Cold Case Recruit
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Jennifer Morey
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Prologue
With another episode of Chicago crime recorded for the archives, Brycen Cage walked off the set of Speak of the Dead and headed backstage. Fans loved the chilling, grisly, terrible stories. He’d discovered a talent for reproducing them in a much lighter tone than their reality, the darkest side of humanity twisted into entertainment. Ten years ago, if anyone had told him he’d end up somewhat of a celebrity showcasing murder, he’d have laughed.
He greeted a stagehand on his way down a dimly lit hallway toward his dressing room. Outside the double doors, two security guards waited. A few other crew members busied themselves closing out the program and prepping the stage for tomorrow’s schedule. Brycen liked the social aspect of the show. It beat interacting with the dead.
His agent let five or six people into his dressing room after every live taping. Good PR, he’d said. Entering the clean, white-walled, well-lit room, he saw the fans waiting for him just inside, five women and one man. The man seemed out of place in a casual business jacket with a cowboy hat shading his gray eyes and black hair sticking out from the rim. Men rarely came here for an autograph.
He focused on the women, one tall and slender, one short and chesty, one average but great-looking blonde, another taller blonde and a fifty-something librarian stereotype.
“Hello, ladies.” He inserted himself in the middle of the women and took the first pen offered him. His agent made sure they all brought their own pens. The women giggled breathlessly—all but the fifty-something. She watched with an entertained smile, or maybe a fond smile best described that look. The man stepped back and waited. He didn’t have a pen and paper ready. If he wasn’t here for an autograph, what did he want?
“I love your shows,” the great-looking blonde said.
Who could love murder stories about real people? A living, breathing human being had suffered horrifically at the hands of a perverted monster and people loved hearing about it?
“Thanks.” He gave her his standard charmer of a grin. Had she demonstrated more intelligence, he would not be opposed to spending some personal time with her.
“Are you still a detective?” the chesty woman asked, waiting to hand him her paper and pen.
She came off as shy and a little innocent. Sweet. With a nonstandard, genuine smile for her, he signed the blonde’s autograph. “I don’t work for the Chicago police anymore, no.” He came to this studio and recorded shows on cases he’d solved over the years. Talking about them was much easier than having them front and center in his face.
He handed the great-looking but not-so-bright blonde his autograph, and one of the security guards ushered her out the door.
“I love your shows on Alaska,” the chesty woman said, handing him her pen and paper.
She ruined his opinion of her by bringing up Alaska. “Thanks.”
“Do a lot of criminals go to Alaska to hide?” she asked.
“Some.” He handed her the autographed plain piece of paper. “Thanks for coming to my show.”
She looked disappointed at the brevity of their chat. This wasn’t supposed to take long. The other security guard ushered her out the door as the first one returned.
“I’m Carol,” the tall and slender woman said, thrusting a pen and pad of flowery stationery paper toward him. People handed him all sorts of media to sign. The oddest one so far was a giant wall clock. The visual still made him want to chuckle. What made that woman decide on the clock, and why have his name so prominently displayed? Did time have some meaning? The short time humans had to live? Or had she been fascinated by murder and got a thrill every time she saw his name? Maybe both. Who knew?
“Will you write great to meet you, let’s get together sometime?” Carol flashed her pretty brown eyes with a big smile, all in fun.
He admired her courage. “I’d be glad to.” He began to write.
“Do you mean it?” she asked excitedly.
Finished writing, he handed her the pen and stationery back. “Of course. Now you can show all your friends.” He always got uncomfortable when the groupies came to see him. He wasn’t a rock star, after all.
Her smile deflated a bit when she noticed his neutrality, or lack of interest, as she might interpret.
“Right this way,” the security guard said, guiding her away.
She looked back over her shoulder as though lamenting the failure of this one attempt to hook up with someone famous. Well, not famous. His show was popular, that was all. And he did like his privacy.
“Is it true that you don’t believe in marriage?” the tall blonde asked, handing him her piece of paper.
A magazine had done an interview with him once, a few months ago. Promotion, his agent had said. He hadn’t enjoyed it at all. Talking about his personal life always set him on edge. “I’m a skeptic.”
“Haven’t you ever been in love?” She smiled flirtatiously.
“Once, but it wouldn’t have worked out anyway.” He handed her the pen and paper and nodded to the other security guard.
