Splintered Read Online Free Page A

still pondering it when the waitress set a brown paper sack in front of Granite, the bottom of the bag already saturated with grease. Hutch pulled his wallet from his pocket and threw some bills on the counter.
    “At least I’ll have plenty of time to work on the case tonight.”
    “Yeah, in between trips to the bathroom.” Granite started to stand and froze, eyes wide. “Shit. I’m sharing a room with you.”
    Hutch just grabbed the bag and smiled as he headed toward the exit. “All I need is to stop and grab some beer, and my night will be complete.”
    “Oh hell no, you don’t,” Granite complained as he followed Hutch out the door. When Hutch didn’t respond, Granite grumbled, “I’m getting my own room.”
    They walked back to the hotel, and despite his threat, Hutch didn’t stop at the liquor store. In the lobby, he hit the button on the elevator and leaned his shoulder against the wall as he waited.
    “I don’t think he’s part of a hate group or any other group, for that matter,” Hutch said, picking up the conversation as if it hadn’t abruptly ended fifteen minutes ago.
    “So what’s his major malfunction?”
    “I’m still trying to get a feel for this guy, but I think in some way he’s destroying what he hates most in himself.”
    The bell dinged, announcing the arrival of the car, and the doors slid open. “You think he’s gay?” Granite asked as he stepped in to the elevator.
    “If you asked him, he’d steadfastly deny it and actually believe it.”
    “Yeah, well, I hope I get to ask him about it soon.”
    Hutch hit the button for their floor. “So do I.”

Chapter 3

    H UTCH HAD been with the bureau for fourteen years and at Quantico as a profiler for the last six. He’d caught plenty of serial killers but never one as prolific as the one he was tracking now. Stacks of files covered the small hotel table, the beds, the TV, and any other space he could find to sort through the mountain of paperwork. Seventeen dead men left one hell of a mountain.
    He munched on his cold fries as he tried to focus on the maps and profile pictures of the victims tacked on the walls. “What the fuck am I missing?”
    “Other than a large portion of your brain? Don’t know,” Byte deadpanned.
    “If that’s your attempt at humor, you need to step up your game. It wasn’t even remotely funny, and if I wasn’t so fucking tired, I’d come over there and slap you upside your thick skull,” Hutch threatened.
    Byte snorted as he leaned back into his chair and propped his John Lobb oxford-covered feet on the bed in front of him. Hutch didn’t give a shit about fashion, and he looked down fondly at his five-year-old scuffed and worn cowboy boots. He was more about comfort than statement. The only reason he knew Byte’s shoes were John Lobb oxfords was because the prissy bastard had whined and complained nearly every fucking day for the seven months he’d had to wait for them to be constructed. By the time Byte had gotten his shoes, Hutch could recite the entire history of the shoemaker. If he’d had to hear “A pair of Lobb’s handmade shoes are a work of art, unique to their owner” blah, blah, blah, one more time, he’d have strangled Byte with his five-hundred-dollar Italian silk tie.
    “Okay, so let’s look at what we do know,” Byte offered. “Seventeen victims, all small in stature and openly gay. All but one frequented known gay clubs within a fifty-mile radius of each other. The one vic that didn’t hang out in a club was last seen at a coffee shop located directly across from the Torch, a club frequented by four other victims. We also know what type of victim he hunts and where he cruises them.”
    “And thanks to me, we have an approximate location of where the bastard lives,” Granite added with a sly smile.
    “Seriously?” Hutch asked and moved to stand next to the bed where Granite was stretched out surrounded by files with his laptop resting on his thighs.
    Byte joined