Cat and Mouse (New York Mafia Syndicate #1)

Chapter 9 - Elizabeth

The call comes in just as I'm pouring my third cup of coffee for the night. My phone buzzes on the counter, and I stare at it, knowing exactly what it means. Another body. Another mess. Another sleepless night.

"Detective Kane," I answer, my voice clipped.

"Detective, we've got another one. Looks like the Phantom's work," Officer Bennett's voice crackles through the line. There's a hint of dread in his tone, like he's already bracing for the shitstorm that's about to hit.

"Where?" I ask, already grabbing my coat.

"Suburbs. Nice little house on Maple Street. Victim's wife found him when she came home from picking up their kids. It's… bad, Kane."

"I'm on my way."

I hang up and shove my phone into my pocket as I rush out the door. The city's a blur as I drive, the streets quiet and almost peaceful, which pisses me off even more. Somewhere out there, the Phantom's laughing at us, at me, playing this fucked up game of cat and mouse. But it's not a game. It's real, and people are dying because of it.

When I pull up to the house, the place is already swarming with uniforms. The lights from the patrol cars cast eerie shadows across the lawn, making everything look more sinister than it already is. I spot Bennett near the entrance, talking to a distraught woman who's clutching two young kids to her side. The wife, I'm guessing. She looks like she's barely holding it together.

"Bennett," I call out as I approach, and he turns to me, his expression grim.

"Detective," he greets me, stepping away from the wife and her kids. "The victim's name is Robert Marshall. Forty-two. Accountant. Worked for a mid-sized firm downtown. No priors, no known enemies. From what we can tell, he was a pretty average guy. Wife found him when she got home. Took the kids to friend's house earlier in the evening, came back and found... well, you'll see."

I nod, not really listening to the details. It's the same every time. The Phantom doesn't care about who these people are, what they've done. He picks them at random, or at least that's what it seems like. But there's always a reason. Always a fucking reason.

"Where's the body?" I ask, needing to see the scene for myself.

"Living room," Bennett says, leading the way inside.

The house is painfully normal. Photos of happy family moments line the walls, and there's a faint smell of dinner still lingering in the air. It's the kind of place that screams safety, comfort—until it doesn't.

We reach the living room, and there he is. Robert Marshall, slumped in a recliner, his body a mess of blood and gaping wounds. The sight of him makes my stomach turn, but I don't let it show. I can't. Not here, not now.

"Jeremy's already here," Bennett says, nodding toward the coroner, who's crouched beside the body, examining the wounds with a clinical detachment that I envy.

"Jeremy," I greet him, stepping closer.

"Detective," he replies, not looking up from his work. "He's been dead for less than two hours. Cause of death is pretty obvious—those slashes are deep, precise. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing."

"Any sign of a struggle?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Jeremy shakes his head. "None. Looks like he was taken by surprise, maybe even asleep when it happened. We're running the blood through the lab to see if there were any drugs involved, but I doubt it. This guy wasn't fighting back."

"Great," I mutter, glancing around the room. Everything's in its place, nothing out of the ordinary—except for the corpse bleeding out in the middle of it all. But something catches my eye, and I step closer to the body.

Carved into his arm, deep enough to leave permanent scars if he'd lived, are the words, "You're welcome, Verde."

The blood's still fresh, oozing from the letters, and it sends a shiver down my spine that I can't ignore. This isn't just a murder, it's a message. But who the hell is Verde? And why is the Phantom leaving notes now?

"Jeremy, take a look at this," I say, pointing to the words on the arm.

He leans in, squinting at the carvings. "Jesus, what kind of sick bastard...?"

"Yeah, no kidding. What do you make of it?"

Jeremy shrugs, clearly disturbed. "Could be a name, could be a code. Whatever it is, it's not random. The Phantom's trying to tell us something."

"Well, he can go fuck himself," I mutter, straightening up. "Anything else?"

Jeremy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small folded piece of paper. "Found this in his hand," he says, handing it over to me. "Just a bunch of numbers, though. Doesn't make any sense to me."

I unfold the note, scanning the digits scribbled across the page. 4739 2184 1093. Nothing. It seems random, like everything else about this case. But I know better. There's always a pattern, always a code. The Phantom doesn't leave anything to chance.