Her flirty smile vanished at his easy dismissal. She didn’t look back as she was taken through the door.
The fifty-something handed him a photograph of himself. She’d patiently waited, like the man hanging back in the shadows. Brycen glanced over at him watching the exchange as he likely had done with all the others, nothing revealing on his face or in his eyes. Who the hell was this guy?
“It’s so refreshing to know there are people like you left in this world,” the fifty-something said.
Her sincerity brought his attention right back to her.
“My daughter was murdered eleven years ago and her case was just solved a few months ago, thanks to one of your shows,” she said. “She was murdered by that serial rapist you put away in Chicago a few years ago. The detectives didn’t put it together until your show aired. A DNA test linked the killer to my daughter’s rape and murder. I flew down here to meet you and to thank you in person.”
He had not expected gratitude from a woman whose daughter had been murdered. Touched, he took the pen she offered and the photograph. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Ms....”
“Lynden. Molly Lynden.”
He wrote, For Molly Lynden and her daughter. I wish I would have caught him sooner.
Handing her the photograph and pen, he asked, “How long are you in town?”
His question seemed to startle her, but she said, “I’m staying with a friend until the end of the week.”
Turning to the waiting security guard, “Tell my agent to arrange a dinner for me and Ms. Lynden.” And then to her, he said, “I’d like to know more about your daughter. That is...if you don’t mind.” Some people didn’t want to—or couldn’t—talk about the ones they’d lost.
“Oh, why, that isn’t necessary, but such a nice gesture, Mr. Cage.” She took the business card he handed her. “I’d love to have dinner with you. And get to know you. You can’t know what solving my daughter’s case has done for me and my family.”
“It’s not a gesture, and I do know, Ms. Lynden. Many times over, I’ve seen what losing loved ones to heartless killers does to people. You have my highest respect and regard. It will be my pleasure to have dinner with you.”
“Thank you. I... I don’t know what to say.”
“Say goodbye for now.” He leaned in. “Security won’t let you stay long.”
“Of course.”
He gave her a casual hug.
When she moved away, she said, “Thank you so much.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
“Okay.” Her eyes glistened with emotion as she looked back with a wave.
Watching her leave the room, he could put himself in her shoes. He could experience what she experienced. Feel what she felt. The anxiety. The despair. Several years of solving homicides had given him that dark insight, his experience in Alaska especially. A man could stand up to that only for so long before he began to break. He’d reached that point. He could no longer endure the gore, the brutality and, most of all, the senseless injustice. Call him a bleeding heart, but meeting people like Molly always brought him to his knees.
Several seconds passed before he realized the man was still waiting for his turn.
“I never got used to it, either,” the man said.
Brycen had forgotten he was there, so caught up in Molly and her murdered daughter.
The man moved to stand beside him as Molly left the dressing room.
“You’re a detective?” Brycen asked.
“Kadin Tandy.” The tall, piercing-eyed man handed him a business card. “I’m not here for an autograph.”
“I didn’t think so.” Brycen took the card and read. Dark Alley Investigations. He grunted. “Are you my competition?” As Kadin’s hand moved back to his side, Brycen caught sight of a double holster and two pistols. “Or not...”
Something about the name and the man was familiar. What was he doing here and how had he gotten by the network’s security?
“Not everyone knows who I am,” Kadin said, not at all put out that Brycen didn’t recognize him. “I run a private detective agency out of Rock Springs, Wyoming. I’ve got five good detectives working for me and all of them are on assignment except one, but he’s expecting a baby with his new wife, so I’m scouting for more.”
And he’d traveled all the way to Chicago to talk to...him? He must have researched many detectives. To single him out struck Brycen as both odd and a compliment. The sense of familiarity grew. He’d heard of this man before.
“DAI’s workload has more than doubled since word got out about us,” Kadin said.
Still stunned that the man had found him, Brycen didn’t respond.
“We solve cold cases,” Kadin said. “Sometimes families of the victims come to us. Sometimes we go to them.”
Brycen began to recall a story about a New York detective who’d gone private. “Wait a minute...you’re not...”
“Several years ago, my daughter was kidnapped and murdered in New York. There was a lot of publicity on it. I moved back to Wyoming and opened DAI to fight back against criminals who’ve gotten away with murder.”
