The Death File: A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist. J. Kerley A.

paper clips. A small key ring was in back, several small silver keys attached. “Try these,” I said, tossing them over.

      “Bingo,” he said, opening the first of three cabinets, pulling the drawer and looking inside. “Six years ago,” he said. “Typewritten transcriptions of therapy sessions, judging by the language. Fits with the time she started working at the U and gave up private practice. I guess she …”

      Harry froze, his eyes staring into the cabinet.

      “What’s wrong?”

      Wordlessly, Harry fished a simple Manila file folder from the drawer and held it up. The subject tab said “Carson Ryder.” He handed it to me, and I found a dozen or so photocopied photos and clippings inside.

      “She didn’t just have my name on an index card,” I said, flipping through clipped newspaper reports, “Bowers kept a file on me, cases that made the papers. Check this out.” I held up a photo that had been in the Mobile Press-Register a few years before: Harry and me receiving Officers of the Year awards from the Mayor of Mobile, Alabama.

      “Any idea why Bowers kept a file on a detective with the FCLE?” Harry asked.

      “Absolutely none,” I said.

      He leaned in to scrutinize the photo. “You need a haircut,” he decided. “But I look pretty damn fine.”

      We returned to HQ to continue adding to the file on Dr Angela Bowers, riding up in the elevator with my boss, Roy McDermott, the head of the FCLE’s investigative services division and de facto agency head honcho. Roy’s square body was packed into a crisp blue suit, telling me he’d just returned from Tallahassee, where he was a force majeure in securing funds for the agency. Roy knew the names and predilections of every politico in the state down to their favorite foods and sports teams, traveling to the state capitol during budget sessions to give impassioned speeches too convoluted to follow, all with the same bottom line: The FCLE gets results, so keep the funding flowing, folks.

      We did, they did, and thus the department – basically a state-sized FBI – was one of the best-funded agencies in the state. We loved Roy for getting us everything we needed, and he loved us back for working our collective asses off.

      “Hey, guys,” Roy said, yanking off his tie and jamming it in his suit pocket, the slender end dangling out like fifteen inches of flattened, redstripe snake, “did I read the daily reports right … a murdered psychologist had Carson’s name in her desk?”

      “We’re working on finding out why,” I said, not mentioning the latest wrinkle.

      Roy raised an eyebrow. “Detective Nautilus is working on finding out why, right?”

      “Exactly,” Harry said. “Carson was just along for the ride.”

      “If you’re gonna ride at all, Carson, ride in back,” Roy said, patting down the hay-bright cowlick that immediately bounded back in defiance. “And am I correct in my assessment – sent to you last month – that you’re getting a big backlog of vacation time?”

      I was never big on vacation unless I had someone to enjoy it with. In the past this was a girlfriend or suitable feminine companionship, but I’d taken up full-time with Vivian Morningstar, whose hospital schedule currently precluded vacation and who would not be overly happy if I ran off with even a temporary vacation companion.

      “I, uh – yep, Roy. I’ll vacation, uh … soon.”

      “Didn’t you claim a heavy caseload and say you’d take some time off when Nautilus came on board?”

      “I, uh may have said …”

      “Is this not Nautilus standing beside you, Carson?”

      “It seems so,” I admitted. “But Harry’s new and needs—”

      Roy turned to Harry. “Can you function without Ryder, Detective Nautilus?”

      Harry, blast him, gave it two beats and a grin. “Sometimes better.”

      Roy clapped a huge red hand on my shoulder and pulled me close, half hug, half threat. “There you go, Carson, you’re covered, even more when Gershwin gets back next week. Take some time off. Recharge the batteries.” He paused, thought. “Y’know, that’s an order.”

      And then the elevator door opened and the whirlwind of Roy McDermott blew out, pulling his pocket recorder as he turned the corner to his office, bellowing, “Memo to self, make sure Ryder starts taking his freaking vacation time!”

      “Damn,” Harry said, staring at the corner Roy had vanished around. “He always like that?”

      “Not generally,” I said. “Looks like he remembered his Prozac this morning.”

       6

      Jeffrey Cottrell’s desk was shaking so hard one of the drawers rolled open. His nameplate – T. JEFFERSON COTTRELL, ESQ. – tumbled to the blue pile carpet, followed by a ceramic mug loaded with pens and pencils. Cottrell’s eyes were on the closet door across the room, opened wide and mirrored on the inside so he could enjoy the reflection, his jeans down to the tops of his hand-tooled cowboy boots, a woman on the desk with her red dress hiked to her waist, ankles locked around his buttocks.

      “Oh yesssss …” the woman hissed as Cottrell’s hands raked her side-drooping breasts.

      He shot a glance at his watch. Shit, lost track of time. He increased his rhythm, pushing to the finish, pinching the engorged nipples.

      “Easy, Jeffrey,” the woman said. “You’re hurting …”

      Cottrell grabbed broad hips and pulled the woman tight as his orgasm arrived in a frenzy of grunts and spasms.

      “Urrrr … UHHH.”

      And then he was backing away on unsteady legs and reaching for his pants.

      “Jesus, Jeffy,” the woman said, pulling down her skirt with one hand and pushing back a stack of disheveled brass-blonde hair with the other. “You’re a crazy man. But fun. Got any more of that Cuervo?”

      “You gotta get gone,” Cottrell said, tightening the concho belt around his Levi jeans. “I’m supposed to meet a client.”

      “At ten at night?”

      “It’s the law biz, hon.” He slapped her ass. “Come on, get moving.”

      The woman shot him a dark glance, had a second thought, pecked his cheek with a kiss. “You gonna take me to Casa Adobo this Friday?”

      “Yeah, sure. Use the back door, would you?”

      A sigh and the woman slung her purse over her shoulder and was gone. Cottrell put the fallen items back on the desktop, pulled on his black sport coat and popped a breath mint, his mouth still tasting of tongue and tequila. He buttoned his pink Oxford shirt in the mirror, slipping the loosened bolo tie to his throat and finger-combing the long silver hair back over his ears. It might start tonight, he thought. Less than three weeks until the reading of the Kubiac will. It might not finish tonight, but it had to start soon.

       Let’s get this done, kid …

      Cottrell sucked in his gut and threw faux punches at the mirror. Forty-six and I still got it … A bit of roll over the belt, but he’d been busy lately, and the fucking gym was a drag. He had to look into getting a personal trainer, some skank with a hard-body going on. Both of them could get a workout.

      Cottrell heard the buzz of the bell in the entry and shot a look at his Rolex, a gift from Ramon Escheverría, a client he’d made good money from in the past, with more undoubtedly coming in the future. El Gila … a scary street name, but Escheverría liked Cottrell, a very good thing.