Thread: Farewell, My Lovely (Quix & Xana) - Completed Story

You need to call in Lila. Detective Tom Reilly let the photo slip from his fingers, and ran his palm over a scalp adorned with brown hair, shorn in a buzz-cut, then lifted his blue eyes to stare at his colleague. I'm not sure, Jarrod, he replied slowly, and drew his gaze back to the image of the bruised, battered and naked woman that had landed face-up on his desk, located in an office on the second of the Police building in the ninety-sixth precinct. The woman who, by appearances, could be his wife's sister. Not that you could tell from the crime-scene photo. In that, Stephanie Davis barely resembled a human being at all, however, beside it sat another, obtained from her next of kin, and taken two years prior, where she stood on a beach, dressed in a modest blue sun-dress, with hair flowing in the wind, and smiled into the lens as if she hadn't a care in the world. Now she was dead. Stalked, sexually assaulted, hounded, harassed and toyed with for months by some psycho, who'd eventually brought his sick game to a conclusion by brutally raping the woman, and throttling her to death. Just as he had with the previous two, Nina Ross, and Angela Pattinson. All in their thirties, with medium length black hair, green eyes, and curvaceous bodies reminiscent of Scarlett Johansson. Thomas had identified the pattern, and now, for the first time in his career, the thirty-eight year old, who'd investigated multiple homicides, suicides, violent crimes, and accidental deaths, had a serial-killer to contend with. He needs to be profiled, and she's the only expert we can trust to keep her mouth shut. Tom once again looked to his friend and partner, and arched a brow as the man continued. You know as well as I do, that if this gets out, the FBI will storm in all guns blazing, and you'll be doing nothing but fetching coffee, and watching your career ambitions go down the drain. But, catch this guy yourself, and the sky's the limit. Jarrod, though ten years younger than Tom, and a relative rookie, didn't have to stress that his ambitions were also at stake. I don't know what you're worried about, anyway. They look a little like your wife, so do three million other women. His partner jabbed a forefinger on three of the photo's that lay on Tom's desk, in turn. Nina Ross, separated. Angela Pattinson, never married. Stephanie Davis, divorced. All single, and lived alone. The guy prefers easy prey. Tom realised his colleague was right. It had simply been the connection between the crimes, and the eerie resemblance of the latest victim to Lila, that had momentarily spooked him, however, with Jarrod's persuasion, he quickly swept his concerns aside. Reilly had been brought up the hard way. Raised by a sadistic and alcoholic Father after being abandoned by a cheating whore of a mother at age three, he'd scrapped his way through childhood, and escaped home at age eighteen by joining the army for a tour of duty, then applied to the force when he returned forever proud of the commendations he garnered, and the fact he'd outrun the genetics of his Father. Except for one trait. Tom was also a fighter, and this asshole had gotten on his nerves. There wasn't a snowball's chance in Hell that he'd hand the investigation over to the Feds. With a nod of agreement, he motioned for his younger colleague to vacate the office, then stretched his six foot two inch, athletic frame, and reached for his cell-phone to text his wife. Hey babe. Whenever you've some free time, can you call by. There's a case I'd like you to take a look at.