Free Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) by Lawrence Kelter

exactly what.”
    “Why do big strong felons pick on ninety-pound chicks?” I shook my head in dismay and squatted next to the victim’s computer. I created a file and named it “scumbag.” I saved the murder note in the directory of My Documents and shut down the computer before the battery and any other tidbit that our psychopath may have left us died.
    This was a scary guy: knew how to kill, was good with a gun, electronics, elevators, tramcars and God knew what else. In other words, he was no lightweight. The man obviously had an IQ for no good. From the perspective of the good guys, this was not good news. Perps with barely any skills commit most homicides at all: druggies, pimps, hoods, hooligans, and gang members. You get the picture. As I remembered, though, it was the dumb ones who didn’t want to get caught. It was the psychopaths that did. They dropped you clues that led you back to them. They wanted to be caught. They wanted to be punished. Sounds good to me.
    There were no signs of a struggle. The perp had stuffed a rag in her mouth, just as he had with Ellen Redner. “How do you think it played out?” I asked Lido.
    “Perp probably has a gun. He tells the victim to stuff the rag in her mouth and says, ‘Turn around. I won’t kill you if you cooperate.’ Then he covers the victim’s mouth and pinches her nostrils.”
    “Odd way to kill someone, don’t you think? We’d better see Strassman in the morning.” Lou Strassman was a trained psychologist as well as a detective. I was hoping he’d be able to draw me a picture of this deranged asshole’s psyche. Strassman was bright, a little melodramatic perhaps, but at least he wasn’t the kind of guy who’d drop coins on the floor to create a diversion while he looked up your skirt. That was a rather long-winded way of saying that he was an okay guy.
    “I already checked. We can see him tomorrow morning at ten,” Lido told me. “The boss wants to be there too and said that should give you time for church.” Good old Chief Sonellio, good as gold. Some whack-job had taken down two women in less than twenty-four hours and Sonellio wanted to make sure I’ll receive Holy Communion. He had been my dad’s boss before he was mine. He and his wife were the keepers of Italian tradition: first mass on Sunday morning, followed by dinner at three in the afternoon. Sonellio probably thinks I’ll be up at dawn simmering sauce and braising meatballs, just like his wife. I love tradition and I love Italian food. In fact, I know several fine restaurants that serve it.
    Back to the case. “Does the chief know what we know?”
    “As does the commissioner and the mayor. I filled them in while you were in transit.”
    “I think I’ll have to skip morning services tomorrow.” Lido snickered at my remark. He knew I never missed a Sunday workout. How the hell else was I going to repent for eating all those pistachios? “Can you meet me at eight-thirty? We’d better have a game plan before we sit down with the brass. This is not exactly your typical dead ho scenario.”
    “Right. I wouldn’t tell the press jack shit either. They’ll turn the investigation into a circus.”
    “Three ring, Lido. Three ring.”
    I was kneeling next to Samantha Harris, looking for signs of anything, when a cop named Dugan burst into the elevator. “Detectives,” he announced with urgency, “I found the super in the basement.”
    I stood quickly. “Dead?” I assessed by Dugan’s state of agitation.
    “The man has three eyes, Detective.”
    “Oh shit.” I shook my head and then glanced at Lido. “Number four.” I turned back to Dugan. “We’ll follow you.” Lido and I followed Dugan through a fire door and down one flight of stairs to the basement. Victor Alamento, the super, was slumped in a corner of the basement. The entry wound, as Dugan had suggested, was right between his eyes.
    “This is one bad fuck!” Lido stated with hostility. The bullet had exited the