Synopsis

Zodiac with a terrifying twist, in a taut thriller from author Mark Stevens about a reformed serial killer and the disgraced journalist he coaxes into finding the imposter trading on his name.

When a reporter dies in a shockingly familiar way, the media rushes to announce the return of the PDQ Killer. The city of Denver reels, but no one more than Harry Kugel. After all, he is the PDQ Killer―or was fifteen years ago. And he didn’t do this.

Still working to reform his ways, Harry won’t let some amateur murderer ride his twisted coattails and risk drawing the police back his way. To protect his legacy and quiet new life, he’ll have to expose the copycat. Without exposing himself.

Disgraced TV journalist Flynn Martin holds the key. After a botched hostage situation, she’ll do anything to revive her dying career―even hunt down a monster who executed one of her own.

Harry must convince Flynn to follow him into the heady world of a killer. But with the law closing in and a rival at large, he starts to feel the familiar pull of old urges…

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Excerpt

Vic Akin is thick chested and lumpy. The skin on his cheeks is like the medium setting on a dull cheese grater. His jaw hangs off kilter. He prefers, from what Robbie McGrath can tell, to never close his mouth. He wears a casual black shirt, good for cruising discos in the

1970s. Short sleeves showcase his Popeye forearms. The badge on his belt confirms his role as cop. So does the boisterous black gun.

Robbie McGrath booked the interview with Akin yesterday. Advance notice gave Akin time to bring in the police department’s public relations honcho, Dwight Hatcher. Hatcher is a tall Black manwith an attitude more suited to the corporate world. He’s a touch debonair. Hatcher wears a crisp white shirt and a flashy blue tie. Robbie’s latest hand grenade question has landed with a clatter between them. Akin and Hatcher don’t want to touch it. Hatcher asks if he and Akin might take “a moment.”

Robbie rubs her forehead, sighs loud enough so they can hear it.

“A moment,” says Hatcher. “That’s all.”

Don’t bother! she thinks.

Robbie McGrath has Vic Akin and the Denver Police Department by the gonads. It’s not a PR problem. It’s a problem problem. And it’s landing at the end of a rough afternoon for the DPD. All Robbie knows is that a hostage and the hostage-taker were killed at a convenience store standoff as television reporter Flynn Martin tried to negotiate a peaceful resolution. To McGrath, street mayhem is worrisome, but not something that will detour her insistence on getting Akin and Hatcher to respond.

McGrath, in fact, is starting to rough out the opening of her piece, focusing in particular on one greedy detective named John LaGrue, who reports to Vic Akin.

For this story, all she really needs is this one last interview to confirm the precise nature of the denial.

Large glass windows allow Robbie to study Akin and Hatcher, now chatting in the hall outside the conference room. Akin is hours from his last puff. DPD HQ is cigarette-free, but Akin fidgets like he needs something stronger than tobacco. Akin listens. One hand reaches high against the glass wall. The other rests on his oversize holster.

Hatcher’s eyes sit inside deep sockets where a melon ball scooper might have gone to work. Hatcher spouts ninety words for every ten from Akin. Whatever sugarcoating Hatcher wants to sprinkle, there is no way that Akin can say “No comment” about the vastly improved financial standing of Detective LaGrue, one of the squad’s investigators.

Hatcher is known for his smooth style. But he is a cop. Cop first, PR flack second.

McGrath can only imagine how they view her. And her role. She doesn’t look like much. She comes on so low key. She does all the background work first, then plays her cards. The mere fact that Akinand Hatcher are spending so much time in the hall, plotting their strategy, is golden. Or it could be a bit of preplanned theater, for her sake. To pretend they are worried.

Is that possible? She’s always wary of traps.

Today Robbie McGrath has gone to extra lengths to appear a touch feminine, including a tight-fitting black turtleneck that confirms the presence of curves. Most days, she is good for loose-fitting tops, often with a military vibe. Always dark slacks or black jeans. She doesn’t mind the semilesbian flavor. Let them all guess. She keeps her brown hair trim. She wears simple silver earrings and a pinprick stud in her left nostril.

McGrath brews cynicism in the marrow of her bones. She can’t interview a politician without wondering about junkets and favors. She can’t chat with a businessman—and they are usually men—without wondering what indulgence he has secured from government, what breaks and deals he enjoys under the table.

But she doesn’t let it show. She maintains a matter-of-fact public face. She doesn’t engage in long bitch sessions. She does her job. She follows one fact to the next.

It didn’t take her long to develop a healthy sense of how the world works. Follow the lobbyists and lawyers and PR flack bozos back to their clients, and you’ll know who is working an angle.

McGrath’s reporting once caught a city councilwoman on the take from developers.She also once uncovered a disturbing contract for an education consultant out of Texas. The consultant’s business had won an award to work with underperforming school districts in Colorado. Among the investors in the business was a self-important policy adviser in the governor’s office. The smug wonk had promoted the precise reading instruction curriculum the company supplied.

