Chapter 19
Grayson’s alarm buzzed softly at 4:30 AM, pulling him from the comfort of sleep. He moved swiftly, shutting it off before the sound could disturb the stillness of the room. Vicky, nestled under the blankets and still wearing his button-down shirt from the night before, didn’t stir. Grayson glanced at her, then slipped out of bed, his movements practiced and quiet. The soft glow from the city outside filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the minimalist décor of his penthouse. He stretched briefly, his mind already shifting into the rhythm of the day ahead.
Grayson slipped on his running shoes and quietly left the penthouse. The halls of the Mesquite Royale were quiet at this hour, the hum of the city outside barely a whisper. He entered the hotel’s private gym, flipping on the lights as he stepped onto the treadmill. With a press of a button, the belt whirred to life beneath him. His legs fell into a familiar rhythm as the treadmill sped up, each step a steady thud against the belt. The world outside the gym windows was still dark, save for the occasional flicker of headlights far below. For the next thirty minutes, the treadmill would be his sanctuary, the rhythmic pounding of his feet clearing his mind, bringing focus to the day ahead.
After his run, Grayson stepped off the treadmill, his muscles warm and his mind focused. He moved to the weight rack, his routine precise and methodical. Each lift was controlled, his breaths syncing with the movements as the iron clanked softly against the gym floor. The early morning quiet remained undisturbed as he pushed through the familiar sets—chest, shoulders, arms, legs. He wasn’t aiming for bulk, just strength and endurance, the kind that kept him sharp both physically and mentally. This was his time to prepare for the day, and he relished the solitude it brought.
Grayson stepped into the walk-in shower, its glass walls sleek and modern, surrounded by polished marble tiles. The rain showerhead above poured hot water over him, instantly loosening the tightness in his muscles. The bathroom filled with steam, softening the sharp lines of the minimalist space. The smell of cedarwood and mint from his soap mingled with the humidity, creating a calming, familiar scent. Grayson ran his hands through his hair, letting the water wash away the sweat and the last vestiges of sleep. He didn’t linger—his showers were as efficient as everything else in his life, just long enough to reset his mind and body for the day ahead.
Grayson moved back into the bedroom, his steps quiet as he grabbed his clothes from the closet. The room was bathed in the soft glow of early morning light filtering through the curtains. He chose a pair of dark jeans and a black T-shirt, simple but sharp, before slipping into his sport coat. The coat fit him perfectly, tailored to his lean frame. He strapped on his sidearm, feeling the familiar weight settle against his hip, a necessary part of his daily routine. With a final glance at Vicky, still peacefully asleep, Grayson moved through the room with practiced ease, ready for whatever the day would bring.
Grayson filled the coffee maker with fresh grounds and water, switching it on before heading to the fridge. The rich scent of brewing coffee soon filled the kitchen as he pulled out eggs, peppers, onions, and chorizo. He moved with practiced ease, cracking eggs into a skillet while the vegetables sizzled in another pan. The sleek, black marble countertops reflected the soft morning light filtering in through the windows. As he stirred the eggs, Vicky emerged from the bedroom, still wearing his button-down shirt, her hair tousled from sleep. She leaned against the counter, a sleepy smile on her face as she reached for a cup of freshly brewed coffee. "You always cook this early?" she teased.
Grayson slid three plates across the kitchen island, setting two down for Vicky and himself, while the third plate was quickly covered and placed in the microwave. Vicky raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Who’s the third plate for?” she asked with a smirk. Grayson shrugged, a hint of a grin playing at his lips. “Roscoe. He’s supposed to be watching his diet. Doctor’s orders.” Vicky chuckled softly, taking a bite of the scrambled eggs. “You’re a good friend,” she teased. Grayson shook his head, taking a sip of coffee. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta look out for him,” he replied, their conversation falling into the easy rhythm of familiar banter. She mentioned her flight to Denver, adding, “I’ll be back next week.” Grayson nodded, hiding a small smile.
After breakfast, Vicky gave Grayson a quick kiss on the cheek and grabbed her things, heading out the door. “See you next week,” she said with a smile as she left. Grayson watched her go, then tidied up the kitchen. He glanced at the time—Roscoe would be there soon, like clockwork. His phone buzzed with a message: On my way. You better have coffee. Grayson smirked, shaking his head as he poured a fresh pot, replying Always do. He pulled the plate from the microwave, ready for when Roscoe arrived. As the minutes ticked by, the familiar routine of their morning meetings fell into place.
