Agent Stitts peered over at the GPS mounted on the dash.
“We’ve got another ten minutes at least in New York traffic before we arrive at Charlotte’s house,” he informed her. “Mind if I tell you a story? About why I decided to pursue a career in the FBI? In profiling?”
Chase wasn’t in the mood for fables, but couldn’t think of a good reason for Stitts not to continue.
“Sure, go ahead.”
Agent Stitts looked up and to the right when he spoke next, a tell from poker that suggested that he was remembering something from his past and not just making it up.
“I was young, maybe twenty years old,” Stitts began in a monotone voice, “just starting out as a real estate agent. I was also with this girlfriend who was… well, demanding, let’s say. She was constantly pissed because of the long hours I worked. This one night, after she had just told me that she was getting fed up, a client felt the need to inspect every single floorboard in the house that he was thinking of putting an offer on. I could literally hear my girlfriend getting angrier the longer she waited for me at home. By the time my client was ready to leave, I was already twenty minutes late for dinner. And I still had to drive home, which, in Houston traffic, was going to take at least double that. Anyways, on the way home I thought it would be a good idea to grab a bottle of wine to smooth things over, you know? There was this store that I usually went to for wine and beer that wasn’t too far from my place. So, I’m in a hurry, thinking about what I was going to say, what joke I could make in order to make sure my girlfriend didn’t bite my head off, and I headed into the store. As soon as I opened that door, I felt that something was off. And I’m not talking about something flitting like, ‘oh, I should buy this lottery ticket, it’s a winner,’ no bullshit like that. This was a strong feeling in my gut that almost made me throw up. And you know what I did?”
Chase shrugged.
“You walked out?”
“That’s right—I walked out and went home. Skipped the wine altogether.”
“And? What happened?”
“Found out on the news later that the proprietor had been shot dead and his store had been robbed. At first, I couldn’t believe it. In fact, I was so shocked by the ordeal that I actually went back to the store and found out that it had been robbed minutes after I had left. I know what you’re thinking, it was a coincidence, which is fine, because that’s what I thought, too. But, long story short, I managed to get a hold of the security tape from the store. I must have watched that video a thousand times.”
Again, he paused.
“What was on the tape?”
“I saw what I already knew, but hadn’t registered. At the time, I was living in a roughish part of Houston and every single time I walked into a convenience store or liquor store—and I do mean every time—the guy or girl behind the counter gave me the good old fashioned up down. It’s like part of their training, I guess. Anyways, this time, the guy only glanced over at me and then looked away. In the video, you clearly see me stare at the guy behind the counter as this happens, then I follow his gaze to a man perusing the shelves wearing a parka. A parka in Houston in the middle of summer. I knew then that this is what my ‘instincts’ had picked up on. They saved my life.”
Chase thought about the story for a moment. There were many times in her life when something like this had happened, not as serious as what Agent Stitts described of course, but similar, but she also figured that there were an equal number of times in which her instincts were just dead wrong.
The killer returning to the barn, for instance. In the end, Chase decided to try and lighten the mood as opposed to challenging him.
“And what did your girlfriend say?”
Agent Stitts laughed.
“Ha, she dumped my ass. Made me think I would have been better off getting that bottle of wine after all. Well, that’s my origin story, what’s yours? Why did you get into the police force and why do you want to join the FBI?”
Chase frowned. Perhaps it was her intuition that had told her that this question was coming, which was why she wanted to avoid the discussion in the first place. Or maybe it was just plain common sense.
“Well,” she said, turning into the driveway of a brightly lit bungalow, “would you look at that.”
Agent Stitts followed her finger.
“What? What is it?”
“Charlotte’s house. Come on, let’s get this over with.”
Chapter 33
“C’mon, Chase, pick up the phone,” Drake grumbled. He waited for the answering machine to roll before hanging up. Pulling into the strip mall that housed Triple D, he drove right up to the doors and parked his Crown Vic. Then he hopped out, e-reader in hand.
“Hey Screech?” he said as he entered Triple D. He noticed that the door to his office was closed and inside he could make out the silhouettes of two men: one small, with a q-tip shaped head, and the other a massive, boulder of a man.
Drake strode over to the door and pulled it open.
Screech startled and leaned back in Drake’s chair as he entered.
“Drake, this is Bob Bumacher,” he said after collecting himself, “He is the one whose boat—”
“—yacht—” Drake corrected.
Screech nodded.
“Whose yacht has gone missing. We were just working out the details of our arrangement. Apparently, there is some precious cargo on board,” Screech’s face twisted slightly as he said this, which gave Drake pause.
Precious cargo?
But Drake didn’t have time for this. He needed to contact Chase, to tell her about the new story. About part II. And he needed to figure out who the hell was writing the morbid tales.
“Alright, sounds good. I hate to be rude, Mr. Bumacher, but I really have another matter that I have to discuss with my partner.”
