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  Jones leaned closer to his face. “Maybe we should find you a hooker. Get you laid.”

  “I don’t need to get laid.” He breathed through his mouth to avoid smelling Jones’ alcohol soaked pores. “You need to shower. Get the fuck away from me. Three feet. Remember the rule?”

  “Make me.” Jones flicked his collar with the pencil. “Pussy.”

  His vision blurred a little. He felt lightheaded as he watched Jones walk out the door. Make him? Fine. Milo walked through the apartment and to the kitchen. He opened the cabinets beneath the sink. A bottle of bleach was nestled between a fire extinguisher and a dish rack.

  He grinned.

  CHAPTER 2

  Amanda Maines had been a competent lawyer, but she made a better detective, and planned to be a kickass captain. She managed to beat out a number of better-suited men for the job. Well, they were better suited on paper. Those jackasses subscribed to the old school of policing, and their boys’ club bullshit set the department back at least a couple of decades.

  She’d heard the lesbian quips, the snide comments about how she made her way to the top, but Amanda wasn’t bothered by them. Jealousy made people ugly and they said nasty things out of spite. She planned to make her department the best in the state. Milo Smalls could help get her there, but he had to get his shit under control to do so.

  Amanda read his file as she listened to the music on her phone. If a police captain called a hospital, one would think the yahoos on the other end would scramble to get her the information she needed, particularly when it was about a fallen officer. Putting her on hold for twenty… Amanda looked at her watch and sighed… thirty minutes was not wise.

  Well, he wasn’t fallen. Jones was cleaned, aggressively. He’d definitely survive. Amanda just needed to hear it from a doctor so she could sign the incident report and bury it somewhere no one would find it.

  “Ms. Maines?” a female voice cut into the music.

  “Yes.”

  “Detective Jones was released an hour ago. His injuries were superficial,” the woman said. “Perhaps his pride was wounded, I suppose, and his skin is a little red, but in a few days that will fade. The bruising from the strangulation is minimal as well.”

  “Good.” Amanda pressed her nose. She didn’t know about the strangling. Fucking Milo. “Thank you.”

  As she pressed the screen to end the call, there was a soft knock on her door.

  “Can I speak to you?” Joy asked.

  Amanda waved her in. “You’re going to say he was justified or that you warned me about partnering him with Jones. Am I right?”

  Joy shook her head. “I don’t believe in saying I told you so. As for Milo, he sometimes crosses the line—”

  “I’d say he crossed it, spat on it, then bleached it out of existence. I try to help him, but fuck, I just never know what he’s going to do. Now I have to take disciplinary action.”

  “I know.” Joy pushed the door closed behind her. “But keep in mind, he did say partners weren’t his thing. There’s a reason Lou allowed him to work alone.”

  “Is that your way of not saying you told me so? Because you suck at it, if that’s the case.”

  Joy smiled. “I’m saying of all the partners you could’ve chosen you gave him the worst possible candidate. There were a few that wouldn’t have bothered him quite as much. I gave you a list.”

  “Yeah,” Amanda said. “A list of guys who’d let him do whatever he wanted. He needs someone who challenges him and Jones needs someone who is strong enough to enforce the rules. He has so much potential, but he needs a firm hand to draw it out. I thought Milo would be up to the task.”

  “He isn’t the nurturing type. Shackling him to someone he feels is inferior only makes him act out, which distracts him from his work.”

  “It’s policy,” Amanda pointed out. “Everyone else has a partner. Milo’s not above the rest.”

  “He kind of is.”

  Joy was right, but this was Amanda’s department for fucksakes. Milo was brilliant. He solved cases no one else could come close to breaking. She was in awe of his instincts, and how he could find the one tiny detail that would blow a case wide open. However, he was fucking insane. Dealing with him was like dealing with a cranky toddler carrying a bomb.

  “He knows something about these murders,” Joy said.

