Isabella looks at Big Tiny. “Big Tiny, throw her on the mattress and tie her hands to this two-by-four behind her back.”
Big Tiny does as he is told.
He knows better than to ever disobey Isabella.
The only time Big Tiny ever touches “the merchandise” is when he is told to by Isabella. Otherwise, he knows it is hands-off.
The girl’s eyes dart around, trying to comprehend what is happening to her.
But for the girl’s coughing, there is silence. One driver tries to look away but thinks better of it. The men all know what is coming.
Isabella’s brutality is legend back in her home country.
It has become legend here too. Her men know what she will do to them if they betray her. They know what she commands of them—nothing less than perfection.
“Now do what you must.”
The girl screams but Big Tiny is already on her, at her clothes, as he backhands her across the face. The two-by-four serves to elevate the girl’s pelvis so Big Tiny really enjoys what he is doing. She screams, cries and tries to bite him but no one cares. Blood rolls from her nose, lips and one ear. No one cares.
Big Tiny is tearing up her insides, but he does not care.
He rapes the girl until she is nearly unconscious, blood now pooling on the mattress below her broken body.
Big Tiny stands up, pulls up his pants and does up his fly.
Isabella confiscates each of the girls’ passports and identification papers from her men. She tells the girls, some of them crying now, “You won’t need these anymore.” Some of the girls nod. Some do nothing but stand there. Some are frozen in fear. Some seem not to register what they have just seen.
None of these girls will run to the police or the authorities.
None of them will go to an embassy to ask for help.
Isabella is the ultimate controller and manipulator.
Isabella orders Big Tiny to bind and gag the girl. Now in a state of semi-consciousness, she barely acknowledges the big hands moving over her face and the electrical tape around her wrists and ankles.
Isabella will move her to a safe house where she will remain and heal.
Isabella knows that she has made her point.
Big Tiny turns and leaves, bowing slightly to Isabella in a sign of respect.
All is good in the world.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.
—Bible, Job 5:7
Nate hands Cat the background report on Thomas Pierce. “Everything about the guy checks out. He’s from a wealthy East Coast family. Not blue blood but close. His father was a diplomat with the American embassy in Russia before he retired. Pierce went to all the best schools. Harvard undergrad. Duke for law school. The guy wasn’t the valedictorian, but he graduated almost top of his class. His father had contacts at Black and Knight, got Thomas a summer internship. So did his uncle being a partner at the firm. Apparently, they liked what they saw and hired the kid right out of law school.”
Cat wonders if Daddy pulled some strings at the law firm to help his kid get hired, even if he was bright. Thomas Pierce surely did not seem that brilliant when she met him. She also wonders if he engaged in puffing, like so many people did when writing a résumé.
Simply put, the book that was Thomas Pierce did not match its cover, in Cat’s estimation.
“Any criminal history?” Cat asks.
Nate says, “That’s what’s weird—the guy has nothing on his record. Not even a parking ticket. And he has lived in the Miami/Fort Lauderdale area since he graduated law school, full-time, well over twenty-five years.”
“What? You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. You would think he would at least have a traffic ticket, something.”
“I know, it is as if his record has been wiped clean,” Nate comments.
“Maybe it has,” Cat agrees. “Maybe Daddy pulled some strings down at city hall.”
“Maybe there is something in Pierce’s background that is too dangerous for anyone to know.”
Cat glances through the report again. It truly is spotless. It is as if Thomas Pierce has lived his adult life in a cave, having never seen the light of day. Cat knows that on the mean streets of South Florida, there should at least be a parking ticket or two, a car accident, a fender bender, an expired vehicle registration, a DUI—something. “And think about it: Daddy, being a diplomat, might have the wherewithal to pull those kinds of strings. To wipe the slate clean so his son could pursue his legal career without stain and the family could live up to its blue-blood roots without shame.”
Nate nods.
“No one lives in this area for twenty-five years and is this clean. I am going to go and see him again and see if I can find out more about him and his firm. There has got to be something there. I can feel it.”
Cat’s curiosity continues. “What about Clayton? Did you look into him?”
“Yes.”
“And…”
“He’s a bit of an enigma. Married and divorced three times—always married to much younger women. Made a shit load of money when Silicon Valley was on fire through “investments.” The man has houses all over the world. Real estate investing is his thing now. I wouldn’t call him a slum lord, but he is pretty close. He researches college expansions, goes into those towns prior to the expansions and buys up as much land and houses as he can. Then, he builds apartment complexes. Cheap buildings at high-priced rents. Made to look pretty on the outside, you know what I mean. Appeal to students and their parents, not so well built on the inside.”
Cat nods.
“He makes minimal repairs or simply doesn’t repair things if they break. Keeps his overhead low and his profits high. And if things get bad for him down at city hall, he simply lines the pockets of the local politicians with money. Not exactly illegal, but should be.”
“So one is squeaky clean and one is dirty”
“You have a way with words, Cat.”
“Thanks, I think.”
* * *
“Ms.—oh, I mean Dr. Powers.” Thomas Pierce blushes just slightly. “It is lovely to see you again.” He says the word “lovely” in such a way that Cat knows there is nothing lovely about their meeting today. Thomas Pierce ushers her at once into his almost all-white office.