Bob Bumacher stood, and Drake instinctively leaned away from him. He wasn’t just a large man, as Drake had suspected based on the outline, he was huge. Six-six if he was a foot, with shoulders like watermelons. He was wearing a tight-fighting t-shirt with Arnold Schwarzenegger’s face across the chest and the words, “Come with me if you want to lift” written on top.
He nodded to Drake, and then scratched his bald head.
“You’ve come highly recommended, Drake. I expect that you and your partner will use the utmost discretion in your search for my vessel. Me and Screech have already worked out the details, and I’m sure that you’ll find them more than satisfactory.”
Bob held out a giant hand and Drake didn’t so much as shake it as was swallowed by it.
After Bob regurgitated his hand, he turned and left the office, leaving the door open behind him. When he was gone, Drake shook his head and looked over at Screech.
“What the hell was that all about?” he asked, but when Screech opened his mouth to answer, Drake held a hand up. “Never mind.”
He hooked a thumb, indicating that Screech should get out of his chair. Screech nodded and stood, and Drake slumped into it.
“What’s up?”
“There’s been another murder and another story,” Drake replied, tossing the e-reader roughly on the desk.
Screech frowned.
“For real? Fucking hell. I couldn’t find anything about the author… about L. Wiley online. Literally nothing. The man’s a ghost. No posts on any of the popular writing boards, no website, no email address, no nothing. But I’m no expert when it comes to online publishing. You know anyone who might have experience?”
Drake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
“What’s wrong?”
Not him, I can’t go to him again.
“Nothing.”
But he had to go to him, he was the only person who Drake knew had experience with this sort of thing.
His mind turned to the envelope that he had put in Jasmine’s mailbox, which he was sure he had seen in Suzan’s pocke
t later when she bounded upstairs.
“I might know somebody, but I’m going to need a favor.”
“Another camera?” Screech asked.
Drake shook his head.
“No, no camera—I need you to make sure that the one that I put up is recording, but this is something different. I need some cash.”
Screech’s face contorted.
“Money? For what?”
“I can’t tell you that. I just need some cash.”
Screech chewed his lip as he thought this over.
“How much?” he said at last.
Drake thought about it. It was usually him who was getting paid, and that was usually in ten thousand dollar increments. Only after what had happened…
“Twenty grand,” he said flatly.
Screech’s eyes bulged.
“Twenty grand? Shit, you lose a bet?”
“You’ll get it back after Meathead Bumacher settles. But I’m going to need it today.”
Screech shook his head.
“No can do. I don’t have that kind of scratch lying around. Just bought a new computer set-up for the ol’ homestead. Wish I could help you out, but…”
Drake groaned in frustration.
Not only do I have to meet with him, but now I’m going to have to make a stop along the way.
“Alright, thanks anyway,” he said as he stood.
“You just got here—where’re you going?”
“Out for a bit.”
Drake’s phone buzzed and he answered it.
“Drake here.”
“It’s Chase. We just got finished talking to Charlotte’s husband. He was… he was destroyed…”
Drake remembered how much he hated that part of the job, how hard it was for him to tell a loved one that their husband or father was never coming home.
“You alright?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine. But get this, it looks as if Charlotte was abducted outside a bookstore.”
Drake was leaning down and reaching for the top drawer of his desk when she said this, and he stopped.
“Really? Any video?”
“Haven’t had a chance to review the tapes yet. They’re on the way back to Dunbar to take a look. And Agent Stitts is getting a record of all the books that Charlotte has bought in the last few months, going to have Dunbar run that, too, cross-referenced with Melissa and Tanya’s purchases. Anything on your end?”
Drake pulled the bottle of Johnny Red out of the desk and poured himself three-fingers. He downed half of it in one sip.
“Yeah, got another story—Red Smile Part II.”
Chase was incredulous.
“What? What’d it say?”
Drake finished his drink and closed his eyes.
“Just that there was another body found at the same scene as the first. You’re in it again, too, and the narrative doesn’t mince words when it describes that the killer returned to the scene of the first murders to leave another body. Shit, it’s like this person is predicting the goddamn future. Are we really that predictable?”
“Maybe—procedure is pretty standardized. What about the end?”
“Just like the first. Stops abruptly, no real ending, no clues as to who or where the next victim is going to be. But there’s no THE END—the killer isn’t done yet. What the fuck is his endgame, anyway?”
Chase stayed silent long enough that Drake had enough time to pour another drink.
“Get it over here as soon as you can,” Chase said at last. “Did Screech manage to find out anything about the author?”
Drake lifted his eyes and stared at Screech who was looking at him with a queer expression on his narrow face.
“No, nothing. He tried, but says that L. Wiley is like a ghost.”
Another pause.
“Keep on digging, use any contacts that you have. We’ve got to find this guy before he kills again. I gotta go, I have a press conference to prepare for. Once this drops, we are going to be overwhelmed with tips again.”
Drake nodded to himself.
