Finding spots of blood on my shoes on the way to work was an inconvenience I dealt with often. Still, I cursed under my breath and picked up my pace. No matter what had happened, I would not be late for work.
Detective June Morgan was never late—for anything.
I'd clean the shoes off in the subway station. The more people around, the better. Nothing like getting lost in the crowd while I handled a minor problem.
Less likely to have a witness.
Maybe I could touch up my makeup while I was at it.
The cracked mirror above the grimy subway sink reflected a smudge of eyeliner across my cheek. I dabbed at it delicately before pulling a pack of wipes from my purse. Then I slipped off my shoes and wiped them down, careful to get the edges. Once they were spotless, I put them back on and exhaled softly.
It wouldn't do to show up to work with evidence on me. I was a detective, after all—by day, anyway.
I arrived fifteen minutes early. Not so early that I'd be lumped in with the caffeine junkies, but not so late as to draw my superiors' attention. It was safest to be in the middle.
"Morning, June!"
A man waved a newspaper in my face, his energy crackling with manic urgency. "Nightglass struck again! Can you believe it? Third time this week."
Caffeinated type. Definitely not my style.
I smiled, cool and charming. "Third time?" I clicked my tongue. "Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."
He flushed, beaming like an overexcited schoolboy. "I've been working all night. I think I might have found a solid lead."
I tilted my head and fluttered my lashes. He looked like he might faint. Poor thing. He wanted to impress me so badly, I almost felt sorry for him.
"I'm James Quinn," he said suddenly, thrusting out a hand. "Transferred departments. I've heard a lot about your work."
If he got any more excited, he'd combust. I let my smile fade into a neutral, professional mask.
"Tell me about this lead," I said, voice clipped.
He straightened immediately. "Yes, sir. Right away."
I followed him through the maze of desks to a cluttered corner workspace. The wall above his desk was tacked with headlines and photos—his own little conspiracy shrine.
"Nightglass struck here, here, and here," he said, pointing to a map dotted with red pins. "If you look at the pattern—"
"I see," I interrupted, keeping my tone even. "Good work. May I have the map?"
He handed it over without hesitation.
"Keep it up," I said with my usual false cheer.
"Of course, sir!" He actually saluted.
I studied the map. Mediocre, but in the right hands… promising. Nightglass never left a pattern—until now. The past week had been a bit chaotic. Sloppy. I'd have to be more careful going forward.
Luckily, this map would be easy to destroy.
Most serial killers get caught because they get sloppy.
And I had no intention of making their mistake.