“I know. Can you have someone pull some background on our friend Mr. Pierce?” Cat pulls out his card. Luckily, his Black and Knight card lists his full name. “His full name is Thomas Anthony Pierce. Let’s check his uncle too. One Clayton Pierce. ”
“Sure.” Nate hangs up.
* * *
Pierce phones his redheaded mistress, Isabella, the very moment Cat walks out of his office. He can’t afford this kind of scrutiny. Nor can Isabella and the Operation.
“I just had a visitor.” His voice is quick with adrenaline.
Isabella takes command now, just as she always does. “Who?” She is rapping her little black book against the table, something she does out of habit, without thinking.
“A Dr. Catherine Powers, FBI.” He raps stubby fingertips on the glass desktop. “She was asking about Anna Perez.”
Isabella can hear his fingertips rapping over the phone. “Stop that,” she shouts. He does as he is told—just as he always does when Isabella gives instructions. She stops tapping the black book and put it on the table.
Her voice returns to a normal purr in his ear, so sexy and divine. “And what did you tell our good doctor?” With her Russian background, she has a way of rolling her r’s that makes him melt.
“That Anna was an unattached flirt with no one at home who enjoyed the company of our associates and a little about her background.”
Isabella purrs, “You said nothing about the Operation?”
“No, of course not.” Pierce is quick and resolute with his response.
“You are a good boy. I shall make sure I reward you this evening.”
Isabella hangs up. Pierce can hardly wait for what she has in mind.
* * *
He had killed four in as many weeks. The first one was out of the ordinary for him. She was not like the others. He was not used to murdering legal secretaries who worked day jobs, lived in the suburbs and drove Chevys. He was not used to women in suits, except one. He liked his women more “available.” That made him feel more virile. He could get his rocks off.
Killing Anna Perez hadn’t been easy.
For starters, he wasn’t her type and she wasn’t his. She didn’t care for long-haul trucker types. Up-and-coming yuppies were far more to her liking, young men who came and went through Black and Knight like water over a dam.
But he had cleaned himself up for her. Shaved, got a decent haircut, even had his teeth cleaned so they gleamed. Nice cream-colored shirt that made his massive frame seem more of an office type. Even a tie.
* * *
Cautiously, he approaches Anna Perez on her lunch break at Black and Knight’s cafeteria. His breath is quick and shallow.
Calm down. Holding a lunch tray, he looks at Anna. “May I sit?”
“Sure.” She goes on eating.
He sits and puts the tray down. “I’m Randy. I’m a new hire.”
“Me too. Well, kind of. I’ve been here about six months or so.”
“You like it?” He tries to make small talk. It is not his style.
“It’s a job and it pays the rent.” She laughs a small laugh. He does too, thinking of what he will do to her neck as she throws her head back.
“Gotcha. You ever go out?”
“What do you mean? Like after work?”
“Yeah, like with a group. Nothing personal.” He emphasizes “personal” for effect. “Because I don’t really know anyone, well, socially at least.”
She understands where he is coming from.
“I felt the same when I got here. I’m going out with a group tonight to Bahama Bites. Just for drinks and appetizers—two for one. They have a happy hour that lasts until seven. You want to go? I could introduce you around.”
He does not want to seem eager, so he says nothing.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. It’s Valentine’s Day after all,” she says.
“Okay,” he says, his massive hands still wrapped around the lunch tray. She continues to speak. He notices for the first time how luscious her mouth looks, even in the unflattering greenish cafeteria light. “I’m on the forty-fifth floor. Just come up at five thirty and we can go.”
“Great, thank you.” He tries to sound like he means it, and he does in his own way.
“See you at five thirty, then.”
She is gone.
CHAPTER SIX
In violence, we forget who we are.
—Mary McCarthy, On the Contrary
Other long-haul truckers call him Big Tiny. Big for his physical stature and his sheer strength and Tiny for the fact that he lacks any sense of humor. Big Tiny laughs just a few times in his life—usually when he is listening to that last gurgle of life leave a young girl’s body. That is when Big Tiny laughs and laughs and laughs.
Big Tiny’s shoulders are so wide, he must walk through your average doorway slightly sideways, his shoulders at an angle. He stands six feet five inches tall. He takes pride in maintaining his body fat index at less than five percent. He is a mountain, a beast among men. That is the way Big Tiny likes it. It is what he wants to portray to the world.
He’s worn his head shaved and waxed in the past but now has a decent haircut for this special occasion.
Sleeve tattoos cover both his arms, though they’re not visible with his long-sleeve shirt today. Tats on his back and chest, although, once again, they are not visible this evening under his cream-colored shirt. He has no tats on his face, head, neck, hands or fingers.
Looking in the passenger-seat mirror, he almost does not recognize himself as he leaves Black and Knight’s parking structure in Anna Perez’s Chevy. He looks practically respectable. He adjusts the front passenger front seat all the way back in Anna’s car. Even then his body almost does not fit in her car. Anna seems oblivious. She approaches everything as a free spirit. She is ready for drinks and a party.
Big Tiny can feel it in her energy.
