Monday, 7:30 A.M.

“Tell me you didn’t hand our case over to the FBI.”

Jim was standing at the door of lieutenant McGuire’s office. He had received a call half an hour ago informing him of the arrival of the Sunday Killer’s third poem. As thrilled as he was on the ride here, his face fell when he crossed the suited up, arrogant figure of Agent Carty on the way out. Jim knew it was a bad sign.

“You’re right on time, detective,” said Davida with a composed smile, “I have something for you.”

Davida was seated behind her desk, coffee mug in hand. She set it aside to push a file towards him. Jim snatched it and briefly skimmed through the content. There was a mention of a morgue, of Beverly and Jills’ hearts transplanted back inside their corpses. He could not believe his eyes.

“They were found this morning when Agent Carty asked the autopsy surgeon to re-examine the second victims for further clues. The hearts were transplanted back into their exact spot, in the same manner in which they were removed. He’s altering his signature to prove he’s in control. He’s challenging us.”

“That was never his signature to begin with,” said Jim urgently, “The poems are. Think about it. The only consistency in all three murders is that we always got a postcard with a poem a couple of days before they happened.”

“Except this time we got the poem after,” Davida raised a questioning eyebrow. “What does that tell us?”

“That we’ve got delayed mail,” said Jim as a matter-of-fact. “I was wondering about it too until I asked Martha at the front desk today. She always gets her weekly magazine on Saturdays and guess what? It just arrived.”

Davida was surprised to hear the reasoning behind it. Jim caught her glancing towards the secretary desk for a brief moment before sucking in a quick breath and fixing her stare on him.

“Look, the FBI found something we overlooked. They have as many rights on the case as we do. Especially now that it’s official Amber Key is the Sunday Killer’s third victim.”

Jim dropped the file at the lieutenant’s desk and let himself fall on the couch across.

“I expected you to throw in an I told you the second you’d get the chance."

“Are you kidding me? This is the third time the FBI sweeps a case from under our asses. You don’t expect me to see myself out with a big old grin after I put a shitload of hours on that case.”

“Who said anything about them sweeping it away?” Davida stood up, delighted at the look of surprise on Jim’s face. “They asked for a favor. Agent Carty came over to discuss the deal. They want you to remain lead of the case, in return, you have to do some of their leftover work.”

“Leftover work?” Jim echoed, pushing himself back on his feet. “Like what?”

“Nothing big,” she said, one hand fiddling with the drawer to peel a second case file out. “There’s a local gang involved in money laundering. A lot of illegal importing and exporting, and they’re suspecting drugs might be involved. They made a deal with three members who asked for immunity in return for valuable information concerning their network. Your job is to show up at the meeting, talk business, and get the information the FBI needs. As simple as that. You’re a great negotiator. You can handle it.”

Jim listened to the briefing while skimming through the profiles of the gang members.

“It says here they only speak Japanese, Mandarin and some Korean. How am I supposed to negotiate when I can’t even understand a word they say?”

“We’ve got that part covered." She slid a business card over the table. “Meet James Cane, your personal assistant in the case. He’s a translator and interpreter from England. Fluent in seven different languages including Japanese and Mandarin. He’s been briefed about the details and he’s worked with the FBI before. I already arranged a meeting for the two of you.”

“An assistant?” Jim scoffed. “Come on, Davida, you know I don’t do assistants.”

“What I know is that the FBI has far better resources than the police departments of New York combined. The case would be in good hands.”

Jim shrugged in defeat. “Jesus, fine. Assistant it is. As long as I get to keep the case.”

“Good.” Davida’s head moved to the side to peer bedhin Jim. “Looks like mister Interpreter’s already here.”

“This is what you mean by arranging a meeting?”

Jim slid the files under his armpit and threw a glance over his shoulder just in time to catch a dashing man exit the elevator. He was dressed in a grey three-piece tailored suit that fit his figure over a dark brown wool coat. He wore a smile so large it drilled dimples into his clean-shaven cheeks.

“I heard he was punctual,” said Davida, “But this good looking? Hope you won’t be feeling overshadowed.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “The poem?”

“A copy’s in your folder. Look it over and report back to me.”

Leaving Davida to her paperwork, Jim walked out of the office in a rush. He flipped through the papers to peel the one sheet he was after. With a rising thrill, he read:

I gaze upon you and see

I claw and tear at my bones

An urge I never thought I bore

In my sleep my strongest will

The length of the new verses surprised him the most. Full-fledged sentences. The disappearance of one-word lines. A better understanding of the general meaning. It all flowed smoothly except for the last verse. Maybe, Jim thought, if he compared it to the rest of the poems he could be onto something.

