Three Libras - BLACKBIRD book 4

19. one down

"But he never killed anybody," argued Gillian, puzzled. She knew Brock agreed about Nina Evans not being the subject's first kill.

Brock kept reading Carson's file, completely caught by the thrill of such a concrete lead. "Check his prison records. He's sure been in fights with other inmates. There has to be a dead body somewhere in his recent past."

Gillian hurried back to the computer. Had this been not such a pressing, stressing case, she would've loved sharing this moment with Brock.

She typed quickly and bit her lip, waiting for the outcome. And there it was. Just like the stupid bitter man said. "You're right! Three years ago, a prisoner tried to stab him and stumbled onto his own blade."

Brock glanced up at her, trying to ignore the enthusiasm lighting up her whole face. "Carson killed him, and found out that stabbing gave him a better pay-off than raping women. Check his status. He could've been paroled."

Gillian typed some more. "You're right again!" Why the hell did she sound so happy every time he was right? "Paroled six weeks ago."

Their eyes met as they said at the same time, "When the first message was sent!"

Brock turned to the board as if bitten by a viper.

She kept reading from her computer and scowled. "I'm getting his probation officer's ass for this. Carson's reported home address is right north of West Broadway."

Brock scowled up at her. "And what's wrong with it?"

She hurried to the map pinned to the board and pointed at the area north of South Boston, near Brock's apartment. "That's here, sir. Only parking lots and container yards. And even if he found a hole to live there, there's no way he'd move to the other side of town."

"Why not? He may not be welcome back to his old neighborhood as a convicted rapist." Brock's question was as cold as legitimate.

He saw the way her lips pursed. She was just about to trip on her usual smartass ways. Let her try.

"With all due respect, sir, Carson used to live in Mattapan." Her hand moved down the map, all the way to the south end of the city. "The project he lived in? Folks around call that area Murderpan. Trust me, he'd be welcome back from prison as a local hero."

And there she was. Next she would say to go get Carson right away.

She produced her car keys as she went back to Ron's desk. "Tell you what, sir. Let's go check that address now. And if you're able to find a residence, and Carson in there, you can arrest him right tonight." She scribbled the address on a stick note and looked up at him, waiting for his answer.

It's just in her nature, like the scorpion she is, Brock thought. He held her eyes with his best blank face, to reply in his coldest tone, "That's not the protocol, Gillian. We need the court order and call in the locals."

She finally flashed her smirk. I'm so sorry, stupid bitter man. But you're the one with his tie fastened tight at midnight, not me. "Well, I'm suspended, right? So I don't need to worry about the protocol just to check an address. You coming?"

He allowed himself to pour a few drops of cold, bitter sarcasm in his voice. "No, I'm not, Gillian. I won't damage the whole case over one of your rebellious statements against the rules."

She shrugged—suit yourself. Then she spun around and walked out.

Brock snorted, shaking his head, and turned back to the board. But his focus had just flown out the window—actually, down the elevator.

What if Gillian was wrong about her city for once, and Carson was really there? He'd seen she carried badge and Glock—of course, Cooper hadn't asked Gillian to hand them over, because she wouldn't until he filled every single little blank of the proper sanction report; and then she would find some excuse not to do it anyway.

So what if Gillian found Carson? She would try to make the arrest right there and then. Because of her friend Banks and her poster-boy lover and the dead detective. And the arrest would be ruled out. And they would lose the dominant partner of the team.

Brock forbade himself to think about Carson's huge knife and his skill to use it (and that he would most certainly attack her).

Damn Gillian!

He snorted again, copied the address from her computer on his phone and strode out. He would have to load it to the GPS and pray for the damn thing to get it wrong and give him a good short route this once.

He got on the elevator, swearing black and blue under his breath.

She knew the city like the palm of her hand. And she'd have a good five-minute head start. He would have to hurry to keep her from facing that vicious murderer all by herself damaging the case beyond repair.

The elevator opened at the ground floor and he stalked out of it. Then he registered the security guard yelling on the phone. "Repeat! This is the FBI field office! Eighty-four Cambridge Street! We need an ambulance! We have a person down! Shot wound!"

Brock stopped, the burning cold crushing his chest when he spotted Gillian's jacket on the front desk. With her ID pinned to it, in case he had any doubt. Like a nightmare, he saw the other security guard rushing in from the street.

"Tell them to hurry! She's bleeding out!"

.

.

Keep reading on the next episode: BLACKBIRD 21 - three libras