The task force assembled in Conference Room B, the fluorescent lights casting everything in a sickly pallor. Five detectives including myself, a liaison from the DA's office, and Captain Reeves standing at the head of the table, his perpetual scowl deeper than usual.
"Three assaults in the last month," Reeves began without preamble, slapping files onto the table. "All on the east side, all with the same MO. Women attacked in parking garages, beaten but not sexually assaulted, nothing stolen."
I opened the file, studying the victim photos. Bruised faces, split lips, fear in their eyes. Something coiled tight inside me, a familiar rage I kept carefully controlled.
"Any connection between the victims?" Detective Alvarez asked.
"Nothing obvious," Reeves replied. "Different ages, occupations, backgrounds. No overlapping social circles we've found."
"Random violence?" Mercer suggested.
I studied the locations marked on the map. "Not random. These garages are spread out but they all have something in common." I pointed to each location. "Poor lighting, minimal security cameras, low staffing. He's selecting hunting grounds, not victims."
"Blackwood's right," Reeves nodded. "This guy's careful. We've got partial prints from the third scene but nothing in the system. No witnesses, no cameras."
"What about traffic cams near the garages?" I asked, already thinking about how I would approach such a suspect. How I would lure him, corner him, extract his confession before delivering justice.
"Working on it," Reeves said. "But until then, I want increased patrols around similar parking structures. Alvarez, Blackwood—re-interview the victims, see if there's any connection we missed. Mercer, Chen—canvas the neighborhoods, find me someone who saw something."
As the meeting dispersed, my phone vibrated with a text. The medical examiner's preliminary report on David Coleman had come in. Cause of death: cardiac arrest. Toxicology: pending. No signs of trauma or struggle. Exactly as I had planned.
"Blackwood," Reeves called as I was leaving. "That hotel death from this morning—anything we need to worry about?"
"Doesn't look like it, sir. Classic case of bad timing and bad judgment."
He grunted. "Good. Last thing we need is another high-profile case with the press already breathing down our necks about these assaults."
I nodded and headed to my desk, the duality of my existence never more apparent than in moments like these. Detective Blackwood, trusted to solve crimes. The other me, committed to delivering a justice the law couldn't provide.
That evening, I sat in my apartment—minimalist, orderly, nothing personal on display—and opened my laptop. Time to compile research on Gregory Walsh, the next name on my list. Investment banker, like Coleman. Serial philanderer. Two ex-wives, both left with less than they deserved in the divorce. Currently married to wife number three, twenty years his junior.
The pattern was familiar. Men who viewed marriage vows as suggestions rather than commitments. Men who destroyed families without remorse. Men like my father.
I was fourteen when I discovered his affair. Seventeen when my mother, unable to bear the public humiliation of his leaving her for his secretary, took her own life. Twenty-two when I realized the law would never punish men for this particular brand of cruelty.
I had to create my own justice.
My phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. Alvarez.
"Hey," she said when I answered. "I've been thinking about these assault cases. The locations are too carefully chosen. This isn't some random thug."
"I agree," I replied, minimizing the browser window with Walsh's information. "What's your theory?"
"Security guard maybe? Someone who knows the weak points in these garages. Or a taxi driver who drops women off and then circles back."
An interesting theory. "Worth looking into. We should get employee lists from all three locations, see if there's any overlap."
"Already on it," Alvarez said. "Want to meet tomorrow, go through them together?"
"Your place or mine?" I asked, then immediately regretted the phrasing. Too casual, too suggestive. Not Detective Blackwood's usual tone.
Alvarez laughed. "Let's make it the office, where there's coffee. Eight AM?"
"I'll be there."
After hanging up, I returned to my research. Gregory Walsh frequented the Oak Room at the Bristol Hotel on Thursday evenings. Creature of habit—a vulnerability I could exploit. I would need a new persona for him. The wide-eyed admirer had worked for Coleman, but Walsh would respond better to a different approach. Something more sophisticated, perhaps.
I opened my closet, pushing past the practical blazers and slacks of Detective Blackwood to the other section—the hunting clothes. Dresses, wigs, makeup kits. Tools of transformation.
For Walsh, I selected a sleek black dress, conservative but fitted. Gold jewelry, tasteful but expensive-looking. A persona began to form in my mind: recently divorced business consultant, intelligent enough to understand his work, vulnerable enough to appeal to his ego.
I tried on the outfit, studying my reflection. Detective Blackwood was nowhere to be seen in this mirror. Good. The separation had to be complete.
My phone chimed again—a news alert. The death of investment banker David Coleman was making headlines, but only as a cautionary tale: "Businessman Dies in Hotel Rendezvous." The article mentioned an investigation but quoted police sources saying foul play was not suspected.
I smiled. Another perfect kill.
As I prepared for bed, I reviewed my schedule for the next day. Morning meeting with Alvarez. Victim interviews in the afternoon. Then reconnaissance at the Bristol Hotel, observing Walsh's habits before making first contact next week.
The duality didn't trouble me anymore. Detective by day, avenging angel by night. Both roles serving justice in their own way. Both necessary in a world where the legal system so often failed.
I turned out the light and closed my eyes, dreaming of confessions extracted and justice delivered.