The Friday Killer, page 1
THE FRIDAY KILLER
PI MASON BLACK - BOOK 4
NICK ADAMS
Copyright © 2025 by Papyrus Publishing.
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CONTENTS
The Friday Killer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Epilogue
About the Author
For Sophie
THE FRIDAY KILLER
PI MASON BLACK - BOOK 4
ONE
It’s time for another one to die, the killer thought as he swung open the heavy metal door that led to their shared cell. He lingered there for a while, blocking out the large rectangle of light that shone from behind him. He relished their sniffles. Their pain.
“Eeny, meeny, miny…” he said, moving his finger teasingly from one to the other. If they knew the truth, they would know he’d already preselected his victim. They would know the youngest would die first, and it wouldn’t be over quickly.
Finally, he landed with his large, accusing finger pointed at the young girl in the corner. “Mo,” he said with a grin so forceful he couldn’t hold it back. He heard her yelp. She scrambled back into the corner like there was some secret safe room right behind the faded, yellow tiles. But there wasn’t. Try as she might to escape, there was nowhere for her to go.
The killer took a step forward, fiddling with the keys on his belt. The handcuff key was there somewhere, dangling just out of the girls’ reach, their salvation only one long stretch away. There was something exciting about that—about knowing they had a slim chance of escape. It made him thirsty. It made him hard.
As he moved toward the next victim, the oldest girl shot up to her knees. She held out her hands to stop him. Damp, raggedy hair dangled over her pale face like some forgotten doll that had washed down a storm drain. There was alertness in her eyes.
The killer stiffened harder.
“Wait,” she yelled, panting. “I have money. You can be rich. Please…”
Misery and hate washed over him, terminating his good mood. The girl had no money—he’d discovered that easily while doing his research on her. It was one of the first things he’d learned; she was twenty-two, lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment, had no boyfriend, and had very little contact with her parents. To put it simply, nobody cared that she’d disappeared all those weeks ago. To put it even simpler, she was an easy target.
“Oh yeah?” he said, playing her game. “How much would you pay?”
“However much you want,” she tried. “The sky’s the limit.”
“And if I want more than you have?”
“I’ll find it. However much you want, I’ll find it.”
The killer leveled his gaze on her, staring into those deep, pleading pools. For just a moment, he admired her courage. Nobody stood up to him. Not ever. He glanced over at the girl in the corner—the girl who was about to die—while he considered the bribe. He mulled, then grunted a short laugh.
“Sorry, sweet cheeks. This isn’t about money. It never was.”
The room filled with high-pitched shrieks as he stormed toward the younger girl. This one was going to be twenty tomorrow. Or would have been. She fought and scratched like a rabid raccoon as he unlocked her handcuffs. The killer easily kept her at bay with a strong hand. When he was done, he dropped the chains and groped a handful of her thick, brown hair. He dragged her from the room as she kicked and screamed, her friends wailing protests from the floor behind him. But they could scream all they wanted. Nobody was going to hear them.
Not unless he wanted them to.
TWO
Private Investigator Mason Black was in a good mood, but that was about to change.
There was something about that he liked—having been a cop, then a PI, then back to a cop again, he’d decided with the help of his wife that it was best he got back to working for himself. There was less danger that way. Sure, the cases were often slow and dull, but it kept him safe as per Diane’s demands. After all, he had two kids to think about now. They didn’t need to grow up without a father.
“What are you smirking at?” Diane asked from across the room.
“Nothing,” Mason said, glancing around at the wide room he’d bought for a steal. That was a couple of years ago now, right before he’d left the San Francisco Police Department and put a sign with his name above the door. He’d always felt a little selfish about that; Diane worked as his receptionist, and his nineteen-year-old daughter, Amy, often chipped in while on college breaks, but they didn’t get so much as their own plaque.
Mason leaned back in his chair, the stem creaking under his weight. He was naturally big and strong. It was very rare that he worked out, which suited him just fine, because he got to focus more on his work and family—on Diane, the stunning lady who had all the good features of Whitney Houston with none of the bad. Mason also cherished his time with his daughter, Amy, who loved him in spite of all his flaws. And with little Mason Junior, “MJ” for short, who Mason missed terribly while his son was at school.
But as with all his seldom-appearing good moods, it was abruptly cut short.
The phone rang from both desks. Diane hovered a hand above the handset, letting it hit three rings so as not to appear too eager. She snatched it up and proudly announced, “Mason Black Investigating Agency, how can I help?”
Mason, who’d been having a blissfully slow day until now, sat forward in his chair and watched her talk. There was something worrying about the speed at which her smile disappeared. It drooped into a frown, and her nostrils did that little flaring thing, which usually only happened when she was scared. Mason felt it, too. If it was enough to scare her, then he wasn’t safe either.
“Sir, slow down,” she said, scribbling notes onto a pad. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
Mason waved to catch her attention, curiosity seizing him. Diane glanced over, then held up a finger and told him to wait. He almost chuckled at that. Very rarely did anyone have the balls to make him wait, but she was one of the few people in this godforsaken world who could get away with it.
“Please hold,” she said eventually. “I’ll put you through.”
Diane pushed some buttons on the phone’s cradle, and Mason’s phone began to ring. He reached for it, searching Diane’s face for a clue. All he found was a deep frown with eyebrows that crossed so tight they were almost a unibrow.
Mason shared her concern as he took the call.
By now, hi
THREE
The park was a perfect place for an attacker to hide, Mason thought morbidly as he parked his silver Ford Explorer on the side of Golden Gate Park. It was getting dark by now, the late afternoon transforming San Francisco into a completely different city, full of bright lights and dark alleys. But that was the cop in him—his safety mode switched on. It didn’t deter him. It only made him more cautious as he headed through the front gates.
