Chapter 2 Chapter 2: Ghosts and Coffee

Alex Chen was already waiting when I arrived at the coffee shop, sitting in a corner booth with two steaming cups and a manila folder. He'd chosen the spot well—back to the wall, clear view of the entrance, far enough from other customers that we couldn't be overheard. Either he was paranoid or experienced. Maybe both.

"Detective Jenkins." He stood as I approached, extending his hand. His grip was firm, confident. "Thanks for meeting me."

I slid into the booth across from him, accepting the coffee he'd ordered. Black, no sugar. Either a lucky guess or he'd done his homework on me. "You said you had information about the murders."

"I do." He opened the folder, revealing a collection of newspaper clippings, photos, and handwritten notes. "I've been tracking these cases since the first murder six weeks ago. The police report only tell part of the story."

I leaned forward, studying his materials. The organization was impressive—timelines, victim profiles, crime scene analyses. This wasn't casual reporting; this was obsession. "Why? What's your interest in this?"

His jaw tightened. "Personal reasons."

"I need more than that if you want my cooperation."

For a moment, I thought he might shut down. Then he pulled out another photo, this one different from the others. A young Asian woman with Alex's eyes and smile. "My sister, Lisa. She was murdered three years ago in Chicago. Same MO—found in an alley, defensive wounds, body positioned respectfully."

The pain in his voice was real. I'd heard it before, from families of victims, from cops who'd lost partners. It was the sound of someone carrying guilt they'd never put down.

"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. "But Chicago is a long way from New York."

"That's what I thought too." He pulled out a map of the United States with red pins scattered across it. "Until I started digging deeper. Twelve cities, forty-seven victims over the past five years. Always young women, always found in alleys, always positioned the same way. The killer moves every six to eight months, never stays in one place long enough to establish a clear pattern."

I stared at the map, my coffee forgotten. If Alex was right, we weren't dealing with a local serial killer. We were looking at something much bigger, much more dangerous. "Have you shared this with other police departments?"

"I've tried. Most won't even return my calls. The ones who do say there's not enough evidence to prove a connection. Different jurisdictions, different MOs, different timelines—each department thinks they're dealing with an isolated case."

"But you don't."

"The positioning is too specific to be coincidence. And there's something else." He showed me close-up photos of each crime scene. "Look at the hands."

I studied the images carefully. In each photo, the victim's hands were folded over their chest, but there was something more. "The fingers. They're arranged in a specific pattern."

"Exactly. Three fingers extended, two folded down. Same positioning in every case, across twelve cities and five years."

A chill ran down my spine. This wasn't just a serial killer—this was someone with a signature, someone who wanted his work to be recognized. The question was why no one had made the connection before.

"Why come to me?" I asked. "I'm just one detective in one precinct."

"Because you're the first one who didn't immediately dismiss me as some conspiracy theorist reporter. And because..." He hesitated. "I think the killer is escalating. The time between murders is getting shorter. In Chicago, there was a month between victims. Here in New York, it's been less than two weeks."

My phone buzzed with a text message. I glanced at it and felt my blood pressure spike. Another body had been found, this one in Brooklyn. Same MO, same positioning.

"I have to go," I said, standing up.

"Another victim?"

I nodded, already reaching for my jacket. "Brooklyn this time."

"I'm coming with you."

"Absolutely not. This is police business."

"Detective Jenkins—Rachel." The use of my first name stopped me. "I know more about this killer than anyone else alive. I can help you."

"And compromise my investigation in the process. I'm already taking a huge risk talking to you."

"Then don't let it be for nothing." He gathered up his files. "At least take my research. Study it. See if you find the same patterns I do."

I stared at the folder, knowing I should walk away. Getting involved with a reporter was career suicide. Getting involved with a reporter who was personally connected to the case was even worse. But the pain in Alex's eyes reminded me of why I became a detective in the first place. Justice for victims who couldn't speak for themselves.

"Fine," I said, taking the folder. "But this stays between us. And if you print anything about this investigation without my approval, I'll have you arrested for obstruction."

"Understood."

As I headed for the door, Alex called after me. "Rachel? Be careful out there. This killer isn't finished yet."

The drive to Brooklyn gave me time to think. In less than twenty-four hours, I'd gone from handling a straightforward murder case to joining a federal task force hunting a possible serial killer. Now I had a reporter offering information that could change everything—if I could trust him.

My phone rang as I pulled up to the crime scene. Detective Jameson's name appeared on the screen, and my stomach clenched. I hadn't spoken to him in three years, not since everything went wrong.

"Jenkins." His voice was exactly as I remembered—gravelly, authoritative, with an edge that suggested he was always one step ahead of everyone else.

"Jameson."

"We need to talk. New victim in Brooklyn, same killer. Task force meeting tomorrow at eight AM sharp. Don't be late."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good. And Jenkins? Stay away from the media on this one. We can't afford any leaks."

The line went dead, leaving me staring at the phone. If Jameson knew about my meeting with Alex, I was already in trouble. If he didn't, I was about to be.

I grabbed Alex's folder from the passenger seat and headed toward another crime scene, another victim, another piece of a puzzle that was getting more complicated by the hour.

The killer was escalating, Alex was offering help I couldn't afford to refuse, and my past was about to collide with my present in ways I wasn't prepared for.

It was going to be a long night.