had. Knowing Zach, though, he came back in for a Saturday night.”

  Brophy motioned to Randy. “Get your jacket, son. You’re going back to the station with us.”

  “What?” Randy said, surprised. “I’m sick. I don’t know what you think Zach did. It couldn’t be that bad.”

  Brophy didn’t answer him. Instead, he said in a firm voice, “Get your jacket or not. It doesn’t matter to me, but you are coming with us, now.”

  * * * *

  Cameron awoke. It was dark. She looked over at her nightstand. Eleven o’clock. By the time she finished with the cleaning, cooking, and washing clothes, it had been after three in the afternoon. She hadn’t had such a bad day in a long time.

  She tossed and turned from one rambling, troubling thought to another. She yearned for her mother. It had been so long since someone made everything better for her. For once, she wished someone would look after her; then she reprimanded herself. She never allowed herself self-pity, couldn’t afford it. She had to concentrate on the good things in her life, which seemed to be fewer and fewer.

  Meghan’s words kept echoing: “Remember, remember how you felt.”

  Oh, Meghan, I could never forget. Never! How could she ever forget the moment she walked into the empty apartment. Her heart sank. An overwhelming sense of confusion encompassed her. The whole apartment had been wiped out. She lost everything—her furniture, her clothes, Matthew…

  She remembered feeling exhausted after working a double at the hospital. Her first thought had been she had been robbed. She had tried calling Matthew, who was mysteriously unavailable. So, she called the police.

  Her heart wrenched when she discovered the truth. She had never felt so humiliated. The embarrassment to have to confront the reality it had been Matthew himself.

  “Ma’am, do you think it may have been your boyfriend?” the police officer asked.

  She vehemently shook her head. “No, no. It couldn’t be. He’s my fiancé. We are supposed to get married in four months. Most everything that was here was mine. I don’t understand.”

  Reality slapped her in the face when the police officers returned. The words uttered shattered her dreams.

  “Ma’am, did you honestly not know you were having problems? According to Dr. Matthew Halliday, he broke up with you last week. Said you were in denial. He said he only took what was his. My advice, ma’am—contact an attorney.”

  “Matthew? Matthew did this? It doesn’t make any sense. There has to be a mistake. We’re getting married.”

  Cameron caught the look the two police officers exchanged, a pathetic glare. She didn’t have money for an attorney, but a lawyer did contact her. Shortly after the police left, Oliver Stanton, the Halliday’s family attorney, severed all ties between her and Matthew.

  Matthew didn’t even have the courage to face her himself. He used his lawyer to communicate with her, sending Stanton over to their apartment not long after he deserted her. Returning home from work, she found a letter under her door from the lawyer. He offered her a deal—her furniture back if she agreed never to contact Matthew again. She had ripped the letter to shreds. She had not talked with Matthew again until six months ago when he started his surgical residency at Beth Israel.

  Three years! Oh my God, three years since he dumped her cold…and here she was three years later in her flannels, sleeping away her Saturday night. Stood up.

  Her knight in shining armor had texted to say he had to postpone their date; a case had come up. He didn’t even have the decency to call. No, once more she had been slapped in the face. Impersonal text…a brush-off.

  What had she expected? For Darren to have felt the earth move like she did? Thankfully, she received the text while in her bedroom picking out an outfit for the night. Zach was sleeping on the couch again. He had felt sick. Said he was coming down with the same thing Randy had. She didn’t want him to see her upset.

  She hated that Darren standing her up hurt. It shouldn’t have. She had known better, but she couldn’t get him out of her thoughts. The way he held her, kissed her…touched her. My God! Something is wrong with me!

  She squeezed her eyes closed and cried. How stupid could she have been! She turned over. Thoughts ran through her head…she wanted to think of anything except Darren.

  She had so much to do if she was going to move out. It would keep her mind off her love life—or lack thereof. She had to call her real estate agent to make the offer on the condo.

  She wished her father
had come to see it beforehand, but if she didn’t make the offer, she would lose out. First thing in the morning, she had to call.

  A home to herself. She had worked hard for it: three years of overtime, striving to be financially independent. She would be eternally grateful to Karl and Greg, but it was time. She needed her space.

  She had known Karl since he had moved into her neighborhood during elementary school. They were in most of the same classes in school. Many a time, Cameron helped Karl on a test, let him copy her homework…that was, until he took the SAT and wiped her score in the ground with his.

  “You’re not as helpless as you claim to be, Karl Neslund. You’re just lazy,” Cameron stated plainly the next time he wanted her to do his schoolwork.

  Greg Mobley, on the other hand, Cameron hadn’t seen since freshmen year of high school until she had run into Karl shortly before her break-up with Matthew. She hadn't known him well back then. He had only lived in Hull a couple of years.

  After Matthew left her, Karl offered her this solution of the three of them living together. Greg attended Massachusetts College of Art and Design, seeking some graduate degree. He had told her, but honestly she hadn’t listened. Karl graduated from Harvard Law last fall.

  From there, everything fell into place with the three of them, not that Cameron saw much of them—not with the hours she kept, taking care of her father and brother. Karl, she never saw between his work, hers, and his attention to the ladies.

  Her stomach growled. She had forgotten she hadn’t eaten. Not that she felt like getting up. It was an effort to even lift her head off her pillow. Her heart felt so heavy, but she wasn’t going to be getting much sleep. She had to get out of bed, walk around, make a bowl of cereal.

  Outside her door, she heard voices. Karl must have come in with company. She hoped that Zach didn't wake up and disturb Karl’s rendezvous.