I shove the note into my pocket, making a mental note to crack it later. Right now, there's too much to do, too many questions that need answers.

As I'm about to turn away, I spot Mike Russo, my partner, lingering near the doorway. He's been quiet, letting me take the lead, but I can see the concern in his eyes. He knows I'm close to cracking, that this case is getting under my skin in a way that none of the others have.

"Mike," I say, nodding for him to join me.

He walks over, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "What do you think?" he asks, keeping his voice low.

"It's him. The Phantom," I reply, not bothering to sugarcoat it. "Same signature, same MO. But why this guy? Why a fucking accountant?"

Mike shrugs, glancing at the body. "Maybe he's just a random target. Or maybe there's something we're not seeing."

"Maybe," I say, but I don't believe it. There's always a reason. I just need to figure out what it is.

We stand there in silence for a moment, both of us staring at the mess the Phantom left behind. It's like he's taunting us, daring us to catch him. And the worst part is, I think he's enjoying it.

"I've been thinking," I start, choosing my words carefully. "About the Phantom. I know for sure he's Italian"

Mike's expression doesn't change, but I can see the gears turning in his head. "Why?"

"He paid me a visit and told me his first name was Leonardo, but seeing as he's a psychopath, I don't believe him."

"He did what?" Mike asks.

"Keep it down. I know it's a stretch, but... there's something about him. He's got the connections, the resources. And every time we get close to the Phantom, we're still lagging behind somehow. It's too much of a coincidence."

Mike nods slowly, like he's considering it. "You think someone is funding him?"

"I don't know," I admit. "But my gut's telling me there's more to him than meets the eye. He's smart, careful. The Phantom is covering his tracks damn well."

Mike's quiet for a moment, then he sighs. "I don't know, Kane. What do you suggest?"

"I'm beginning to think maybe Leo has something against the NYPD. Maybe that is what we're missing."

"Or the mayor?" Mike adds.

"Could be. Looking into him without solid proof... it's risky."

"You're sure about this?"

"No," I say, frustration creeping into my voice. "I'm not sure about anything right now. But I can't shake the feeling that a bigger fish is involved. Someone is playing puppet master."

Mike gives me a long look, then finally nods. "Alright. Let's keep digging. But be careful, Elizabeth. We're dealing with someone who's dangerous as hell."

"Yeah," I mutter, my mind already racing ahead to the next steps. "I know." I glance over at Jeremy, who's packing up his kit. "Jeremy, did you check for any other identifying marks? Tattoos, scars, anything that might give us a clue?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," he replies, still focused on the body. "But I'll do another sweep before we move him."

"Good."

We wrap up at the scene, and I watch as they load Robert Marshall's body into the coroner's van. The wife and kids are still outside, being consoled by neighbors and family, their lives shattered in a way they'll never fully recover from. And all because of this sick game the Phantom's playing.

As I head back to my car, I can't stop thinking about the note. The numbers flash in my mind, taunting me with their meaning. What the hell is the Phantom trying to say? Why kill a random accountant and leave a note that makes no sense?

I sit in the driver's seat, staring at the slip of paper again. 4739 2184 1093. It's a puzzle, but I'm missing the key. And until I figure it out, the Phantom's one step ahead of me.

But I'm not giving up. I can't. This is personal now, more than it's ever been. And I don't care who is involved. I'll take them down. I don't care how powerful he is or how deep his connections run. He's not untouchable.

I grip the steering wheel, the leather creaking under my hands. This isn't over. Not by a long shot.

I'll find the Phantom. I'll decode his message.

***

I'm dead asleep when the doorbell rings, jolting me awake with a start. My brain's a scrambled mess of confusion and dread. Who the hell is ringing my doorbell at this hour?

I groan, rolling out of bed. The old wooden floor's cold beneath my feet, but I barely notice. I shuffle toward the door, rubbing my eyes. I'm still in my pajamas, a far cry from professional attire, but I don't give a damn. I yank the door open, and there it is—a small plain package sitting on the welcome mat. No sign of who left it, just the package and the eerie silence of the night.

I grab the package, my fingers brushing the cardboard. I head back inside, setting the package down on the kitchen counter. My heart's racing again, but this time it's because of the package, not the intrusion.

