The morning sun shone brightly from the eastern horizon as I pulled into the lot, making a note of the other two police vehicles already in attendance. Neither had their lights flashing, and there was no one guarding the complex entrance, which I took to be a good sign. My general rule of thumb when arriving to a crime scene is the more people in attendance, the worse it’s going to be. The lack of foot traffic, as well as the absence of fire trucks and ambulances, suggested that whatever had happened was being kept carefully under wraps.

  I parked and exited the vehicle, pausing to double-check my pistol, handcuffs and flashlight before taking a slow walk through the parking lot. I scanned the area, taking note of the immediate surroundings.

  An automotive repair shop stood adjacent to the apartment, and two men in mechanic overalls sat quietly talking outside the bay doors, cigarettes pinched between their fingers. Whether they were coming on shift or just finishing an overnight I couldn’t say. But neither glanced my way as I walked, giving further credence to the notion that whatever happened had been quiet.

  Across the street stood a florist shop, as well as a funeral home. Beyond that, rows of single and multi-family homes lined the street, the empty parking spaces in front of their entryway stairs revealing those who’d already departed for work and those who had yet to leave. I took a hard look but didn’t notice anyone watching from behind the fence gates or windows. Another good sign.

  I reached the end of the parking lot and walked between the first two buildings, following the signs to the Business Office, where Rickson stood waiting for me.

  In his early forties, with dark hair and matching eyes, Omar Rickson was a veteran officer and one of the bravest cops I knew. He was a good friend and had gone to bat for me on more than one occasion, including accompanying me into the darkness to rescue a little girl from a demented clown’s lair. Neither of us had come out of that encounter unscathed, and although I sometimes wondered if he found himself back there in his dreams, I’d never worked up the courage to ask.

  Dressed in his patrolman blues, he was obviously in good shape, but couldn’t quite hide the slight limp in his gait, which was the result of an accident three years prior, when he’d intentionally driven his patrol cruiser into the path of a drunk driver barreling down the wrong lane of the highway at triple digit speeds. The papers described it as one of the most selfless acts of courage they’d ever seen, and he’d been regarded as a local hero ever since.

  “Top of the morning, Rick,” I said.

  “Chloe,” he said. “You got here faster than I expected.”

  “Your phone call made it seem like it was important.”

  “It is,” he said. “Come on.”

  The door to the business office was unlocked, and he led me inside to where a second officer was seated atop the receptionist desk. He had a Styrofoam takeout container balanced on his lap, along with a plastic bag containing more food and a drink carrier with three beverages.

  “Officer Prado,” Rickson said. “Have you met Sergeant Mayfield?”

  Prado’s eyes widened, and he abruptly straightened from the desk, setting aside his food and wiping his hand along the side of his pants before offering it to me. “Pleasure, ma’am.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said and shook.

  I estimated Prado’s age as old enough to buy ammunition, but only barely. His uniform hung a touch loose, giving him that little kid dressed in his dad’s suit look, but he was here, and, unlike me, he was bright eyed.

  Which was a good thing. It was no secret that recruitment was down across law enforcement agencies nationwide. Critically so, in some cases. We needed fresh blood to fill the spots of those officers who were retiring or resigning, and the sooner we could get them trained up, the safer the streets would be.

  “Break time’s over,” Rickson said. “Go relieve Taylor and tell him he can go home. Then keep the scene secured while I bring Sergeant Mayfield up to speed.”

  “Roger that, sir.” Officer Prado offered me a polite nod before heading out through the exit. I waited for the door to swing shut behind him before I turned to Rickson.

  “New recruit?” I asked.

  He nodded. “First phase.”

  “Those were the days. How’s he doing?”

  “Seems alright so far. Enough common sense not to get himself into trouble, and he’s not looking to take out his aggression by beating suspects to a pulp.”

  I gave an answering grunt and told myself that last comment was coincidence and not directed at me.

  “Did you eat?” Rickson asked.

  I hadn’t but didn’t want to admit it. “Depends. Is this the part where you tell me this was all a ploy so you could treat me to breakfast?”

  He snorted and motioned to the bag on the desk. “I wish. Help yourself.”

  “You sure Taylor won’t mind?”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  Good enough for me. I didn’t much care for Taylor anyway. He was bored, and far too comfortable with this line of work for my liking.

  I opened the first box. Inside were pancakes, scrambled eggs, and hash browns. My mouth started salivating from the aroma, but I forced myself to go slowly and really chew before swallowing. My mother had worked as a waitress, and she’d always expressed reservations for people who were too busy to enjoy their food. I didn’t have time to savor, so I settled for dainty bites taken in rapid succession. Halfway through I reached for the drink holder and pulled free a cup. Fully expecting coffee, I spluttered in surprise when the cold, tangy liquid hit my tongue.

  “Agh,” I said. “What is this?”

  “Orange juice,” Rickson said.

  I stared at him for a moment, my lips working soundlessly before I managed to sputter, “Why?”

  “It’s good for you. Better than coffee.”

  “Says who?”

  “Ever tried giving coffee to a dog?”

  “No.”

  “They won’t take it. That should tell you something.”