“Good luck,” he said, then hung up the phone before uttering the next phrase that popped into his head: are you sure, Chase? Things can get dicey if I go meet him again.
Drake finished the rest of his drink and then headed to the door, leaving a stunned-looking Screech standing in his office.
“Can you look after the place for a while? Have to do this Special Consultant shit.”
Screech said nothing, but Drake took this as an affirmative.
He was nearly out of Triple D when he turned back.
“Oh, and find Meathead’s yacht for him, will you? We’re going to need the cash—I don’t care what kind of ‘cargo’ he has stashed on it.”
Chapter 34
It was strange for Chase to be standing at the podium again, speaking with the media who had hastily arranged themselves with only minutes’ notice. She kept peeking over her shoulder, expecting to see Rhodes’s bespectacled face staring back, his cheeks slowly turning a darker shade of red.
But it was only Chase up there today, and she felt oddly comfortable. Agent Stitts and Detective Yasiv were standing in the crowd off to one side, ready to come forward if called upon, but Chase thought it more prudent to be alone in front of the media and discuss how women should protect themselves.
Show them a face of a proud, confident woman.
“Good afternoon, New York. My name is Sergeant Chase Adams, and I’ve asked the media to congregate outside 62nd precinct so that I can make the public aware of some distressing news: over the past few days, there have been three murders on the outskirts of our city. Three young women were ruthlessly murdered and the suspect is still at large. At this time, we are not releasing the names of the victims or any details about the horrible crimes that were inflicted upon them.”
Chase looked down at the paper on the podium with the rest of the speech that she had written, but while it had sounded fine when she was writing it down, it sounded trite and robotic now.
She quickly scanned the paper for what to say next. One of the audience members took this as a pause intended for questions and piped up.
“Are there any leads? Any suspects? Why were the women murdered?”
Chase held up a hand and lifted her head.
“I stand here today not only as a police sergeant, but as a woman,” she said, deviating from her script. It was best to sound genuine, to say how she really felt. She could deal with the consequences, if any, from higher-ups later. “Ask a group of men if they’ve been afraid, really afraid, of being assaulted in the past month and one, maybe two hands might go up. Ask a group of women? All of them will raise their hands. Now, this isn’t a gender comment, a political outcry or even a motto; this is just reality. And the new reality is that women are currently being hunted. We will catch the person responsible, this is my promise to all of New York. But in the meantime, women should be cautious. Don’t walk alone at night, don’t accept rides from strangers. In fact—” Chase bit the inside of her lip and for some reason, her eyes drifted to Agent Stitts’s. He had a slightly startled expression on his face.
Instincts…
“—don’t be afraid to be a bitch. This goes for all women; if you’re in a situation that makes you uncomfortable, or someone is offering to help you with your bags or your car, don’t be afraid to tell them flat out that you don’t want their help.”
Chase gripped the sides of the wooden podium and leaned into the mic.
“Don’t be afraid to be a bitch,” she repeated, her eyes skipping across the floating heads of the media.
Their reaction was confused, at best. Some of the men were looking up at her with dumbfounded looks on their faces, while the women seemed to be smirking at her.
Chase used this to her advantage and quickly said, “be safe, New York,” before turning back toward the police station behind her.
This incited the crowd and she heard them shout out questions like sport slogans for a moment be
fore they melded into one incomprehensible cacophony.
Chase moved quickly, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow with the lump in her throat.
Did I really just say that? Did I just—
Agent Stitts sidled up beside her, matching her step for step.
“Wow,” he whispered, “that was interesting.”
Chase felt her face flush, and was about to answer when Detective Yasiv appeared on her left.
“Did I just tell the women of New York to be bitches?” she asked as she grabbed the metal door handle and pulled it wide. Before either Yasiv or Stitts could answer, she said, “Yeah, I think I did. I really think I did.”
What in god’s name was I thinking?
Chapter 35
Drake wasn’t sure how Raul knew that he had arrived at Ken’s condo, but before he even made it to the door, he saw the man’s hunched form appear in the lobby.
Drake raised his fist to knock on the door, but Raul saw the gesture and came to him with the security guard in tow. They opened the door, and he stepped inside.
It was strange coming here, as even though he had a light buzz from the scotch he had drunk at Triple D which made things familiar, it was early.
The sun was still out.
And everything just seemed so damn shiny in the lobby.
“I’m here to see Ken,” he said sharply.
Raul moved in front of him.
“Ken isn’t here.”
For some reason, this surprised Drake, and for a moment he thought that Raul was lying. But it made sense; after all, Ken was a partner at the law firm Smith, Smith and Jackson, and was in the middle of a mayoral race.
Why would he be home on a Friday afternoon?
“I need to speak to him.”
Raul looked him up and down. Even though the security guard at his side appeared nervous, his eyes darting from Raul to Drake and back again, Raul’s demeanor, as always, was implacable.
“He’s not here.”
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1 Page 63