Page 14 of Damon

I ignore his outburst, stare at him and narrow my eyes. Greyson stops what he’s doing and joins us, creating a triangle.

“I told you, it was this morning. It was sitting on my doormat in the hallway when I left to come here.”

“What did it say?” he snarls. Greyson watches our exchange, saying nothing.

I pull the note from my shorts pocket and hand it to him. The stiff white card had been folded in half and is now slightly crumpled from being stuffed into my pocket. Hunter opens it and reads the neat black writing. A photo of Connie’s service in the graveyard is pinned to the back.

A beautiful ceremony for a truly kind woman.

I am sad that it had to come to this. An innocent life taken.

Your wife was your warning. Next time I will take the child.

Project Shylock must end.

Finish it or be prepared to lose others around you.

“Project Shylock?” Hunter says, looking at me in question.

“An illegal money lending circuit. Loan sharks we’ve been investigating in the unit. Heard of it?” He nods, as does Greyson.

“Were there any warnings sent before Connie was murdered?” Greyson asks bluntly.

My mouth thins into a line. My heart hurts knowing that there was a caution received at the office, a general threat to everyone working on the case that if the investigation didn’t end, we would lose our families until it did.

“McKinney?” he prompts.

“The day before her death,” I mutter.

“What the !” Hunter explodes. “You never fucking said anything!”

“We didn’t think it was legit,” I argue. “An email from a private sender was received by the head office and passed to us for my unit’s attention. It was written in broken English with threats of removing people’s fingers if we didn’t stop looking for the man who lends money.” I crouch down as the now-familiar pain since losing my wife invades my chest. My hands lift to my face, and I speak into my palms. “Our tech guys suggested it was kids. They traced the email to a private rental in an apartment block in Hackney. The tenants are a petty crime family known for pickpocketing. The Carsons.”

“Never heard of them.” Greyson says. “Any other communication?”

“Not until today with receiving that.” I signal to the card between Hunter’s fingers.

“It’s unusual for someone to make a threat then act on it within hours like they did. Whoever it is wanted you to know they mean business. And they wanted to make a statement by taking out someone important in your life. I’m unsure why they would wait six weeks to get back in touch, though.”

I shrug. That’s something I’ve been wondering myself. The email had crossed my mind a day or so after Connie’s murder, but with no follow-up, I’d assumed it was an ironic coincidence. Then it had been forgotten amongst the daily grief I’m living with, a huge black hole continually enveloping me as the days pass.

“Where is your surrogate?” Greyson continues.

“Her name is Emma,” I snap, and he raises his eyebrow. “She’ll be at the law firm by now. I arranged for one of Waite’s men to take her in and bring her home at the end of the day, not that she was happy about it. She likes the tube apparently.” I roll my eyes as I think back to her objection to being collected this morning. Pedantic little brat. “She doesn’t leave the office once she arrives, so she’ll be safe for now. And Harrison will keep her busy.”

“Have you told Waite about this?” Hunter says, waving the note.

I nod.

“Okay, we can discuss what needs to be done tonight. I’ll see you at The Level. Greyson, you should come along too. Your talents may be required.” Hunter draws back a fist and slams into my punching bag. It swings high, then smashes hard against my torso as I wrap my arms around it. “‘Till tonight,” he shouts, then storms off in the direction of the exit.

***

The Level Boardroom

Every Wednesday evening, we meet either in one of the apartments or in the boardroom at The Level. Tonight, due to my receipt of the note and with my wife’s murderer still being unknown, we’re in the boardroom.

When I arrive, Harrison, Connor, and Russell are already sitting drinking a beer. A familiar ping sounds as the elevator doors open, and I step out into the room. On the huge glass table is a bucket of iced beer. No doubt, Mrs. D, The Level housekeeper, will have prepared the space as she does every week. There will be unlimited beer and snacks provided while we are here. Some weeks, our Wednesday evenings are fun. Others are like this one: dark, disturbing, and a clear reflection of the murky world we work and live in.

---