  “No, he knows something isn’t right, as do I, but he doesn’t know why.” Amanda knew the deaths he investigated were probably connected, but each scene gave them nothing. They all appeared to be accidents, but a smart detective knew they weren’t. Too many unanswered questions in each case. She sighed. “I need a way to get him to focus on the cases while keeping him out of trouble. At first I thought as long as I kept him away from the shit that set him off, I could minimize his episodes, but I can’t keep track of all his… quirks.”

  “I gave you Lou’s notes.”

  Amanda picked up the list made by the previous captain. “Ah yes, he believes rap music is the cause of society’s slow but steady destruction. Is this serious?”

  “He thinks it poisons our brains.”

  “Can’t disagree with him there, I suppose, but the donut thing is perplexing. Why does he hate jelly donuts?”

  “Milo’s never admitted to hating them. Lou just connected his sudden bouts of rage to the presence of jelly donuts.”

  “Right,” Amanda said. “I don’t want to know how that connection was made.”

  “It took a few weeks of observation.”

  “Whatever. He prefers multiples of three, because three is more… trustworthy?”

  “Lou explains that in another note.”

  Amanda had read the whole file. She memorized the note about the numbers, trying to make sense of it. The reasoning still eluded her. “He keeps meticulous notes on every case. Is there seriously a bookcase in his apartment full of notebooks?”

  “Two,” Joy said. “Actually, he keeps notes about every day of his life. Kind of like journaling, but police report style. It’s really kind of impressive.”

  “Fuck.” Amanda shook her head. “And he despises people with red hair.”

  “It’s more of a phobia.”

  “Doesn’t seem too afraid of me.”

  “Depends on the level of ginger. You’re more of a strawberry blonde, which isn’t as threatening as full-on orange gingers.”

  Why was she keeping this nutcase employed? Amanda sighed. Because he was a brilliant nutcase. “And he’s got a germ thing and fears cats.”

  “He leans on the obsessive side of clean, and he doesn’t like any kind of furry animal. I think cats are the worst, though.”

  “The rest of this stuff is so random…” Amanda said. “Nail biters, ankle socks—what’s wrong with ankle socks?”

  “Not sure,” Joy admitted. “He just doesn’t like them. Lots of people don’t.”

  “Tweezers, bowties… What’s a lady stash?”

  “Mustache on a woman.”

  “Oh.” Amanda rubbed her lip. She didn’t like them either.

  “Get rid of the partner,” Joy said. “The rest won’t like it, but you could suggest one of them volunteer to work with him. You won’t get any takers, and that’ll end the bitching right there.”

  Amanda smiled. No one wanted to work with Milo Smalls, but they all went to him when they couldn’t crack a case. “I could.”

  “And suspend him for a couple of days to keep Jones happy.”

  “I have no other option anyway. He assaulted the poor fucker and my bosses are demanding disciplinary action.”

  Joy shrugged. “Bet Jones smells better.”

  “God, I hope so.” Amanda would never admit it to Milo, but Jones was one rank motherfucker. Smelled like asshole and rotten fruit. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to fire him. He’s one of the best I have.”

  “Not one of,” Joy said. “He is the best. Is Jones going to press charges?”

  “No. I sweet-talked him. Next time he might not be so
inclined to forgive and forget. He’s tying my hands slowly.” Amanda closed the file on her desk. “I need a way to get him under control.”

  “Could force him into therapy.”

  It was an idea. Amanda suspected the murderer in Milo’s recent cases was someone close to the victims, like a doctor or a fellow patient. Maybe… “I have a job for you, Joy.”

  ***

  Captain Cunt stared at Milo from her side of the desk. “You’re not even going to try to defend yourself?”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “You poured bleach over your partner’s head.”

  “And?” he shrugged. Jones provoked him. Even the captain had told him to figure out how to deal with Jones’ poor hygiene. He did as they both asked.

  “You realize that’s assault?”

  “I did him a favor.”

  “I had to talk him out of pressing charges. He filed a restraining order against you, but left it at that when I said you’d pay for a new suit.”

