Cheryl Bradshaw - Sinnerman

“Leave everything to me,” he said.

“But you don’t even know me. Why would you—”

“I learned all I needed to the first time we met. There’s something different about you, Sloane Monroe. You have a drive that most people never possess, and you’re selfless. What you did for my sister proved that, and I am in your debt.”

“Honestly, you don’t owe me anything. I don’t view it like that, I never have.”

“Then try to see it from a different perspective,” he said. “I’m doing this because I want to.”

Giovanni turned and parked in front of the police station.

“Why are we—”

He didn’t respond. He exited the car and came around to my side and opened the door for me. It felt weird. The last time anyone had grabbed the door for me was on the night of my senior prom, and he only did it because he had one thing in mind at the time, and it wasn’t dancing.

Giovanni stretched out his hand to me.

“Come with me,” he said. “It’s about to get interesting.”

CHAPTER 19

All eyes were on the two of us when we walked through the station doors. Nick’s in particular. I felt like the main event at the Circus, the one the audience waited all night to see. Nick leaned over the side of his cubicle and stared Giovanni down like a lion sizing up his opponent before they battled to determine who would be the one true king. Giovanni didn’t seem to notice. Either that or he didn’t really care.

The chief was in a glass-enclosed room off to the side with a few other people. He stood when he saw me and opened the door.

“Sloane, in here,” he said.

I walked past Nick’s desk and couldn’t hide the smirk I was sure I had on my face. It felt good to be a part of the “in crowd.” I entered the room with Giovanni, and we took a seat. The chief looked at both of us and didn’t seem the least bit concerned about who Giovanni was or why he was there.

“Sloane, this is Special Agent Luciana,” the chief said with his thumb bent toward a man in a navy suit that I’d never seen before in my life.

If I had a drink I was sure I would have choked on it.

“Did you say Luciana?” I said.

The man stood and exchanged glances with Giovanni. They smiled at one another like they were part of a covert society, and I waited for a secret handshake to take place. When it didn’t, he turned his attention to me.

“Special Agent Carlo Luciana. And you must be Miss Monroe.”

I took his hand and shook it. It was cold, but firm.

“It’s Sloane,” I said.

“I hear your grandfather used to be in the FBI.”

“He did,” I said. “He was a good man.”

“You look confused,” Agent Luciana said. “Let me explain.”

I was, but not just about why he was there.

“Effective immediately, my team is taking over this case,” he said. “I have a group of other agents I’ve brought along to assist me, and we will work together with everyone here until Sinnerman is caught and put away for the rest of his life. I want this to be a team effort with your chief and myself exchanging information. My hope is that the process will run in a cohesive manner.”

“I’m a PI,” I said. “I don’t work for the department so I’m not sure why you’re telling me all this.”

“I understand our serial has been in contact with you—left notes, and that sort of thing.”

I nodded.

“Have you heard from him since your birthday party?” he said.

I shook my head. Giovanni slanted his eyes at me but didn’t utter a word or change the relaxed expression on his face. Was it possible he knew about the note I’d found earlier that day?

Agent Luciana continued.

“I understand your sister was the last of his first series of victims a few years ago,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been hard on you,” he said.

“It won’t be once he’s stopped.”

“Trust me when I say that we will do everything we can to do just that.”

Agent Luciana looked at the chief.

“I’d like to have a few minutes with Sloane alone,” he said.

The chief nodded and he and Giovanni exited the room.

Once the door closed, I turned toward him.

“You said your last name was Luciana,” I said.

“That’s right.”

“I assume when Giovanni picked me up, that was your doing?” I said.

“I needed to speak with you, yes.”

“And the two of you are somehow related?” I said.

“I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions, Miss Monroe.”

He sounded just like Giovanni, the way he spoke to me in his calm, collected tone of voice, and in the manner that he constructed his comments. And his eyes, while softer than Giovanni’s, had the same dark sheen to them. I was convinced they were connected somehow.

“I have a right to know what’s going on here,” I said, “and if you want me to answer your—”

“Fair enough,” he said. “No need for you to get all worked up. Giovanni is my brother.”

I should have been shocked by this, but I wasn’t.

“And is he—”

“FBI?”

I nodded. Carlo shook his head and placed his hand over his mouth like he was trying to resist the urge to laugh.

“Why is he here then?” I said.

Carlo smiled and folded his arms and rested them on the table in front of me. He took his time before he replied.

“Let’s just say he has a vested interest in this case and leave it at that. Now to my questions for you….”

Meaning me? I couldn’t think of any other reason he’d be there. I wanted to continue our back and forth banter until I had more answers, but somehow I already knew I wouldn’t get much more out of him, and he looked like he’d said too much already.

“What do you want to know?” I said.

“Everything, but let’s start with your sister.”

I relayed the information about Gabby, most of which I was sure he had already been briefed on by someone else. When I finished, he nodded and said, “Tell me how you came to be the center of Sinnerman’s affections.”

This, too, I was sure he knew, but I humored him with what had gone on over the past week since the murders started up again.

“He seems quite taken with you,” he said. “How do you feel about that?”

“If it helps us catch him, I’m fine with it.”

He moved his hand across the desk and grabbed a file folder and placed it in front of him and opened it. My name was typed in bold letters in the center across the top. I couldn’t read what was below, but it was apparent it was a file about certain moments in my life.

“How long have you been a PI?” he said.

“Is that some kind of profile on me?”

“It’s just a little information to help me get to know you better,” he said.

Why?

“This Sinnerman—the killer, is neat, wouldn’t you say?”

I nodded.

“And careful,” he said. “To the degree that he’s never left behind a print or any type of evidence that would give us any clues to his identity. And then you come into the picture and all of the sudden he takes risks. Why do you think that is?”

“He wrote Coop.”

“But the letters to Detective Cooper a few years back weren’t like the ones he writes you—they’re more personal, intimate.”

“The cops have always focused on the women. They interview their families, look into their background…that’s what they did last time, and it’s no different now. The women were random. Wrong place, wrong time. It’s not like he has any rhyme or reason about who he chooses beyond their age and hair color. Without evidence on Sinnerman, he’s been impossible to find so I understand why everyone wants to shift their attention to the women. They’re the next best thing. But I believe it will lead to the same place it always has—nowhere.”