Frank Swanson was easy to find. He was a tall, bald man holding a folded-up copy of the Times just as he said he would be. If that wasn’t enough to identify him, there was an expression of trapped pain caught in his eyes.
“Mr. Swanson?” Mason asked as he approached.
“Mr. Black? Thank you for coming.”
They shook hands and began to stroll through the park. The lights were already on, but Mason imagined this place was full of junkies and criminals by night. He lured Swanson on a short walk close to the exit, cutting through the small talk as they went.
“You wanted to talk about your daughter,” he said.
“Yes, I…” Frank sighed. “I’m guessing you’ve heard of the Friday Killer?”
Mason nodded, a sudden heat fuming under his collar. Who hadn’t heard of that guy? His victims had shown up disemboweled in a public place every Friday for weeks on end, and in spite of his experiences with such mentally disturbed killers, the gruesomeness still didn’t fail to shock him.
“It’s my daughter,” Swanson went on to explain. “She’s been missing for a few days now, and all I keep thinking about is that killer. What if she turns up like the others? What if he has her and there’s a timer above her head?”
Mason didn’t want to bullshit him by stating its unlikelihood. Instead, he rushed to the point. “Have you contacted the police? They can help, you know.”
“I have. I’ve also contacted three other private investigators.”
“So why do you need me?”
“I’m playing the odds.”
Mason nodded. They soon reached the exit and stopped, the smells from nearby restaurants teasing his senses. But something told him eating wasn’t in the cards. His stomach was already unsettled by the mere mention of the Friday Killer. And then there was the guilt…
“I’m sorry,” he told Frank Swanson, watching the hope fade from his eyes. “I don’t really do that kind of thing anymore. Chasing lunatics around the city is a young-man’s game, and I’m closer to fifty than forty. You could try—”
“I’ve tried everyone,” Swanson said. “Please, Mr. Black. I need this.”
Mason chewed on his lip, a new habit that Diane seemed to like. Diane, who had been in danger so many times because of him. Who he’d promised to stop pursuing the city’s biggest killers in exchange for his family’s safety. And although the cop DNA that was buried so deep inside him urged him to find this man’s daughter, he had his own family to think of.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning his back on Swanson. “I just can’t.”
Mason returned to the car, hearing the furious, tear-filled cussing behind him. It grabbed Mason’s guts, twisting until he felt ready to hurl. Declining the need of a desperate man was not his type of thing. But for the sake of his family, he had no other choice.
Even if he would come to regret it soon enough.
FOUR
It was one of his most violent kills to date. The killer had taken the girl to the back of the building, far from earshot of the people in the street below. There, he had secured her to a makeshift operating table and gone to work.
It was hard work, too. The screams had started loud enough, but by the time he seared through her flesh, the girl had risen to a note that even the world’s greatest sopranos would be in awe of. Shortly after that, she’d passed out, and the killer felt a wave of relief. Since then, it had been a quick and easy surgery, like a grease monkey under the hood of a car, stripping it of its vital parts. There was blood—a lot of it—but he would let that dry into the concrete floor. There was plenty of time to worry about that later.
Now, having delivered the body to a public parking lot on the other side of town, the killer sat on an upturned crate with a bowl of Corn Flakes, enjoying his late-night refreshing snack. His cell phone sat sideways in front of him. A newswoman reported the chaos that had unraveled since his departure.
Milk spilled from the corner of his mouth as he beamed a grand smile. He simply loved the idea that, somewhere, the parents of this girl had their lives turned upside down. The other girl had parents, too—the Swanson girl who had tried to bribe him. And soon enough, she would suffer the same fate. Wouldn’t that be just perfect?
The killer quickly devoured his cereal, barely looking away from the tiny screen that lit up in the black abyss of the large room. There was such anarchy at the crime scene, the reporter claiming that some disturbing images were yet to come.
She’s damn right, too, the killer thought.
Because the worst is definitely yet to come.
FIVE
Acold chill crept down Mason’s spine when he returned.
By now his office was supposed to be empty. While he had dealt with Frank Swanson, Diane should have headed home to start dinner. As he had picked up MJ from school and dropped him off at home, the office should be locked down and empty, but a dim light shone through the window.
Mason killed the Explorer’s engine and waited, watching. There was no movement behind the closed blind, but the light was definitely on. A desk lamp, perhaps. Was he being careless again, or had his paranoia been drawn up by talk of the Friday Killer? Mason didn’t know for sure, but just to be safe, he leaned across the seat and took his Beretta from the glove compartment. He checked it was loaded, then waited. He watched for a little longer, giving any potential attacker the chance to come to him, out in the open where he could see them. While he kept his eyes trained on the window and nearby door, he ran a checklist of people who might want to hurt him. The name Wendell popped up more than once, but that was impossible… wasn’t it?
After ten minutes passed, Mason climbed out of the car and quietly shut the door. He approached at a wide angle, keeping the gun gripped tight in his sweaty hands. He glanced around, hoping to flag someone down so he could tell them to call the police. But there was nobody there—only a desolate industrial street greeted him.
He was completely alone.
Mason hugged the wall and sidestepped toward the door, peering through the pane of glass in its center. The light was still on. There was a sharp, jerky shuffle of movement from a long shadow that crept up the wall like a ghoul. Mason carefully slid the key into the hole, twisted it, then pried the door open slowly. The sound of rock music traveled up the hallway, and that worked in his favor—there was less chance of being heard. But there was also less chance of hearing someone else. Of hearing footsteps rush up behind him or the cocking of a gun before it ended his life there and then.