Small talk until Anna pulls her Chevy into Bahama Bites’ parking lot. He looks ahead at the windows covered with posters shouting two-for-one drink specials, happy-hour deals and all-you-can-eat buffets for fifteen bucks per person.
As she parks, he says to her, “Why don’t we skip this joint and go somewhere nicer, where we can really talk. Away from the office crowd.”
She regards him with suspicious eyes. “Okay. You seem like a nice enough guy. You are buying, right?”
“Most definitely. There’s a nice little Cuban place just up the street with a reasonably good arroz con pollo, black beans and rice and yucca. Not as good as my grandmother’s, but close. But they serve terrible red table wine. Are you interested?”
She laughs. He sees her nice-looking neck again. “I’m always interested in wine of any kind and I love Cuban food.” They both laugh that kind of laugh that says, at least for her, she’s not sure what she is getting herself into, but she’s willing to roll with the punches.
He says nothing more until they arrive at “La Lechonera—The Place for Cuban Food,” as the sign announces to South Florida. With orange and yellow tablecloths and photos of Old Havana all over the walls, the place screams Cuba, as does the overpowering smell of garlic, sautéed onions, bell peppers and spices that hits them as soon as they walk in. It’s been a while since he has had decent Cuban food. His mouth waters.
As they sit, she starts talking. From the sound of it, she is nervous. “So, where are you from, Randy?” Big Tiny almost forgets he’s called himself Randy as she says the name.
“Here and there.” He tries to sound casual. “I’m actually from east-side Philly. I got sick of the cold and snow. Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, well, they are good, but they don’t hold any appeal over a Cuban mix sandwich, you know what I mean.”
She laughs again, showing her neck to him without realizing what she is doing.
Oh, he likes the look of that neck. “How about you?”
“My parents immigrated to the Miami area after Castro took over in Cuba. They were in the first wave, not the Ma
rielitos that came over later. They weren’t criminals or convicts. I was just a baby when I left Cuba.” She looks into the candle’s flame as she speaks. There is a melancholy in her voice, as though her parents shared with her stories of what it was like before Castro, and she is remembering them now. “But my mother told me the stories. They have become part of me as though I lived them myself. We left everything behind. Everything. I was just a year old when we got on that boat, taking our lives in our hands. My father only had the shirt on his back.”
Big Tiny understands tough times. He knows from where she has come. For a moment, he feels a connection to Anna Perez. But for just a moment.
In the candlelight, she looks ten years younger than her age. Her lips look more luscious than before. He tries not to stare at them as she talks.
“It was a rough time. Luckily, my family had relatives who had come to Miami earlier and they took us in. Familia is familia, especially in the Latin culture. Thank God for that. I grew up on the mean streets of Miami, put myself through school and a little college. Eventually, when I saved enough money, I got out of Miami and Dade County when things were getting crazy down there. You remember the shootings at Dadeland?”
Big Tiny nods although he has no idea what she is talking about.
“I moved up to Broward County where the pace was slower and the crime almost non-existent. Things are cheaper up here too. I feel safer up here than in Miami. I even managed to buy a small two-bedroom house in Pembroke Pines. So, I guess you could say I’m living the American dream. From rags to riches in a single generation.”
“Yes, I guess you are.” Big Tiny tries to sound interested in her conversation but there are only three things he is interested in right now—her neck, her lips and getting her naked. He wonders what she would look like naked. He tries not to think of it. He tries to control himself.
The food comes. Good. It is a distraction for him. It has been so long since he has been with a decent woman, having to make small talk.
He focuses his attention back on Anna.
She is again talking about her family, which obviously means so much to her. Big Tiny can’t relate. He was in and out of foster care and juvenile hall as a kid, made the mistake of joining a gang, which became his family. His life deteriorated from the gang to prison. Most of his tats came to him in prison. His “angels,” he calls them. He has a separate name for each tat. They are the only things that have stayed with him for a long time; the only things that give any semblance of permanence to his life. His ink has become his identity in a way. Along with his Peterbilt truck. He has learned to love little else. He has learned how to survive.
As Anna talks, he smiles at her, flexing his tatted muscles under his shirt. He wonders what she will do when she sees him naked. Will she scream? Will he even let it come to that? Or will he be her Valentine and strangle her before she knows what is happening?
There are so many possibilities.
A glass of Chianti takes the edge off her nervousness. She stops talking so much. They eat a little more. He likes the silence.
“So, more about you?” she asks. “Any family?”
“Not really. I got a brother over in Iraq,” Big Tiny lies, “but we’re not tight, you know?”
She nods. “How about your parents?”
Man, she’s an inquisitive bitch. He answers anyway. “They died a long time ago in an accident. My brother and I were raised in foster care.” Big Tiny finds that it helps to mix a little truth in with lies—makes things easier and more palatable. Takes away the facial tics that come with lying that neuropsychologists are just now studying with great intensity.
Being in prison, you learn these things.
Being on the streets, you learn these things.
Reading books, you learn these things.
Obviously, Anna has forgotten the signs from her time on the streets.
