There's a box of fresh pastries on Morrison's desk that’s been emptying steadily since just after eight, and by the time Reilly slams his desk phone back into its cradle and swings around in his chair to talk to Morrison, it's down to the last maple-glazed and one with sprinkles nobody seems to want.
Ignoring the rising din from that side of the room, I flick through the lists of property and assets suspected of being under Kozlov’s control. My visit to his beloved club was a bust, on the surface, but the way his staff reacted to my questions about Amber tells me I’m on the right track.
"...all over the place," Reilly's saying. "Place was a bloodbath. One of the crime scene techs puked down the front of his suit."
I lift my head from the file in front of me, the news of a gory incident enough to catch my insomnia-ravaged attention.
"How many were there?" Morrison has his feet half on the desk, and the last of the maple-glazed in one hand. “Or do they know? I heard it wasn’t exactly easy to figure out…”
We live in a small town. A crime scene where it’s hard to count the number of victims is definitely not something we see every day. I stop trying to make notes and listen.
"Four confirmed." Reilly tips his hand back and forth in the air. "Could be more. They were still bagging body parts when the state boys waved our guys off the scene."
Jesus.
Holt is on the edge of Morrison's desk with his coffee in both hands. He tilts the cup an inch toward Reilly without lifting it to drink. "Anyone we know?"
The pause Reilly leaves is designed to let us know he has the inside track on some big news.
"Kozlov."
My pen slips from my hand and drops onto the page as I slowly push to my feet.
Morrison's feet hit the floor, and the chair rocks under him. "Get the fuck out."
Reilly grins, thrilled his scoop is as juicy as he’d hoped.
"I'm telling you." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, as he grins at the reaction he's been waiting for. "Pictures came through this morning. It’s him alright.”
No, No way. This can’t be happening.
Morrison whistles, long and low, and licks glaze off his thumb. "Someone’s got balls.”
Everyone else seems to be thrilled by this news. Kozlov was a terrible person who evaded justice for years. There are very few people who’ll shed a tear upon hearing about his demise.
But to me, this is the last thing I want to hear.
I walk the twenty feet across the bullpen with my paper cup still in my hand. The three of them shift to make room for me in their little circle.
"Where was this?"
Reilly's grin reasserts itself at his new audience. "Some remote cabin he’d apparently been renting out as a brothel or something? They’re still trying to figure it out. Had some cameras and weird shit set up.”
He shudders. "Could be anyone. Kozlov pissed off a lot of people on his way up." Morrison wipes his fingers on his trouser leg. "He was getting too greedy. Was always going to catch up with him."
“Were there any women there?” I ask quietly.
Reilly and Morrison glance at one another.
“One,” Morrison answers. “But they think she was in her fifties.”
No Amber is what he’s telling me. I nod, grateful for the clarification, but if it wasn’t Amber, then where the hell is she?
“Kozlov’s number two is missing. Dimitri something. He fled, taking one of the women with him as a hostage."
A small chill begins at the base of my neck. I know what he’s going to say before his mouth even forms the words.
"Could be Amber." He scratches the side of his jaw. "Auburn, mid-twenties. One of the security guards we picked up at Kozlov’s mansion couldn't place where he’d seen her before, just that he knows he has."