McGrath has followed lazy school district security guards running personal errands during the workday and stopping for beer siestas or girlfriend visits.

McGrath’s head count of top-level resignations includes two state senators, one county commissioner, one school district chief operating officer, and one school board member with a loose sense of what to charge to taxpayers, such as champagne for the election-night party.

Akin and Hatcher return with an air of exasperation.

“On background?” says Akin.

McGrath gives it a second, to pretend she’s considering it. “No thanks. We’ve done that dance.”

Akin wheels his chair slightly away from his PR bodyguard. “Believe me when I say it’s more complicated than it seems.”

McGrath starts the recording app on her phone. She places it between them. Waveforms dance.

“Enlighten me,” says McGrath.

Akin’s chair blurts a squeak as he tips back, blows a smoke-free sigh at the ceiling. His six o’clock shadow turns the pockmarks on his cheeks crusty and dim.

Hatcher produces a yellow notepad, scratches something down.

“This is all part of a plan,” says Akin. “Everything LaGrue is doing.”

“Give me a break,” says McGrath.

“True,” says Akin. “And sure, that’s on the record, since you wouldn’t go off. But you use it, and you destroy years of work. We are close. And we are getting closer.”

“And the things LaGrue is buying?” says McGrath.

“He has to spend it,” says Hatcher. “He has to do something. He has to show off, you know?”

Undercover doesn’t mean you start in with the over-the-top spending of under-the-table income. Did Detective John LaGrue think his fellow criminals would check that he was squandering his spoils?

“There are plans, of course, to liquidate and turn the cash back over to the city, sell the things he bought,” says Akin. “But what LaGrue is doing is extremely dangerous.”

“The chief knows?”

“He approved the plan.”

The cops’ response will make her editors wary. Something she does not need.

If they run the story, or a version of it, Akin and company could call a press conference and rip the newspaper for blowing up a carefully planned police investigation and for risking the life of an undercover officer.

If they’re not bluffing.

McGrath sits up straight. “I need proof.”

“Or?” says Akin.

“Or I’m going with it.”

“With what?”

“With what I know.”

“You can’t. Not after what I told you.”

“Of course I can,” says McGrath.

“So your newspaper doesn’t believe in community partnering?” says Akin.

“I can’t say what they believe in. If you want, I can give you a chance to explain LaGrue’s activities and his well-padded financial situation to an editor.”

“My god,” says Hatcher, jaw agape. He chews the scenery whenever he has the chance. Mock amazement, mock disbelief.

“You’d risk an officer’s life—actually, several?” says Akin.

“LaGrue’s partners—Arroyo and Vaca? Come on, even their mug shots make trouble.”

Francisco Arroyo and Arturo Vaca are the names behind MVP Enterprises, d/b/a Mountain Views Property. The shell company, with a PO box on its corporate filings with the state, owns the house where LaGrue appears to conduct much of his “undercover” work.

“You don’t really know what LaGrue’s doing. Do you? Really?” says Akin.

“It’s up to you. Give me proof,” says McGrath. Akin looks away, as if he’s lost his favorite child. His lips purse in atight line. “Give me two days,” he says.

“No,” says McGrath. “Tomorrow. Early. You can come up with your plan, whatever it is, overnight. I’ll give you that.”

“You want a rush job,” says Akin.

“I want answers,” says McGrath. “If there’s something to show me, show me. Should be easy.”

“Should we discuss this with your editor?”

“Help yourself. I told him before I came over you’d try something like what you’re trying to pull, and he said, and I quote, ‘Don’t let them off the hook.’”

She says it like she means it, but Robbie McGrath never talks to

any of her superiors about anything.

About the Author

The son of two librarians, Mark Stevens was raised in Lincoln, Massachusetts, and has worked as a reporter, as a national television news producer and in public relations. The Fireballer (Lake Union, 2023) was named Best Baseball Novel by Twin Bill Literary Magazine and named one of Best Baseball Books of the Year by Spitball Magazine.

His mystery novel Antler Dust was a Denver Post bestseller in 2007 and 2009. Buried by the Roan, Trapline, and Lake of Fire were all finalists for the Colorado Book Award (2012, 2015, and 2016, respectively). Trapline won the Colorado Book Award in 2016 and also received the best genre fiction award from Colorado Authors League.

Stevens has had short stories published by Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mystery Tribune, and in Denver Noir (Akashic Books, 2022). In September 2016, Stevens was named Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers’ Writer of the Year, and again in 2023. Stevens hosts a regular podcast for Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers and has served as president of the Rocky Mountain chapter for Mystery Writers of America. Stevens is also an avid reader and regularly shares his reviews.

Today, Stevens lives in Mancos, Colorado.

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