  He laughed. “I’m sure I can scrape together twenty bucks.”

  “He said it was a two-hundred-dollar suit.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Milo…”

  “Fine. I’ll buy him a fucking suit. At least I won’t have to work with him.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t blind him.”

  “Am I?”

  She sighed. “I have to suspend you.”

  “And what about him? He couldn’t solve a case if the perp walked in and confessed the whole thing. He reeks of alcohol every single day and he has no clue how to preserve a fucking scene. I’m tired of him and his shitty attitude.”

  “Do you really want to discuss shitty attitudes?”

  He scowled. “He smells better.”

  “One week. No pay.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  “And I’m writing you up.”

  “That’s your favorite thing to do. Actually.” He stood. “That seems to be all you do. You certainly don’t file anything.” He waved at the mess of paper around her office. “And you never get off your ass to go further than the coffee maker.”

  “Get out before I make it a month.”

  “With pleasure. And don’t call me if you get another nutter corpse. Let’s see how far Jones gets on his own.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  He walked out of the office.

  “See you Monday,” Joy said as he passed her desk.

  “Never coming back.”

  ***

  Milo spent his week of cop timeout at home making notes about the nutter murders. He didn’t know what else to call them. The victims were batshit crazy, and every scene appeared to be accidental death or suicide on the surface, but had tiny clues that suggested another possibility.

  He had four notebooks on his desk. The first, he opened and recorded the steps he’d walked outside that day. Zero. He had nowhere to go if he didn’t go to work, so that was pretty simple. It’d been zero for six days. One more and he’d be able to get back on these murders. He was pretty sure Jones hadn’t solved a single one.

  Milo closed the first book and opened the other three. Pyro-Pete, Sex-Fiend Sally, and the first nutter to catch his attention: Slasher Tom. He’d received a call from the medical examiner a few days ago that said some of the non-lethal wounds seemed impossible for Tom to have inflicted on himself. For example, there were several on his back. She couldn’t explain those.

  Like the other two victims, Tom had been in treatment. He found a name for the family physicians treating each one, but there was no mention of a psychiatrist. Surely, they’d be in therapy of some kind.

  Was someone urging these psychos to off themselves? If not a doctor, then maybe another patient. Or a family member… but the victims weren’t related and didn’t appear to have any other connections. His gut said someone was staging the scenes so they looked like suicides or accidents, and not very well. There were definite clues that contradicted the suicide theories. No one could cut their own back… well not easily anyway. Pyro Pete had obviously been moved, or there would’ve been damage to the room he was found in. Sally couldn’t have shoved a snake up her ass if the venom had already paralyzed or killed her. He’d asked a guy at the zoo if the snake might’ve slithered up there on its own. The guy said maybe, but it was highly unlikely.

  He tapped his pen. Tap. Tap. Tap. He couldn’t check the files until he returned to work on Monday. Damn it. Maybe there was something in his personal notes.

  He stared at his bookcase, focusing on the tabs beneath the rows of notebooks. What year should he start in? He figured a serial murderer usually operated in clusters, with breaks in between. A spree could be random or timed to coincide with something important, like the end of a career. It’d been his experience that sprees were usually the last hurrah of a fucked up mind. When the thin tether to sanity finally snapped, a psycho made mistakes.

  If there was a serial killer out there, he’d be in one of Milo’s books. He just had to find him.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Shamus, you’re going to be fine,” Rochelle said.

  “I can’t. I’m not ready.” Shamus pulled at his hair.

  “Relax.” Rochelle touched his knee. Shamus needed physical contact to ground him back into reality. Of all her current patients, he was the most unstable. For now, anyway. If she could take care of him, they’d be able to move forward. “Do you hear me, Shame?”

  He nodded.

  “Good.” Rochelle glanced at the rest of the group. Ozzie sat on the sofa, sandwiched between Estella and Charlie. She never allowed Charlie and Estella to sit too close. Nina sat in a chair by herself. One touch could send her on a sex binge of monumental proportions. She’d already slept with every member of the group except Buggy. There’d even been that one close call between Nina and herself, but that was the proverbial straw. Rochelle took particular pride in Nina’s thirty-two days—so far—without an incident.