Kadin Tandy was the man who’d opened a private investigations agency in Wyoming. Brycen couldn’t believe it. “Yes. I remember you now. You don’t stop until you catch them.”
“No. Never. And neither do you.”
Now Brycen understood why he’d come here, and he didn’t like it. “Did.” He started for the door.
Kadin followed, catching up to walk beside him.
Brycen waved off the security guard when he stepped forward to intercept Kadin.
“At least listen to my offer.”
“I got out of that line of work.”
“I’m aware of that. I know all about you.”
That stopped Brycen. He let go of the door handle and faced him. How much did he know? “You researched me? Why?”
Kadin extended his hand toward the doors. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”
Why did he want to talk alone?
“Here’s fine.” If this went the way he suspected, he’d tell the guard to escort Kadin out of here. But what if he knew about Alaska...?
Well, he couldn’t possibly know all of it. Brycen hadn’t told a soul about the worst of it.
Kadin glanced back at the guard. “We need some privacy.”
Brycen debated whether to ask the guard to escort Kadin out or not. Not facing this would be like running, avoiding whatever Kadin would bring to light. And he’d rather not have the guard—or anyone—hear this conversation.
“You can go now,” Brycen said to the guard, who promptly obeyed.
Kadin closed the dressing room door after the guard left. Putting his hands on his hips, exposing the guns and appearing to choose his words carefully. “I need you to join my team.”
Or maybe not choose them carefully. He’d come right out and said what he’d come to say. Brycen wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or not. Why did this man want him to join his team of detectives?
“I told you. I got out of that line of work,” he finally said.
“No, you haven’t.” Kadin made a show of glancing around the spacious dressing room, over the desk and lit mirror, the tall chair for the makeup and hair prep, and racks of clothes lining one wall. The polished concrete floor gleamed and pictures of cities had been handpicked for a specific reason. The single window, tinted with one-way transparency, offered a sparkling view of downtown Chicago. He loved the city. It didn’t remind him of mountains. Looking at mountains depressed him.
“I’m here to recruit you,” Kadin said.
“Why me?” The man might be confident, but this took it to the extreme.
Kadin wandered back into the dressing room, going to bookshelf filled with binders. “I believe you’d make a valuable addition to my team. I need you.”
What he offered did seem exciting, and for the good. What better way to utilize his talent?
But to go back to that...
“Well, I don’t need you, Mr. Tandy. As you can see, I have a job. A good job. I make lots of money, I drive a nice car and I live in a nice house. Why would I leave all that and go back to dealing with crime scenes and victims’ families?”
Kadin twisted to look at him. “You just made dinner plans with one of those family members.”
He did, and that would always be his weakness.
When Brycen had no comeback, a half smile curved up on Kadin’s calculating face, more of a cat-got-the-mouse grin. He’d just confirmed whatever had made him come here with this insane offer.
Facing the binders again, he said, “Nothing satisfies you more than catching sadistic killers who hurt the innocent without remorse and ruin the lives of those who loved them.”
Nothing like driving his point home.
Brycen shook his head. “You don’t understand. I—”
Kadin cut him off. “The ugliness wore you down. I get that. But the detective in you will never die. You wouldn’t have started this show otherwise. Detectives—good detectives—don’t give up. Some may have a breakdown and need to step away for a while, but they always come back to what they were born to do.”
Every word rang true in Brycen’s heart. Sometimes he did miss the chase, the puzzle-solving and the satisfaction of sending violent criminals to prison. But he did not miss the horror...or the darkness that had begun to swallow him.
“Look,” Brycen began, not feeling full conviction to stay his course and apprehensive over the temptation he faced, “I’m flattered you came all this way, but I’m not your man.”
“You’re not the only one I’m seeking out.” Kadin slipped out a binder, cradling it as he opened to the first page.
Brycen had kept all of his case files. He used them to create shows.
“I’m recruiting others based on their suitability to specific cases,” Kadin went on, turning pages and seeming to read.
Brycen wondered how much was a show, a way to appear nonchalant, so as not to alarm Brycen to the full extent of his determination to sway him. “What case do you have in mind for me?”
“What made you decide to become a detective?” Kadin asked instead of answering.
