Awaiting the Killer's Surrender (Seeking Collections, Seeking Recommendations!!)

Joe Martinez stood there, watching Lake walk out the door. He blinked, then snapped back to reality and hurried after him.

Ding.

In the elevator.

Lake watched Joe Martinez shove his hand in just as the doors were about to close, then step inside with a frown. "Detective Martinez, is there something you need?"

Joe Martinez took a deep breath, standing beside Lake. "Where are we going now?"

We?

Since when was it we?

A question mark popped up over Lake's head, and he turned to Joe. "It's almost noon. Time to knock off for lunch. Want me to buy you one?"

"What?"

Joe Martinez inhaled sharply. "We've got a case on our hands. And it's only ten in the morning, Detective Edwin."

Lake shrugged.

Ten, twelve—what's the difference? What can you do in two hours? Isn't it just about lunch break anyway?

Ding.

The elevator doors opened.

Lake headed for his desk.

Nothing else.

He'd just remembered who the corpse on the autopsy table belonged to.

Wasn't that the high-ranking member of the Textile Factory who showed off for a full minute at the start of the Wanted poster, only to get shot in the head and bite the dust?

Was the Wanted plot kicking off?

But Lake couldn't care less.

Now that he knew who the body belonged to, it was easy. Just wait it out, sit tight until the time came, compile the files, toss them to the FBI, and be done with it.

The killer of the body downstairs was Cross, no doubt. That guy would die overseas, and that made it a cross-state case—FBI territory.

Case closed.

Perfect ending.

It was just a part-time gig anyway. Why bother? Just coast through.

Joe didn't know any of this. She frowned at Lake. "So, this is your method? Wait for the killer to turn himself in?"

Lake looked up and sighed. "Alright, Detective Martinez. What's your take?"

Joe said, "We should go to the prison."

"Why?"

"A John Doe corpse shows up in a prison. Doesn't that strike you as suspicious? How did the body get in there?"

"Yeah, makes sense."

Lake nodded, fully agreeing with Joe's analysis, then said, "Detective Martinez, how about this: you go to the prison and handle the investigation. Sound good?"

Joe paused. "Me? What about you?"

Lake thought for a moment. "I didn't eat last night. I'm planning to grab some breakfast first. If you're willing to wait, that works too."

Joe was silent for a beat, glanced at Lake, then turned and walked off.

Lake watched her leave and couldn't help shaking his head.

This was exactly why he preferred working cases alone.

Because with some cases, he didn't need to run around investigating like other detectives. He knew the outcome from the start. All he had to do was follow that result.

But having a tagalong around was a pain.

Good thing it was just one case.

Meanwhile, Joe stepped out of the building and got into her car. As for Lake's talk about breakfast, she wouldn't believe a single word of it.

Simple reason.

Yesterday, after learning her partner was Lake, she went home and reached out to her old unit, asking the Thirteenth Precinct to dig up some basic info on him.

Let's put it this way.

Since joining the NYPD, Lake had never splurged on a decent breakfast out. People always thought he was just cheap. But after the Internal Affairs Division leaked the truth, his reputation flipped from stingy to a downright saint.

It's not my choice.

It's all because the system needed to launder money and pinned this on me.

Lake wanted to tell them.

He was so broke he could barely afford this year's property tax, had no cash for lottery tickets—what spare change did he have to donate to charities?

There were no orphanages in America. All orphans had to be placed in foster homes. If not for that, Lake wouldn't have bothered finding himself a foster father and foster mother.

"Talkative."

In short, Joe felt that Lake definitely wasn't going for breakfast.

But...

Joe thought about how Lake seemed completely indifferent to the case and wanted to call him a useless inspector, yet Lake's track record of solving cases was impressive.

Could this guy have other channels?

Joe shook his head, set aside his thoughts, and drove to Rikers Island Prison, where the body had been found.

Noon.

Lake, who had been dozing in the meeting room with his legs crossed, opened his eyes and smiled at Joe, who had returned from the prison fuming. "Hit a wall?"

Joe rubbed his forehead and looked at Lake. "You knew all along?"

Lake sat up straight and stretched. "Rikers Island is the biggest prison in all of New York. But it's got another name too."

Joe asked, "What?"

Lake said, "The biggest private prison."

Joe: "..."

An unidentified body turning up in the prison's incinerator—how could that happen without inside help from the prison staff? If Lake's guess was right, that incinerator was probably one of many cleanup spots in the assassin world, used to help killers dispose of bodies.

The case was reported by an intern at the prison incinerator. Here's how it went: the intern's supervisor stepped out, and the kid, wanting to make a good impression, decided to help out.

And then...

He stirred up a huge mess.

That poor intern was probably about to disappear—no, he'd probably already vanished. Joe's face said it all.

Joe said, "They're obstructing justice."

Lake said, "What can you do? The cheapest lawyer the prison keeps on retainer makes more in a month than we do in a year."

Damn it. Should've studied law in college.

Public administration? What a waste.

My brain must've been fried back then.

Lake felt a pang of envy thinking about those lawyers' salaries, but it faded when he remembered how long it took to become a lawyer and how hard the exams were.

After all, he'd gotten a free ride through college—couldn't be picky.

He stood up.

Lake walked out of the meeting room, went to his desk, and handed a file to Joe.

Joe took it. "What's this?"

Lake said, "The identity of the John Doe downstairs."

The fingerprint database hadn't matched anything, but that didn't mean they couldn't cross-reference through other means.

Dental records were way more reliable than fingerprints.

Unlike people in the East or Asia, Westerners took their teeth seriously. Dentists here were practically a gold-tier profession.

Clearly.

Even killers cared about having a good set of teeth.

The contract arrives today. If you're investing, hurry up!