  I snorted and shook my head. “I’m not sure we can be friends anymore, Rick.”

  The corner of his mouth curved up into a smile. “Who says we were friends to begin with?”

  “Oh, that’s just mean-spirited.” I stared disapprovingly at my cup for several seconds. Then I took another drink. The second one wasn’t so bad, but it wasn’t good either. I licked my lips and set it aside before returning to my breakfast, finishing the eggs and saving the pancakes for last. I wanted the syrup to be fresh in my memory when I got back to work.

  “All done?” Rickson asked once I’d taken my last bite.

  I nodded, dropped the empty Styrofoam container into the trash, and wiped my fingers along the back of my pants as I stood. “Okay, let’s get to it. What have we got?”

  He motioned me to follow and then led me into the manager’s office, bringing me around the desk to a computer already up and running. “The office manager called in this morning when she saw the motion activators on the surveillance camera had gone off during the night.”

  “Where’s management now?”

  “She had to run her kids to school. Said she’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Okay then. What’s on the video?”

  “See for yourself.” He opened the surveillance app and scrolled through to the lone camera, hitting play before stepping back and motioning me to watch.

  The video footage wasn’t great, but if I were being completely honest, I was surprised management had any cameras running at all. Boston winters aren’t kind to electronics, and I knew of at least a dozen apartment buildings that had decided the added security wasn’t worth the hassle of replacing them. I was surprised that Berkshire Village was the exception. Maybe it was a requirement of their insurance or something.

  The camera was located under the roof just above the management office and angled to overlook the courtyard. As the tape began to play, I noted a subtle shift of shadows from the direction of the parking lot. Headlights, if I had to guess, although I couldn’t see the vehicle they belonged to. I didn’t bother to ask if there was another camera. If there had been, Rickson would have started with it.

  A couple of seconds after the headlights flickered off, four figures entered the frame. I couldn’t make out much more than that. They were dressed all in black, with heavy cloaks over their heads and matching robes that flowed down almost to the ground. They moved smoothly, sweeping across the grounds, flowing from one shadow to the next.

  Like ghosts.

  Or wraiths.

  I watched as they crossed the courtyard and drew up beside one of the apartment doors. They stacked up, not as professional as a Special Response or SWAT team, but definitely in the manner of someone not wanting to be seen. Then, as one, they reached their hands down into their robes and pulled out four long and pointed objects.

  “Hold it,” I said. “Am I crazy or are those….”

  “Swords,” Rickson said. “Yeah, that’s what it looks like to me too.”

  “Lord Almighty….”

  “You see now what I meant about this getting dumped in your lap no matter what I say?”

  “I kind of do.”

  “Reminds me of those renaissance nut jobs that were here before. The ones who set fire to the Union Oyster House.”

  I grunted. The Union Oyster House was still a sore spot. Titus and the Sons of Liberty had been Blue Moon’s first real allies, and they’d been forced out as a result of that case. They’d disappeared in the aftermath of the knights’ attack, and I had nothing but the assurances of a waitress whose name I didn’t know that they were okay.

  Sometimes that happens in life. You lose friends suddenly, never knowing that the last conversation was actually that. And sure, my friendship with Titus wasn’t what anyone would describe as typical, but having his support had meant something, and I missed knowing he was in my corner.

  “You still with me, Chloe?” Rickson asked.

  I blinked and gave myself a shake. “Yeah, still here.”

  “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Blanking out,” he said.

  “I have?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh,” I said, still staring at the screen. “I’ll work on that. For now, let’s keep going.” I motioned for him to hit play and the video resumed.

  As the wraiths drew their swords, the lead one crouched down. There was a flash of light down by his feet, and then dark smoke appeared, rising around the figures and obscuring their movements. My hand instinctively started toward my pistol, but I halted it halfway and kept watch on the flickering shadows. I thought I could detect when the four of them entered the apartment, but whether they’d used force or guile to break inside I couldn’t say.

  “Force,” Rickson offered, reading my scrunched-up brows. “Kicked in the door.”

  “No one heard it?”

  “If they did, they’re not saying.”

  “Did we ask nicely?”

  “As nice as we could, given the early hour. Prado went door to door as soon as the sun came up.”

  “And no one said anything?”

  “Whole place is filled with deep sleepers apparently.”

  I drew in a breath and then let it out slow. On one hand, the lack of public cooperation in cases like these really burned. On the other though, it was hard to blame them some days. No one wanted to get tangled up in a criminal investigation that didn’t involve them. Especially one that could take years to litigate and would place them firmly under the microscope of a defense attorney’s gaze for the entirety of that time. And that was to say nothing of the criminals, or in this case, the wraiths. Far preferable to be a deep sleeper, even if it meant letting a potential murder or burglary go unsolved.

  “What are you thinking, Chloe?” Rickson asked.

  “I want to go see the apartment.”

  “Thought you might say that.” He reached around the side of the computer and lifted a manilla folder from the desk. “Everything we have on the current tenants.”

  I accepted the file, and we departed the manager’s office, slipping out through the door and starting across the courtyard.

