It was in the morning paper. Carter had almost been out the door with his coffee in hand, when he saw the picture in the stand. The same picture, eight years later – a crime scene shot with a dead man and the one painted bloody wing above. Carter knew it had to be two; two wings for two bullets in the body. The only time there was one wing, and one bullet, was when it was him, Carter, bleeding at a crime scene trying to talk the shooter out of killing him.
Being a private detective had its benefits. Like your own hours, the chance to blackmail a politician, etc. As well as drawbacks – no back up, restricted access to crime scenes, and if you’re caught looking for evidence, it can end with a “breaking and entering” charge. Carter Benjamin knew very well how to balance both. A friend in the police force, a friend in the FBI, and you have someone to call, when things go pear shaped.
A voice mail message, “Her name is Cassie Ardami, and I have to find her. Now. She .. she may have changed her name, I don’t even know. Joe, you gotta help me. Did .. did you see the paper? .. The “Angel Maker” – he’s back. Or, at least someone who had seen THAT picture in the paper eight years ago. This .. this is bad, Joe. Cassie .. she was his daughter, I need to find her, she’s just a kid. Oh .. we’re the only survivors .. and if this is not a copy cat .. I need to find Cassie.”