With trembling hands, I start to open it. The cardboard flaps peel away, and inside, there's a creepy puppet. Its eyes are too big, its mouth twisted into a ghastly grin. It's the sort of thing you see in nightmares, not in real life. I pull out the note beneath it. The message reads, "WRONG verde. Try again."

I toss the puppet aside, my frustration bubbling up. What the hell does Verde mean? And what's wrong with this clue? I glance at the numbers from the earlier crime scene, still scribbled on that piece of paper. I've stared at these numbers until they became just a jumble of digits, but something's got to connect. There's a pattern here I'm missing, I just know it.

"Come on, think!" I mutter, pacing around the kitchen. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I need to crack this code, figure out what's next. I keep mulling over the numbers—4739 2184 1093. They've got to mean something, and I can't let this bastard outsmart me.

After what feels like hours of staring, a thought strikes me. What if these numbers are for something practical? Like a storage unit. It's a long shot, but I pick up my phone and start dialing.

The storage unit place downtown isn't too far from here. It's a nondescript building, just rows of metal doors and a security guard who barely looks up from his newspaper. I pull up and flash my badge.

"I'm looking for a storage unit registered under Leonardo Moretti."

The guard's eyebrows shoot up. "Moretti? That's unusual."

"Yeah, well, I'm here on business," I snap, trying to keep my irritation in check. "Can you just check the records?"

He reluctantly flips through the register, his eyes scanning the names. "Unit 319," he says finally. "That's registered to Elizabeth Moretti."

I nod, heading toward the unit. The door's heavy, and the lock is cold against my fingers. I pull it open and step inside, flicking on the light. It's a small space, dusty and dim. The first thing I see are files stacked neatly on a metal shelf. I walk over, feeling a pang of curiosity mixed with unease. I start flipping through the files, and sure enough, they're police clearance files for cases from Milwaukee.

On top of the files is a phone. I pick it up, my fingers brushing over the screen. No missed calls, no texts—just one number saved in the contacts. I tap it and hold the phone to my ear, my heart thudding as it rings.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end is cold, mocking. It sends a shiver through me that I can't ignore. The Phantom.

"Who the hell is this?" I demand, trying to keep my voice steady.

"It's a pleasure to hear your voice, Elizabeth," he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I'm talking as a little compensation for what you went through in Milwaukee. Consider it a token of my appreciation."

"Appreciation? What the hell does that mean?" I snap. "I'm not interested in whatever sick game you're playing. I'm busy hunting a serial killer."

"Oh, really?" he chuckles. "You're hunting me, but I don't feel like you're putting in enough effort."

My jaw clenches. "Why did you kill Robert Marshall tonight?"

"An answer for an answer," he says, amusement lacing his voice. "You first. What color are your panties?"

I nearly drop the phone. "Are you kidding me? I'm not playing your twisted games."

"Fine, fine," he says, his tone suddenly impatient. "But don't pout. Just tell me."

I run a hand through my hair, my frustration boiling over. "Black." I can hear the growl in his voice, and it only makes me angrier. "Why did you kill the accountant?"

He laughs, a dark, humorless sound. "The bastard was trying to scam me. People have no morals these days."

"Rich coming from a serial killer," I retort, my anger flaring.

"Awful judgmental of you," he says with a chuckle. "I thought you were born and raised Catholic."

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to scream. "What does my religion have to do with anything?"

"Everything," he says, sounding almost pleased. "I've got a soft spot for those who claim to have high moral standards."

I'm done with his games. "Look, I don't care about your personal vendettas. I want answers. You've got files on Milwaukee cases here. What do you want from me?"

"Ah, so you found them," he says, as if he's been waiting for this. "Consider it a gift. You wanted to solve those cases, didn't you?"

"I'm focused on this one now," I say, my voice cold. "And I won't be distracted."

The Phantom's laughter echoes through the phone, dark and twisted. "Are you sure you're not just avoiding the truth? Maybe you're not working hard enough. Maybe you're scared."

"I'm not scared of you," I say, my voice steady even though my hands are shaking. "But I won't play your games."

"Then why don't you tell me why you're really so eager to catch me?" he asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.

"Because you're a monster," I say. "And I'm not going to stop until you're behind bars."