While Big Tiny looks like a big, dumb, hulking mass of a man, he is far from it. He read books on neuropsychology, linguistics, psychology, sociology, economics and astronomy in prison. Anything “intellectual” that he could get his hands on. It was better than being in the yard with the hooligans, risking a fight and being thrown into lockdown or, worse, solitary.
A smart man and fit body make a happy man. In his mind, total domination and control over another human being make Big Tiny a happy man.
Tonight, he will take total domination and control over Anna Perez.
They finish dinner and small talk, he pays with cash and they get into her Chevy.
As he expects, he has been such an angel the whole night, she suggests they go back to her place. That means an open invitation to enjoy himself.
Big Tiny nods.
They get into her car and she starts to drive. Big Tiny says nothing.
In one quick instant, he has his hand on her thigh, so tight he feels he could break her leg by squeezing it. She reacts with a wild look at him, her hands on the steering wheel. He likes the feel of her skin, the softness of it. Even under his iron grip, the feel of her excites him.
“Drive.”
She looks at him, fear plain in her face and her eyes. She does as she is told.
Good girl.
He looks straight ahead and tells her to do the same while she is driving. No signaling to someone else in another car that something is wrong. Big Tiny is in full control. She knows it and she does as he says.
“Let’s go to where you live. When I get out, I am going to come around and open your door, and I am going to put my arm around your shoulders. You will not be able to leave.”
She nods.
As he looks at her, he thinks of a newborn animal. All weak and trembling, unable to stand or walk or do anything for itself. Dependent on the world. Just as she is now dependent on Big Tiny.
This is exactly how he likes it.
Without realizing it, she is feeding into his sexual energy. He feels like he is going to explode, as she does exactly what he says. He instructs her to park on the street, instead of in a nearby parking structure. The street is less likely to have surveillance cameras, he reasons. They walk to her house, his massive arm over her small shoulders, his huge hand wrapped around her neck. No one can see it because of her long, silky Latina hair. It is like a lioness mane that covers her.
Tonight, she will be his lioness.
And he will be her lion.
They get to her front door.
Big Tiny watches her take out her house key. Her hands are shaking, her breathing ragged.
He loves his control over this lioness. She is very good for him.
He feels his level of power rise as he watches her shake and tremble. She has no idea that by being afraid of him, she is giving him exactly what he wants.
Control.
Control over her.
Control over what will happen to her.
She opens the door after some time and walks inside. He is right behind her—his hand still firmly around her neck.
He watches her close the front door. She turns and looks at him. Her eyes ask questions, What comes next? What will you do to me?
Big Tiny will give her answers in due time.
He calmly dead bolts the front door and tells her to put her purse on the floor and take off her shoes.
She does as he says.
He tells her to go to her bathroom and pulls a knife. It’s a big knife with a four-inch serrated blade on one side and a non-serrated blade on the other side. It has a black handle made from chemically treated animal bone. Big Tiny has used it many times for various things. Sometimes for things like this. Sometimes not. It’s his favorite knife.
He puts the knife to her throat as he whirls her around, his front pressed against her back now, so she can feel his excitement. The smell from her hair mixed with her spicy-smelling perfume makes him want her right here. He wants to take her on the floor. Right here.
She whispers, “Don’t hurt me.”
Her voice sounds so distant to
him. So tiny and afraid. He can feel the skin on her neck—clammy with sweat. Her fear feeds his energy. She is better for him than he thought. He considers raping her right here, on the living room floor.
But he must remain in control.
He told Isabella he will remain in control.
He has promised her that.
He will not break his promise to her. Because no one does. And lives.
He hears words in his own head, but they seem to be coming from somewhere else. Someplace far away. It has happened to him before. He hears the voices at times like this. Times when he was alone in foster care—in dark, damp, empty places—times when he was sure that he would never feel love again. That is when the voices would come and speak to him. They would tell him what to do and how to survive. The voices had always cared for him when no one else had. They had been his salvation. They had led him to his first kill.
Tonight, they would be there for him as he kills Anna Perez.
Not yet for the lioness.
Not yet.
Let her feel the fear a bit longer.
We like it when she feels the fear.
He tells her to walk to the bathroom. Gingerly, she moves to the bathroom, one small step at a time. His body is pressed against her, holding her tight to him as he moves with her.
He can feel her perfume mix with her sweat, smell her nervousness. It is good. It reminds him of prison. Those times when there was no choice but rape. When that was the only outlet for his pent-up energy. When the sex was dangerous and that made it even better.
The bathroom is small and lit from the streetlights outside.
As they reach the room’s threshold, she goes to wipe the sweat that is dripping down her face.
“No.” He bats her hand down with a single strike.
She turns to look at him. “I’m sorry.”
Big Tiny says nothing. The voices are talking to him, telling him what to do.
His lioness remains under his power.
She says nothing more to him.
As he backs her into the bathroom, he allows his grip on her to loosen just a little. Her lips are trembling, her skin glistening. From the look on her face, Bug Tiny can tell that there are a million thoughts going through her mind. Maybe she can escape. Maybe if she cooperates, he will let her live. Maybe she can talk sense into him. Maybe things will be different than the outcome she envisions right now.
Dying Declaration Page 4