Read Passions of the Dead (A Detective Jackson Mystery/Thriller) for Free Online Page A

distance between them or use side streets to avoid patrol cars. When he reached Centennial, he scanned the traffic in both directions. No white van.
    Jackson made a left and headed for city hall. Chasing Engall was a waste of his time. He might as well meet with his detectives and let the fleet of patrol units track down the suspect.
    Jackson processed the Roy Engall scenario. It seemed damn suspicious the man would disappear for twelve hours after the homicides, then run at the sight of a cop. Yet killing a whole family over a blackmail threat to his business seemed like an extreme reaction. Still, if Roy was prone to binge drinking, he could have done it in an alcohol rage.
    Jackson knew plenty about alcoholics. His ex-wife Renee had slid slowly into a daily drinking pattern that turned her into an unpredictable stranger. The moment he’d realized he hated her as much as he loved her, he knew it was time to make a break. Watching her mother disappear into a drunk had been even harder for his daughter Katie. He’d finally given Renee an ultimatum: get sober or get out. She had tried and failed several times, and he’d finally been forced to pack her stuff and load it into a moving van while Katie and Renee cried and called him names. It had been the worst day of his life. Almost.
    Jackson shook his head to clear it. No point in thinking about the past. He had a new woman in his life and new issues to deal with, but these homicides were his priority. His first case after his suspension and he had to be brilliant. He felt a twinge of pain in his abdomen. Was it the fibrosis or fear?
    What if the slaughter on Randall Street was the work of a psychotic serial killer who moved around too much to be caught? What if he never resolved this case? The faces of the dead would haunt him. Jackson put his earpiece in, prepared to make calls while he drove. “McCray, have we heard anything on Shane, the cousin?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Let’s meet at headquarters in an hour. Tell Schak, Evans, and Quince. I’m headed there now to write a subpoena for Roy Engall’s business records. He showed up while I was at the house, then bolted in his van when he saw me.”
    “Engall just bumped himself to prime suspect.”
    “Sure did.” Jackson inched along Coburg Road and tried not to swear at the slow-moving traffic. “Check with Gunderson before you come in. See if he has anything new to report about the bodies.”
    Ten minutes later Jackson pulled into the parking lot under city hall. He hoped this would be the last year the department was in the crowded, badly constructed building. The city council had finally approved a new site, and they were scheduled to move early next year. It seemed insane for the relocation to be happening when officers and detectives were being laid off, but the money came from two separate budgets, and that was how city government worked.
    Jackson hurried down the narrow hall into the Violent Crimes area. He wouldn’t miss having eight desks crowded into a room with file cabinets crammed into every nook and cranny, leaving only paths to navigate. He wouldn’t miss the slats over the outside of the windows either. More stupid architecture.
    Jackson eased into his chair and clicked on his computer. He wanted to check the national databases before the meeting. If another similar crime had been committed anywhere, he needed to know. He also planned to call the local FBI office and ask if they’d ever had a case with a severed hand.
    Schakowski and Evans were already in the small room with the long dry-erase board. Jackson breathed in the intoxicating aroma of dark-roast coffee. They each had a tall cup, bitter black with no foaming milk or syrup. Evans picked a third container from the floor by her chair and handed it to him. “Did you order food?”
    “Sandwiches from the little deli on Park Street. They’ll deliver.”
    “I’m glad you’re running this case,” Quince said, as he came in. “What a mess.