He would ask that question. Homing in his sharp weapon and taking aim at Brycen’s soul. Brycen walked to the bookshelf and lifted the latest murder mystery he was reading. “I loved reading when I was a kid.” He held up the book. “That doesn’t mean I was born to be a detective.” He dropped the book with a slap onto the desk. “Fiction is not the same as reality.”
“We all learn that when we go to our first crime scene.” Kadin put the binder away and turned to face him fully, his eyes too certain for Brycen’s comfort. “But you were born for this, Brycen. You must know. You must feel it right here.” He pressed his fist to the center of his chest. “I felt it. I still do. Even though I lost my daughter to a killer, I do it because I was born to. And in a way, I honor her by helping others. How can you feel good about yourself if you aren’t helping those families who desperately need you? The Molly Lyndens of the world.”
“Oh, now you’re going to try and guilt me.” Brycen nodded, thinking it might work.
“Why did you leave southern Colorado?” Kadin asked abruptly, and then for emphasis, “For Alaska?”
He had a feeling the man already had an explanation. No point in answering, he just let him go on.
“You were inspired by the books you read. And you knew you could make a difference in a city where the crime rate is high. In a state that has many dangerous places to live. You had the ambition in your heart.”
All true, for the most part. But that didn’t lessen the toll it had taken on him.
“Do you know how many families whose loved ones are still missing? Whose killers still walk free?”
He knew it when he worked homicide and he still did now. And it bothered him.
“This show is a waste of your talent,” Kadin said. “Think of the families. Molly Lynden.”
“I thought of nothing else when I worked in Anchorage and then the CPD.” That and solving the crimes, the mystery, the challenge to outsmart killers. The reward of feeling like a hero. As a young man, he’d felt satisfied most by that.
“Yes, but...why did you leave Alaska?”
The deliberate question put Brycen on edge. “People do horrific things when they have mountains and water separating them from law enforcement.” He had told everyone that was why he’d left. Although some might speculate, no one knew the real reason. Except this man, it would appear.
“And you thought Chicago would be better?”
Few could rattle Brycen, but Kadin did.
He didn’t respond, moving away from the man who pushed all the right buttons. He’d done some thorough research. Brycen stopped at the racks of clothes, wishing he could put one of the outfits on and go back onstage. But that would be running, wouldn’t it? Was that what he’d been doing? Running? And not from Chicago or Alaska per se. From something in particular.
“You know all about feeling responsible for that, don’t you?” Kadin pushed some more, following him across the room. “About feeling responsible for the life of someone loved by their family?”
Brycen turned to face him. Had he meant something by that? He looked hard into the seasoned detective’s eyes and found only intelligence. Cutting intelligence.
“Tell me...” Kadin subtly, but with powder-keg precision, said. “What’s the real reason you left Alaska?”
A shock wave singed him. A man like Kadin could dig up what Brycen had buried. All he had to do was look.
“You’re good,” Brycen said. “I’ll give you that.”
“If you join my team, I’ll give you exclusive rights to the cases you’re authorized to use. As long as the families agree to you doing a story about their murdered loved ones, you can use them for your show.”
Kadin was right. Brycen didn’t have an exhaustive list of shows. He could solicit other cases, but that wasn’t the premise of his show. Its popularity stemmed from the fact that all the cases were his. He had solved them all. The Alaska programs received the highest reviews. Some of the cases were in remote areas—and there were plenty in Alaska—in villages that didn’t have law enforcement. That made for entertainment. He’d moved there from Colorado because of that, because Alaska offered a challenge, as Kadin had pointed out. Alaska had also offered other things, things he’d like to forget, things he almost had forgotten until this man had come to see him.
“You can work for me when you aren’t working here,” Kadin said. “You won’t even have to move. Just travel to the sights of the cold cases when you need to until they’re solved. A man with your experience won’t take that long.”
“I’m done with that line of work,” Brycen said, much more feebly than before.
“Are you?” Kadin pinpointed Brycen’s weakness, his thirst to solve crimes. After holding his gaze a beat longer, Kadin added, “Give it some thought. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” And with that, he left the dressing room.
Brycen went to the dressing table and leaned over, bowing his head. Now what?
Plaguing regret spread its poison. Again. Every time he managed to erase the life he’d left in Alaska, something or someone rekindled the nightmare. “Damn you, Kadin Tandy.”