  People were beginning to move around the complex, heading off to work or other errands. None of them gave us more than a passing glance, save for one guy a few years older than me seated atop a second story balcony overlooking the courtyard. He was an avid gym goer from his build, dressed in a tight black shirt and a matching pair of athletic shorts with twin zipper pockets along the side. His loose blond hair gave him a California surfer look, and when he met my eyes, he smirked in a way that he probably thought was flirty or charming. Stuff like that happens more than you think. Guys see a girl in uniform, and they all want to be the one to get her out of it. I acknowledged him with practiced professionalism, offering a return nod all the while feeling something scratching at the back of my mind. It wasn’t until we were almost to the other side of the courtyard that I realized what was bothering me.

  The man’s hands were empty.

  No coffee cup. No hot tea. No morning paper or iPad. No source of distraction or comfort that people so often turn to.

  In law enforcement, one of the first things they teach you is to be on the lookout for things that are out of place. Things that, under ordinary circumstances, shouldn’t be there. Once you’ve got a handle on that, you start coming at it from a different angle, asking yourself what should be there but isn’t.

  My cop sense was buzzing in the back of my skull, and I started to turn around but stopped at the last minute. Rickson noted my hesitation and gave me a curious frown. I opened my mouth but quickly realized I didn’t know what to say. Some guy over on the balcony just smiled at me and now I want to go talk to him? Being cringy wasn’t a crime. No more than sitting on one’s balcony.

  And there was more. Rickson had seen me at my worst once before. He’d seen me let my temper get the better of me. I didn’t want to risk doing something stupid and looking like a fool in front of him, especially since we already had other things to worry about.

  “Chloe?”

  “I’m okay. It’s nothing. Let’s go.”

  He gave a slow nod, and the two of us made our way across the courtyard, coming up to a green door with a brass doorknob and the number 111 written on a brass plaque. Prado stood guard outside and offered a polite smile as he held the door open and allowed us to enter.

  The apartment was a two-bedroom, ground floor unit with an L-shaped kitchen, a small laundry closet, and a living room. The floors were hardwood, and the furniture was dark wood, with a magenta rug situated in the living room and soft brown leather chairs giving the place a cozy, comfortable look.

  Or at least it would have, if it hadn’t been ransacked.

  Rickson followed me inside before he tapped me on the shoulder and wordlessly held up a pair of latex gloves. I nodded my thanks and stuffed the manilla folder into my jacket before I slipped them on. Then I took a moment to survey the damage. It was, if I was being honest, destructively thorough.

  “Sure did a number on it, didn’t they?” Rickson asked.

  “You can say that again.”

  They’d started with the living room, carving great slits into the soft brown couches. Most of the wooden furniture had been broken apart, and the desk in the corner had its shelves torn out so roughly they’d broken through the edges. Further into the room, the bookshelves had been upturned, their contents left with their spines torn out and cast across the floor.

  We stepped gingerly, tiptoeing our way into the kitchen, where more devastation awaited. Every drawer stood opened, and every can or container had been upended, their contents spilled onto the countertops. Whoever lived here had owned a little herb garden, but all of the greenery had been torn out by the stem and ripped apart. Moving into the bedroom revealed much the same, with even the pillows shredded open, their stuffing strung across the carpet.

  “They were looking for something,” I said, once we finished our initial sweep. “That’s why all the damage. Something small.”

  “Drugs?” Rickson offered. “Or cash?”

  “Could be,” I said. “But does this look like the home of a drug dealer to you?”

  He considered it for a moment and then shrugged. “They don’t always look like you might expect.”

  “That’s true,” I admitted, recalling a couple of times where I’d been taken by surprise. The worst were the ones with small children, and parents who didn’t hesitate to take advantage of them. Digging through diapers or stuffed toys in search of drugs had a way of souring your worldview.

  “What do you think?”

  I considered it for a long moment before I answered. “I think you can tell management to go ahead and seal it up for the day.”

  “You don’t want to dust for fingerprints?”

  I shook my head. “We saw on the video. All the perpetrators were wearing gloves. And there’s no way the District Attorney’s office is going to sign off for any DNA swabs. Not for a simple breaking and entering.”

  “You could try to sell it as an attempted murder. Those swords clearly weren’t just for show.”

  “Maybe, but that might bring more trouble than it’s worth. Attempted murder means involving homicide divisions, which means involving—”

  “Mackleroy.”

  “Right.”

  Everett Mackleroy was an old school detective who switched between Homicide and Narcotics divisions as his mood suited him. He was the department’s go-to man for kicking in doors, and he’d been nursing a grudge against me since my very first Blue Moon case, when I’d pegged him for a murderer and ended up getting him shot.

  To be fair, Mack was involved. Just not as involved as I’d thought. He’d had it out for me ever since, and I knew of at least two forensic technicians that he had coerced into trying to frame me for murder. I’d negotiated a ceasefire when I found out he was involved in the Federal Reserve robbery, but it was a brittle thing, and I knew he would cast it aside and take his shot at me if he saw an opportunity. I’d taken great pains to avoid him in the last few months and didn’t want to risk calamity by inviting him into my case now. Not unless I had no other option.