“That doesn’t even make any sense. Shut it, Sidekick,” Ty muttered to him.
Zane allowed himself a small smile before he remembered how much he actively disliked this man.
“You two want breakfast before the hotel?” Morrison asked. He seemed to be the talker of the matched set.
“The Bat Cave isn’t the hotel,” Ty protested in annoyance with a few snaps of his fingers. “Get on board the metaphor, kiddies.”
“Where the hell is the Bat Cave, then?” Henninger asked with a long-suffering sigh.
“The lab, man. Take us down to the lab,” Ty ordered in exasperation.
Zane glanced over the Hardy Boys, struck again by how young they seemed. Surely, they’d seen some version of Batman. This was making him feel old.
“Well, how the hell are we supposed to know that? You old guys saw all that original crap. The new stuff’s a lot better, and the Bat Cave is not a lab,” Morrison blustered.
Zane blinked. Old guys? He glanced to Ty, wondering what sort of fireworks that little comment would set off.
“Do I look like I saw the original anything, SpongeBob?” Ty asked with a smirk and a point to his own chest. “What are you doing reading comics anyway? When I was your age I was in the Gulf, man,” he continued.
“The Gulf of what?” Morrison responded, a blank look in his eyes.
“The Persian Gulf,” Zane answered sharply, not at all amused. He noticed Henninger closing his eyes in exasperation and shaking his head.
Ty didn’t know whether to be more shocked at Morrison’s idiocy or at Zane’s sudden apparent support. He just stared at Morrison for a minute, all joking aside, then glanced at Zane, who met his eyes for a moment, and sighed. “Kids these days,” he muttered as he stepped between the two younger agents and punched the button on the elevator.
The elevator ride was a short one, and when the car jerked to a stop Henninger led the way out. “The team has been a little scattered since the deaths of Special Agents Reilly and Sanchez,” he said quietly as they walked down the hall. “We all knew them. I’m afraid we’re not really organized right now.”
“Has the team had any off time?” Ty asked.
Henninger glanced at him defensively as if expecting a jeer. “No,” he answered curtly as he opened the door to the main laboratory.
“Give it to them while we get ourselves acquainted with the case,” Ty ordered.
Zane frowned. He had no problem with giving the overworked team a day or two off, but how were they supposed to do any of the things Burns ordered if none of the team was around to observe? “We should have access to all the subsidiary case material,” he said slowly, not arguing openly. “I’d like to spend some time with the photos.”
“I’ll have them pulled,” Morrison responded diligently, obviously knowing he’d insulted the two older agents and hoping to make up for it.
“Are any of the crime scenes still intact?” Ty asked.
“Uh … I believe the most recent one is,” Morrison answered uncertainly. “May I ask why?”
“I’d like to visit it,” Ty answered.
“Me, too,” Zane added. He wondered if Serena Scott would mind going along and seeing the site in person. He’d have to ask her—unless Ty got it into his head to go right this minute.
That thought made him realize that he really had no idea what Ty was trained to do or how he would behave on an actual case. The other man at least knew what department Zane came from, although that certainly didn’t expose his training. Some research to learn a little more about his ass**le of a partner might not be a bad idea. It was obvious from the fact that he had been stationed in the Gulf that he had been military of some sort, and when Zane pondered that it didn’t really come as much of a surprise. It wouldn’t take long to request a file on Grady.
“When would you like to go?” Morrison asked.
“As soon as we’re done down here,” Ty answered with a nod to the lab doors as they approached.
“That may be a bit of a problem,” Morrison answered nervously as Henninger slid his key card through the security slot.
“Then fix the problem,” Ty said to him coldly.
“The NYPD detectives assigned to the case haven’t returned our calls for two days. They don’t know you’re here,” Morrison told him.
“So, what’s the problem?” Zane asked, stopping at the security desk.
“Technically it’s still a joint case. The site was left in NYPD
custody,” Morrison answered with a grateful look at Zane as Ty sighed in exasperation. “We’ll have to notify them of the changes to the case and give them—”
“Then get on it,” Ty interrupted before stalking through the security door Henninger held open for him.
“Go on,” Zane said quietly. “Let us know when it’s set up.”
Morrison fled, followed by his quieter partner, and Zane turned and followed Ty, wondering if this would be the pattern for the job: Hurricane Grady sweeps in, tosses everything askew, and sweeps right back out, leaving Zane to clean up the mess.
He hadn’t worked his ass off the past two years to be a goddamn janitor.
FOUR hours after entering the lab, Ty sat amid a flurry of papers and untidy stacks of reports. He leaned his elbows on the table, scowling heavily and staring at the shiny stainless-steel top.
On the other side of the table, Zane was busily working on his charts.
He just happened to glance up, the look on Ty’s face giving him pause.
“What’s wrong?”
Ty didn’t look up. His eyes were slightly glazed and his brow furrowed. “There’s no pattern,” he muttered. “The only things connecting these cases are the little tokens the dude leaves with the bodies and the fact they all end up dead. Other than that, there’s no common victim type, there’s no common MO. Weapon, cause of death, even the way he stages them. All different.”
He finally focused his eyes and glared at the files accusingly as if it was their fault.
“Victim Number One; Kyle Walters,” he recited suddenly. “Wealthy Wall Street type, found in his bedroom, still alive, half-insane, suffering from severe hypersensitivity to light, sound, smell, you name it. Dies in the hospital without ever saying a coherent word. Cause of death is ruled a meth overdose.
Hell, the only reason we even know this guy was a victim was the maid finding the token from the killer a week later. Serial killers tend to get their kicks from watching their victims die or from the power to kill. Why would he leave him alive and risk being identified?”