White Night

Chapter 1

Walking through the precinct as she arrived for the evening shift, Detective Jen Connors heard her colleagues before she saw them.

"Connors just got 'Sir Ross' assigned as her new partner," Saunders whispered.

Kosinski chuckled. "This is going to be good."

"I've got $20 says it doesn't last the week," Jamieson chimed in.

"I'll take that," said another voice.

"Sir Ross and the hitchy witch. You can't make this crap up," laughed Saunders.

"I'll take $40 that it doesn't make it through the weekend," Kosinski added.

Her jaw tightened as she rounded the corner. It was time to shut it down. "I'll take $50 that it does."

Her colleagues froze. Three armed pros transformed into gaping-mouthed chickenshits. They shifted glances at each other but she wasn't about to give them an out. Detective Saunders, ten-year veteran, department grapevine, and apparently the least chickenshit, responded first. "Come on, Connors, we were just joking around."

Not funny. Her career, nearly ended by her last case, was presently on life support and her new partner wasn't likely to help her resuscitate it.

"So do we have a bet?" she said, folding her arms across her chest.

Saunders swallowed and looked across at his colleagues, who stared back blankly.

"Yeah. Sure," he said quietly.

"Fine. See you in a week." She walked away, holding the sigh inside her until she was out of earshot. Her colleagues would laugh about it in the break room, probably tell each other that she couldn't take a joke, but it didn't matter. She'd won the moment even if she'd probably lose the bet.

Left with a slight hitch to her walk after her last case, she still caught glances from the other detectives as she walked through the rows of desks to her own. Some sympathetic, others awkwardly looking away. She didn't know which she hated more. Everyone had an opinion about that night.

Connors should have jumped sooner.

She's got a screw loose.

She didn't have to do it, could've called for backup.

That one stung.

The others were the usual department opinions, mostly from colleagues she'd pissed off over the years, anyway. But the idea that she was flung ten feet, endured multiple surgeries, and spent months trapped in her apartment like a battery hen for no reason stripped her of the tiny comfort that it was worth everything she'd lost: her credibility, her confidence, not to mention half her knee joint.

She reached her desk, still trying to minimize the minor unevenness in her walk. It made it worse, she knew it did, trying to make her gait flawless, but she still couldn't stop herself trying. She didn't need another reason to be different from her colleagues.

Born in the UK and moving to New York City when she was sixteen, she didn't sound like a true New Yorker. She'd tried hard to pick up the accent in high school but still spoke a strange mix of Brooklyn and Bristol. Her use of random "limey" words during her early days on patrol cracked up dispatchers and other officers.

Not exactly Miss Popular before she was injured, she at least could rely on cursory invites for social events and starchy acceptance from her peers. Now she was radioactive, colleagues afraid to associate with her in case they contaminated their own careers.

There wasn't much danger of that. Of the files piled on her desk, most were grunt work, investigating leads for other detectives. Designed to ease her back into the job, it wasn't working.

"Got some more for ya." Rosa, one of the longer-term office aides, smiled as the files hit her desk with a thud, but even without looking, Connors knew it was more of the same.

"Thanks, Rosa."

"Hey," Rosa said sternly, "don't let Saunders get to you, Connors. You've been here long enough to know what he's like."

Connors forced a smile back, glancing briefly at Rosa's warm brown eyes before returning her gaze to the papers in front of her. She couldn't take the concern on Rosa's face, or worse, the sympathy.

Rosa would be back within hours to collect the completed files, but the blue file on the shelf across the squad room was calling, seducing her like it had so many times before. She glanced at the folder and it edged closer, facts jumping out from the binder, begging to be heard for the thousandth time: two children from the same family, murdered five years apart.

The Argon case was officially cooling but still simmered hot in her mind and the mind of any other cop who'd been there. The first Argon child was killed almost a decade ago, horrifying enough on its own. Their second child was murdered five years later by a killer dubbed "The Magician" after a string of brightly colored handkerchiefs was found within twenty-four hours of each child's death. The family had two more children who hadn't been out alone since the second murder. Every party or trip to the mall, every step accompanied by a parent or trusted guardian. Any chance of a normal childhood had been murdered with their siblings.

They'd been a perfect family, two girls and two boys. A perfectly unremarkable family, Dr. Joseph Argon a paediatrician and Catherine Argon a saleswoman for a manufacturing company. Backgrounds, financials, and phone records all clean. No note, no demands, and no reason to kill two children from parents who were as normal as apple pie.

Four years now since the second murder and both the FBI and NYPD had interviewed everyone in the family's lives, as well as every magician in Brooklyn and the greater Tri-State area. Nothing.

One year on the clock until The Magician could come for the next child, and they were no closer to finding a suspect or motive. The blue file couldn't be ignored for long, but if these phone records didn't get finished, then Detective Carter would be all over her.