The thought sparked a rush in his mind and Jim began hastily fumbling through his pockets in search of the paper sheet from yesterday. In the process, the business card slipped his fingers and fell on the floor.

“Shit.”

“Let me get that for you.”

Jim was already knee bent on the floor reaching for the card when the other person’s hand beat him to it. He raised his head to the man he saw walking out of the elevator a few moments ago. With a large smile, he returned the card – his card - back to him. A quick glance at its content, Jim read:

James N. Cane.

Freelance Translator and Interpreter.

“Detective James Neumann, correct?” he continued, now extending a hand for Jim to shake. “I’m James Cane, your assistant in the case. It’s a pleasure.”

Too sophisticated, was Jim’s first impression, and the look in his eyes was tremendously unsettling. Jim felt it flicker up and down in assessment making him suddenly more self-aware.

“Call me Jim," he said, quickly shaking his hand. “Have a seat.”

Jim passed him by to enter his cubicle. He sat behind his desk and invited James to occupy the seat across. The latter removed his coat and neatly placed it on his knees as he sat down.

James Cane was an interesting character. Above maintaining his appearance to its utmost, hair perfectly combed and fabric dust-free, his behavior reeked with charisma. Back straight, chin up high. He was calculated and composed, yet at the same time genuine and relaxed. Jim managed to construct his profile in under a second. A high-class rich brat who came all the way from the fanciest parts of London thinking a sharp jaw and a killer smile was all it took to fight crime. Jim thought his kind were the reason crime happened in the first place.

“Neumann,” James announced, breaking the silence, “German roots, I believe?”

“Father’s side."

“You must be proud.”

“Of my origins or my dad?”

James was taken aback.

“I’m proud of my origins, sure. Also of my Native American half. Mom’s generally done a better job raising us when the old man was busy cheating.”

“Quite informative of you.”

Jim cleared his throat, alarmed by the fact that he was running his mouth to a complete stranger.

“Coffee, boys?”

Jim turned his head to find Martha, the precinct’s secretary, approaching them. He was never so happy to see the woman before – and that was because Martha was not particularly a likable character, what with threatening to throw out the coffee machine if they did not leave the kitchen spotless – her timing, however, was impeccable and Jim had to give her some credit.

“Why thank you, Martha,” said James in an over-the-top polite manner. “You truly should not have burdened yourself.”

“Burden myself? You’re cute.”

Martha handed over the first cup to James then turned to slam the other on Jim’s desk, half-spilling its content.

“Let me know if you boys need anything else.”

“No, thank –"

“See you around, James, dear!”

“Goodbye, Martha.”

Right. She was here because of James.

“A lively character she is,” said James after the woman had left. “I have never entered a police department unaccompanied before. I must admit it can be quite intimidating. Martha took some of her precious time to direct me towards your desk. I was delighted she offered.”

Jim scoffed. “Isn’t she nice?”

"Do you often use sarcasm as a defense mechanism?"

"Excuse me?"

James smiled. "My apologies. I couldn’t help but notice."

Jim’s frown was prominent. He turned back to his papers.

“Lieutenant says you had experience as an FBI assistant before?”

“Yes. I worked two cases in the past in which I had to interpret amidst negotiations, cases quite similar to the one we have at hand.”

“Hm,” Jim nodded. “Experience always comes in handy. "Nobody knows what can go down out there."

His expression turned stern. “I am aware of that. You do not have to feel the need to pay special attention to my personal safety. I am capable of taking care of myself. In fact, while interpreting I tend to blend myself into the background.”

“I bet you can,” Jim mumbled to himself. With those ridiculously good looks.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing,” He cleared his throat. “Now that that’s out of the way. We need to strike a meeting. The earlier, the better. I will roughly tell you what needs to be told and you’ll do the talking. Sounds good?”

“I’m ready." James nodded. “When do we get started?”

“Do you have time now?”

“If you asked politely, perhaps.”

Jim burst out laughing until he realized James was serious. Then, without a warning, James stood up, dusted off his coat and placed it over his shoulders.

"Wait, where are you -"

"Since you haven’t asked politely, I assume you are quite all right with rescheduling to when I see fit."

“What?”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, detective. Have a great day.”

James turned over his heel to walk to the elevator and Jim was left half-standing, mouth agape. He wasn’t alone in tailing the other’s figure through the precinct. A couple of other officers were catching a few glimpses as he walked them by. At the door, Martha hugged him goodbye.

Once the elevator doors were closed, Jim seated himself back and breathed out his discomfort.

"Pretentious prick."

That was why he didn’t like assistants. But before he could allow himself to go into a personal rant, Jim noticed the coffee stain left by Martha’s cup was gone and an unfamiliar handkerchief was laying on its spot.

He let out a burst of air.

James fucking Cane.