Dark Prophecy by Anthony E. Zuiker

details.
    The piece teased the oddities of the crime scene—the fact that Paulson “may have” been found with a flower in his hand, and stepped off the roof of his own apartment building. “Police sources” claimed that there were no ligature marks, no bruises, no sign of coercion of any kind.
    Knack claimed to have a source “deep inside” Special Circs, which was troubling if true. Nobody in Special Circs ever talked to the press. If Riggins had ever caught an agent talking to a reporter, he’d have that agent skinned and salt-dipped before giving him the boot.
    Walking to his kitchen, Dark played around the pieces in his mind—trying to figure out what the killer was trying to say.
    Dark poured himself a glass of water and drank about half of it before he realized it tasted flat. Metallic. He didn’t want water. He dumped the rest in the sink and went to the fridge for a beer, twisted off the cap. He needed more details. Green’s murder—based on the photo that had accompanied Knack’s first story—had been elaborately staged. Presumably, the killer had plenty of time to conceive, arrange, then execute such a display. But was Paulson’s murder staged in a similar way?
    There was only one way he could find out.
     
     
    “Riggins.”
    “It’s me,” Dark said.
    There was a pained-sounding sigh, as if someone had perforated one of Riggins’s lungs with a piece of jagged glass.
    “Just one question,” Dark said. “You owe me that, at least.”
    “Let’s not do this. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but—”
    “Cut me a break. You know exactly why I’m calling.”
    “I don’t care why you’re calling. We’re through.”
    “Look, Riggins. I know I’m not supposed to be involved anymore. But maybe I can help. Unofficially. Just between you and me. This is friends and family, you know? I can’t get this case out of my mind, and I might as well do some good.”
    “No. You said you wanted out, well, you’re out. I shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
    “Let me see the murder book on Paulson. I can help.”
    “You’re unbelievable.”
    “Okay, fine. Just answer a few quick things.”
    “You shouldn’t be thinking about this stuff at all. Why don’t you go out and enjoy some of that California sunshine you wanted so badly? In fact, why don’t you go spend some time with your daughter? She might appreciate seeing your face.”
    Riggins could turn ugly when he wanted to. He was either just being nasty to get him off the phone, or he was really trying to piss Dark off.
    “Riggins, come on.”
    “No discussing the case with outsiders. You’re an outsider. That’s the way you wanted it, right? Don’t call me. Enjoy the sunshine.”
    The line went dead.
     
     
    Dark thought about calling Constance, but quickly pushed the thought out of his head. His relationship with Riggins was one thing. Constance was another mess entirely.
    In the horrible months after Sibby’s murder, Constance had been there for him. But it was too much, too soon. First it was dinners. Then long sessions of just sitting there, filling the empty hours together. She tried to replace Sibby, thinking that she could bring Dark back from the brink just a little bit. Dark didn’t want a replacement for Sibby. He didn’t want anything at all, except to do his job.
    The thing was, Constance would probably open up the murder book for him. But that would open the door again. Dark was capable of many loathsome acts, but not that.
    Then it occurred to him—how to get those details. He picked up his wallet, pulled out a credit card.

chapter 20
    Flight 1412, Los Angeles to D.C.
     
     
    Dark hadn’t flown since his last Special Circs mission. For close to five years, he’d been shuttled to all corners of the world at a moment’s notice. There were some days when his body clock was so scrambled he had a hard time telling dawn from dusk—and had to wait and watch the sun to see what it would do. Dark