"Monsters," he says with a laugh, "are a matter of perspective. You're not so different from me, you know. We all have our demons."

"Fuck you," I say, my patience wearing thin.

The line goes dead. I stand there, staring at the phone in disbelief. This twisted game he's playing is far from over. And now, I've got a new lead—one that's both chilling and infuriating.

***

I'm pacing around my apartment, the phone pressed against my ear. The frustration from the Phantom's latest game is still simmering, and I need answers. Harris needs to understand the urgency.

"Captain Harris, it's Elizabeth," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Forget about Robert's body for now. We need to look at his financials."

"What's this about?" Harris's voice is gruff, but I can sense his curiosity.

"Robert wasn't just a random victim. If he was involved with the Phantom, he'd have a money trail. We need to comb through his bank accounts, see if there's any suspicious activity, offshore accounts, anything."

"Offshore accounts?" Harris sounds skeptical. "That's a big ask."

"It's a big deal," I insist. "He was making moves for someone. And if he's tied to the Phantom, we'll find money shifting to people connected to the case. Think about it. Robert might've been handling payments for the distributors, which means he's a key player. And key players have money trails."

"Alright, alright," Harris sighs. "I'll see what we can dig up. But if this turns out to be another dead end—"

"Trust me," I cut him off. "This is where we need to look. I've got a feeling."

I hang up and stare at the pile of files from the storage unit. The Phantom's twisted gifts aren't helping. I need real leads, and Harris's response better come through quickly. I'm not letting this killer slip away.

A few hours later, my phone rings with a call from Harris. "Elizabeth, you were right. We found something. Robert had money wired to Amy Carson's account."

My heart skips a beat. "Amy Carson? That's one of the Phantom's victims. So, Robert was paying her? That proves he was a major player in this operation."

"Exactly," Harris says. "We're looking into the details now, but it seems like Robert was the one handling payments. It's leading us to the distributors. This could be our break."

"Good," I say, feeling a surge of hope. "What else did you find?"

"We traced some of Robert's transactions to an account registered to someone named Luca. We're still digging into it, but it's a name we can work with."

I feel a rush of excitement. "Luca. That's a start. We need to track down this Luca and see how he's connected to the Phantom."

"Agreed," Harris says. "I'll get our financial analysts on it. We're also checking Robert's recent transactions for any other suspicious activities."

"Perfect," I say, feeling a bit more in control. "Let's make this count."

I hang up and grab my coat. The city's starting to wake up, and I need to get moving. I head to the office, where I pull up everything we have on Luca. I need to know who he is, what he does, and how he connects to the Phantom.

In the office, the atmosphere is tense. I'm surrounded by a team of analysts and officers, all working on the new lead. I pace back and forth, watching as they dig into Luca's background.

"Anything?" I ask, trying to keep my impatience in check.

One of the analysts looks up, her face serious. "We've got some preliminary results. Luca's involved in several legitimate businesses, but there's a lot of activity we can't account for. It looks like he's been moving money through various accounts."

"Where's the money going?" I ask.

"Some of it's being funneled into offshore accounts," she replies. "There are also large cash transactions. It's suspicious."

"Perfect," I say. "We need to focus on tracking these transactions. Luca might be the key to finding the Phantom."

We spend the next few hours piecing together the puzzle. I'm exhausted, but the adrenaline keeps me going. Luca is our best lead yet, and I'm determined to follow it through.

By late afternoon, we have a clearer picture. Luca's businesses are just a front. The real activity is in the offshore accounts and the cash transactions. I'm feeling more confident now. We're getting closer.

I call Harris again, my voice filled with determination. "Captain, we've got more on Luca. His accounts are linked to some major transactions. We need to move on this before he slips away."

"I'm on it," Harris says. "We're coordinating with other departments to keep an eye on Luca. We'll be ready to act when we have enough evidence."

"Good," I say. "I'll keep digging here and see if there's anything else we can find."

As the sun sets, I'm still at the office, staring at the evidence and trying to make sense of it all. Luca's name keeps coming up, and I'm determined to connect the dots.

The Phantom's games are far from over, but now we have a name and a direction.

Leonardo? Luca? Whatever his name is, we're taking him down.