The door buzzed right on schedule, and Grayson opened it to find Roscoe standing there, looking every bit the part of the overworked detective. He was a large man, easily tipping the scales at over 350 pounds, most of it hidden beneath layers of loose, wrinkled clothing. His rumpled blue suit jacket hung awkwardly off his wide frame, a red tie askew and a white shirt beneath it, perpetually stained, completed his usual disheveled appearance. A gray fedora sat atop his head, hiding his thinning red hair, while a cigar dangled from his lips, already half-smoked despite the early hour. His round face was dominated by a thick mustache and the constant flush of a man who worked too hard, ate too much, and cared even more. He had the build of a former heavyweight boxer, though the years—and his knee injury—had softened him.
“Morning, sunshine,” Roscoe grumbled, stepping inside. His voice was gravelly, matching his rough exterior, but his eyes had a warmth that hinted at the man underneath. Grayson followed as Roscoe headed straight for the kitchen, his limp barely noticeable until he slowed down.
Roscoe walked straight to the microwave, opening it and finding the covered plate waiting for him. “Good man,” he muttered, grabbing the plate and bringing it over to the kitchen island. He plopped down on the stool, taking off his fedora and setting it beside him. “You keep cooking like this, I might just make you wife number three,” he joked, the cigar still balanced between his fingers. Grayson smirked, shaking his head as he poured himself another cup of coffee. “Better not get too used to it,” he replied. Roscoe uncovered the plate, the aroma of eggs, peppers, and chorizo hitting him immediately. “Damn good as always,” he said through a mouthful of food, his mustache twitching as he chewed. The familiar banter filled the room, their years of friendship evident in every word.
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As Roscoe worked his way through breakfast, Grayson’s phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen, his expression tightening. “Grotesque crime scene at McCulley Park,” the voice on the other end said, urgent and clipped. “Two bodies... possible Zorro involvement. You need to get down here.” Grayson ended the call with a quick “We’re on it,” and pocketed his phone. He turned to Roscoe, who raised an eyebrow. Without a word, Roscoe scooped up the last of the eggs, peppers, and chorizo with a piece of toast, shoveling the entire bite into his mouth. “This better be good,” he mumbled around the food as he wiped his mouth and stood up. Grayson smirked slightly but didn’t respond, already moving toward the door.
Roscoe steered his old sedan into a drive-thru, the scent of coffee and donuts filling the air. Grayson glanced over, eyebrows raised. “You just ate,” he said, smirking. “You’ve already had eggs, chorizo, and peppers, but sure, let’s add donuts to the mix.” Roscoe just grunted, leaning toward the intercom. “You want anything?” he asked, ignoring the jab. Grayson shook his head. “No thanks. We can’t all have your metabolism,” he said with a chuckle. Roscoe shot him a sideways grin as he ordered—black coffee and two glazed donuts. The sedan rumbled quietly as they pulled up to the window. As soon as the bag was handed through, Roscoe grabbed a donut, taking a massive bite. “More for me, then,” he muttered through a mouthful of sugar and dough, washing it down with a gulp of coffee. Grayson chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced out the window. They always took Roscoe’s car on mornings like this—Grayson didn’t allow smoking in his truck, and Roscoe’s sedan, though old, was perfect for these kinds of early calls.
The city slowly came to life as Roscoe’s sedan made its way through the early morning traffic. Streetlights flickered off, and the first signs of commuters began to fill the roads. Roscoe took another sip of his coffee, his cigar now resting comfortably between his teeth. “You think this is about Zorro?” he asked, glancing sideways at Grayson. “Or just some nutcase using his name?” Grayson stared out the window, watching the familiar streets pass by. “Feels like a performance,” he muttered. “Whoever did this wanted an audience. We’ll know more when we get there.”
Roscoe’s sedan slowed as they approached McCulley Park. Grayson glanced to the side, spotting the familiar row of small shops—ice cream parlor, coffee stands, and quirky boutiques. He remembered passing by this area not too long ago, on a quieter, less complicated night. The windows of the ice cream shop still had the Danny DeVito Wolverine plushie in the display, looking oddly out of place with the morning’s grim tone. But today, the street was filled with squad cars and curious onlookers.
