Free Kill for Me by Karen Rose

kids were spooked by his prosthesis, but Toby thought it was cool.”
    “So let’s assume it was Toby. He had a mentor, a teacher. Someone who instructed him in the art of manipulation. The other he belonged to. His tick . It’s something.”
    “That was years ago,” Susannah said doubtfully. “That person may not even be alive. And if he is, he might not be Granville’s partner.”
    “True,” Luke said. “But until our warrant for Granville’s house is signed or Jane Doe wakes up, it’s all we’ve got.” He took out his cell phone. “Susannah, call Chase and tell him what you told us. Ask him to start researching ‘tick.’ ”
    Susannah obeyed, taking her laptop from her briefcase. Chase had gone to meet Daniel’s helicopter. By the time she’d explained to his clerk, her laptop was awake.
    “Any word on Daniel?” Alex asked expectantly.
    Susannah shook her head, quelling the pitch of her stomach. He’s strong. He’ll be fine. The girl’s status should worry her more. “Not yet. Chase’s clerk said the helicopter is expected to land in about fifteen minutes. Until then, we can keep busy.”
    Luke glanced at her laptop. “What are you doing?”
    “Your research. I have a wireless card.”
    He looked impressed. “Cool. So google ‘ tick ’—with a k, c, and ck —and ‘master.’ ”
    “I already did.” She waited impatiently, then frowned at the result. “Well, ‘tik’ is crystal meth in South Africa. And it means ‘land and sky’ in Cambodian. But nothing else pops. Unless . . .” Cambodian jogged another memory to the front of her mind, a page from a college textbook.
    “Unless?” Luke prompted.
    “Unless it’s just pronounced ‘tick,’ ” Susannah said, revising her search. Pronounced tick master , she typed and nodded at the result. “It’s a Vietnamese word, spelled t-h-í-c-h . A respectful title for a Buddhist monk.” She looked at Luke, dubious. “But Buddhism is all about peace and harmony. That would have to be one hell of a twisted monk.”
    “True, but one twisted monk is a hell of a lot more than we had a half hour ago.” His brows lifted. “Well done, grasshopper.”
    She pushed back the sudden flutter of pride. “Thank you.”
    Dutton, Friday, February 2, 6:00 p.m.
    Charles turned off his police scanner and sank against the cushions of the sofa in his upstairs parlor. He’d known this day was coming. Still, the news was hard to bear.
    Toby Granville was dead. Dead. His jaw hardened. Dead at the hands of an amateur like Mack O’Brien. Mack had shown imagination and cruelty, but no finesse. Which was why Mack was dead, by a bullet from Daniel Vartanian’s gun. At least Toby had not died at Daniel’s hands. That would have been impossible to bear.
    Toby. He’d been such a brilliant boy. Always seeking, searching. Always experimenting. Philosophy, mathematics, religion, human anatomy. Toby had been first in his class at med school. Why wouldn’t he be, when he’d done his own dissections right in Charles’s own basement? No cadavers for Charles’s protégé. No, sir. Charles had provided his pupil with live subjects and Toby had derived such joy from their use.
    Charles thought of the subject strapped to the table in his basement at this very moment. Toby hadn’t finished with him. The subject still had secrets to spill. I guess I’ll have to finish him myself . Anticipation shivered down his spine despite his sadness.
    Because Toby was dead, and under the most dire of circumstances. There would be no proud funeral procession, no well-attended service in the church, no tears in Dutton’s cemetery. Toby Granville had died in shame and would receive no honors after death.
    Charles stood. So I’ll see you off, my young friend . From his closet he pulled the robe that had first caught Toby’s attention. Donning it, he lit the candles around the room, sat in the special chair he’d had made just for his sessions with Toby. The boy had been so easy to