  Andy sat on the loveseat behind the sofa. He seldom had much to say. Rochelle watched him tap his palm. The mittens made it difficult to feel the tapping, but Rochelle suspected it was just the action, keeping himself busy, that soothed Andy’s nerves. It would be his turn to face his fears very soon. Rochelle had to figure out how to handle that one without traumatizing any children.

  She sighed. The only one missing was Buggy. Poor guy. He’d gone to the supermarket as part of his therapy. Rochelle had sent Shamus with him for backup, but somehow they got separated. Buggy had ventured into the produce section and found the broccoli.

  Rochelle wasn’t there, but the manager filled her in on the gory details. Buggy gorged on the broccoli until he vomited. Then he ate the vomit and vomited again. Lather, rinse and repeat. It took three police officers to pry him out of the produce section and then drag him outside. Rochelle figured a night in jail would probably help him. She warned the officers to allow him to keep his glasses. With any luck, they’d listen.

  “Are you mad at Shame?” Nina asked. “Because he left Buggy alone?”

  “I didn’t!” Shamus pulled a chunk of hair out of his head. Rochelle had to look away. “Buggy wandered off. I was talking to the guy about a credit card. He was nice.”

  “I’m not mad,” Rochelle lied. “This isn’t about punishment. Shamus needs to face his compulsion head on. Only then can he resist it and know how strong he is.”

  “Buggy wasn’t… cunt-nugget. He wasn’t strong. Sorry.” Ozzie said.

  “I should’ve taken Buggy myself,” Rochelle said. “This is no one’s fault but mine.”

  “I’ve always hated broccoli,” Charlie said. “It’s too leafy.”

  “Broccoli isn’t leafy,” Rochelle said.

  “Used to be.”

  “Broccoli has never been leafy.”

  Charlie shrugged and then rubbed his crotch. Rochelle sighed. They were all agitated. Wonderful.

  “Where’s Pete?” Estella asked. “You said you’d track him down.�
��

  Rochelle planned to tell them about Pete yesterday, but then Buggy had his breakdown. “Pete won’t be returning.”

  Estella rubbed the stump where her thumb used to be. “Is he dead like Sally?”

  Rochelle sighed. “We’re not discussing Pete or Sally tonight. We’re preparing Shamus for his outing tomorrow. Oz, will you go with him?”

  Ozzie nodded. “Fucking bullshit cocksucker. Mmm…yes.”

  “Good. When you get to the store, you go right to the birds.” Rochelle looked at Shamus. “Don’t touch them. Just look.”

  “I would like to hold one,” Shamus said. “Just for a while.”

  “No,” Rochelle imagined the nightmare that would follow. “Just look. Ozzie will make sure you don’t do more than that, right Oz?”

  “Yeah. Balls-in-his-ass—sorry. I mean, I’ll protect the birds.”

  “You’re protecting Shamus.”

  Ozzie nodded. “Right. Fuck the birds.”

  She sighed. “Okay. The rest of you enjoy the refreshments. Me and Shamus need to talk privately.”

  ***

  Shamus held the bird in his hand. Its yellow and green feathers still seemed so vibrant in the dark. He gently stroked its head, his mouth watering as he imagined its soft feathers on his tongue.

  “No. No. No,” Shamus told himself.

  The point of confronting his compulsion, of sitting in a room with it and not giving in, was to overcome what others deemed unnatural. This urge to crush the bird’s neck with his teeth wasn’t normal. Above all else, Shamus hated being different. He hated the stares and the whispers. If he could get past this one thing, maybe the rest wouldn’t matter.

  In group, he promised to trust himself. To believe in himself. If the others could do it, so could Shamus. He could hold this bird, this twitchy, delicate, oh-so-delicious bird, in his hand and cause it no harm.