Yellow police tape stretched across the park’s entrance, fluttering slightly in the breeze. A small crowd had gathered behind it, phones raised, capturing what they could. Grayson and Roscoe stepped out of the sedan, the morning chill settling around them as they moved toward the scene. The murmurs of the crowd were soft, barely audible under the hum of the city waking up. They crossed the police line, nodding at the officers, and headed deeper into the trees, where the staged bodies awaited.
As they moved deeper into the park, the scene came into view, and even Grayson had to pause for a moment to take it in. Suspended between two large trees, two bodies hung by wires, posed as if mid-duel. One was dressed as Zorro, the other as a villain, their swords connected to mechanized wires that slowly clashed together in a grotesque, puppet-like display. The low hum of the motors filled the stillness, adding an unsettling rhythm to the scene.
Grayson’s eyes narrowed as he examined the figures. The Zorro figure was uncannily accurate, right down to the cape and mask. But it was the villain’s body that gave him pause. The villain was a kid, no older than twelve, dressed as if ready for a duel.
Roscoe stood frozen for a moment, the cigar nearly falling from his lips. He glanced down at the villain’s small frame, his face growing redder by the second. Without a word, he clenched his hand around the donut he had been holding, crushing it into a sticky mess in his palm. “A damn kid,” he growled through gritted teeth, rage barely contained. “What kind of sick freak does this?”
Grayson moved closer to the bodies, his eyes tracing the wires that held them in place, the careful precision behind the staging not lost on him. He circled slowly, taking in every detail—the Zorro figure’s sword clashing mechanically with the villain’s, the tension in the wires keeping the bodies suspended just right. Whoever did this had planned meticulously. It wasn’t just a murder; it was a statement, and the scene itself was the message. "This isn’t Zorro,” Grayson muttered under his breath. “Someone’s using him—this whole thing’s a message.”
Grayson stepped back from the bodies, his brow furrowing as he took in the scene from a wider angle. “Has forensics been through here yet?” he asked, turning to one of the nearby officers. The cop shook his head, clearly uncomfortable with the display. “No, not yet. We’re holding off until you and the detectives had a look.” Grayson nodded, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the ground beneath the bodies. “Tell them to hurry up. This whole place is a crime scene, and we need to know how long these bodies have been here. Every minute counts.”
Grayson crouched down, running his hand lightly over the disturbed earth beneath the bodies. Scuff marks in the dirt told the story of a struggle—footprints overlapping, small grooves where the wires had dragged along the ground before the bodies were lifted. He spotted something—a few strands of fabric caught on a tree branch just below the villain’s body. “They didn’t go quietly,” Grayson muttered, carefully pulling the fabric free. He stood, holding it up for Roscoe to see. “Whoever did this left something behind. Get forensics to check this whole area. We need to know exactly what went down here.”
Behind the yellow police tape, the small crowd of onlookers had grown. People craned their necks, phones held high, recording and snapping pictures of the gruesome scene. Grayson glanced over at them, his jaw tightening. The crime wasn’t just a spectacle for the killer—it was quickly becoming a public spectacle, the kind that would be plastered all over social media within the hour. Roscoe followed his gaze, shaking his head in disgust. “This is gonna blow up online,” he muttered. Grayson’s expression hardened. “That’s exactly what they want. This whole thing... it’s all part of the show.”
Roscoe walked toward the growing crowd, noticing the media starting to gather near the edge of the police tape. A few local reporters had already set up, cameras aimed at the scene. He approached them, his face a mix of frustration and determination. “Whoever this sick Puppet Master is,” Roscoe growled, the nickname slipping naturally into his statement, “he’s a twisted individual. But let me be clear—we will find him, and we will bring him to justice.” The reporters scribbled down every word, eager to broadcast the new name for the killer. Roscoe turned away, his face tight with barely contained anger as he rejoined Grayson at the scene.
With Roscoe’s words hanging in the air, Grayson refocused on the task at hand. Forensics had finally arrived, setting up their equipment and beginning to comb the area. Grayson exchanged a few quick words with the lead technician, instructing them to prioritize the footprints and fabric he’d found. As the techs went to work, he took a step back, surveying the scene from a distance. It was all too deliberate, too theatrical. The Puppet Master hadn’t just killed; he had orchestrated an event—one designed to draw attention, to provoke a reaction. Grayson’s gut told him this was only the beginning.