Once again, there is not a shred of paper on the man’s desk. This time, a small silver Dell laptop computer sits on the glass desktop, open, the screen facing Pierce’s chair. He lifts it and puts it to the side and closes the screen. He clasps his hands in front of him, bringing his two forefingers under his chin, elbows on the desk. He leans into Cat, trying to look interested in what she has to say.
“What can I do for you today?” comes out of his mouth, as he performs a fake smile for Cat. She is familiar with BS. She can smell it in this guy’s demeanor a mile away.
“Well, you said to see you if I had further questions related to Ms. Perez.” Cat sits straight in the same chair she sat in before, since she knows her height pisses off Pierce, even when she is seated. He shifts in his chair, straitening his spine, growing taller. He is trying to meet her gaze.
Little Napoléon Bonaparte complex.
“Yes. I’m not sure I can help you, but go ahead. What further questions do you have?” His coy smile goes away, replaced now by something less than a frown.
“What firm did she come from? May I see her employment file? There might be something there that could help us determine who killed and dumped her body. People she associated with before she came here.”
“Of course. I have your card. I can have copies made and sent to you.”
“I would like to see the actual file now, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to see copies and I don’t want to wait.”
“Well, we do have privacy concerns and there is HIPAA related to any of her confidential medical information that might be in the file. Sometimes, we get doctors’ notes and the like from employees that go into the file.”
“Mr. Pierce, may I call you Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a medical doctor very familiar with HIPAA and confidentiality concerns. But if I may make an observation, I don’t think Ms. Perez will be asserting any of those concerns because, the last time I checked, she is very dead.”
Pierce nods. His face grows sullen and his eyes dark. His demeanor suddenly appears defeated. He leans back in his chair, apparently less interested in what she is saying now that he has lost control of the game he was playing.
“And according to what you told me at our last meeting, there is no one who really cared about her. No family.”
Cat has him by the balls and she is enjoying it.
“But this firm has privacy concerns . . .”
“I don’t give a crap about the firm’s privacy concerns.”
Pierce’s face grows more concerned. His brow furrows. He slams his big fist on his glass-top desk. “I will not be spoken to like this.”
“I don’t give a crap about how you think you should be spoken to. I’m not one of your underlings or your associates.” Cat stands up so she is looking down at him. She knows this will piss him off even more. “So, look, asshole, unless you think one of her associate-level boyfriends that she used to run with is going to barge in here and object to me seeing her records, let me see the actual employment file now or I’ll have it subpoenaed up your ass and have you pulled in on an arrest warrant for obstruction of justice.” Cat tries to control her temper. “And I can get both the subpoena and an arrest warrant for you as quickly as you can say ‘billable hour.’”
Pierce considers the fact that he has just been checkmated. “You are correct.” Sweat is appearing again on Pierce’s forehead. He takes out his white cotton handkerchief and tries to dab it away.
Cat controls herself and sits down.
“And you yourself told me that there is no husband or steady boyfriend or children in the picture that you know of who would create a problem with me looking at her original employment file. Would it also contain her personnel information?”
“Yes, as far as I am aware.”
“So, you will let me see it?”
His frown deepens.
Checkmate.
He takes a quick breath and says, “Yes, that is fine. If I can have you wait in one of our small conference rooms on the forty-second floor, I will have Miss Jennings, my secretary, bring her employment file to you.” Pierce picks up the phone and buzzes Miss Jennings and tells her to pull the file and meet Cat in the associate conference room on the forty-second floor.
Thomas Pierce rises, puts his chubby hand out for a handshake as if the meeting is over. Cat does rise but she does not shake. They are back to pleasantries, if only for a short while.
She looks beyond Pierce to the back of his desk.
“If I may, who is the quite stunning redhead in the photo behind you?”
Pierce’s chest puffs up like a peacock with its feathers out for show.
“That is my beautiful Isabella. She is the love of my life.” The way that he says the word “love,” Cat can tell that whoever Isabella is, she has Pierce totally under her spell. The guy is whipped.
Cat inquires further, “And does Isabella have a last name?”
“Yes, her last name is Sudakova. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering. She is quite impressive.”
Pierce’s face glows as he agrees, saying, “You have no idea.”
Something about the way he says it gives Cat the chills.
* * *
Anna Perez’s employment file is remarkable and unremarkable at the same time. It is remarkable because it contains no record of any problems with her prior employer, nor of her being fired by a prior employer. In fact, it says that she received glowing reviews from her prior employer, who apparently had given her a letter of recommendation to provide to future employers. The letter is referenced in an e-mail from Anna to Black and Knight prior to her being employed and in her interview notes. But the letter itself or a copy of it is missing from her file.
Missing, as well, are any apparent ties to any of the other girls who have been found dumped. From the looks of it, Ms. Perez was a single Hispanic woman just trying to make a living. From the file, she had no connection to street life or prostitution or gentlemen’s dance clubs or the like. There is nothing in Anna’s file to show why she was selected by the killer as his first victim.
Also missing from her file is any notation of Ms. Perez being a party animal. To the contrary, in the six months she was employed by Black and Knight, she was never written up once or put on any kind of probation. From the file, there is no indication that she was ever late for work as you would expect a “party girl” to be. She received a pay raise after three months of work, her boss noting her to be on time, studious and willing to work late on emergency court filings.
This was not the “party girl” Thomas Pierce mentioned.
Not even close.
In the file, a last item: Anna Perez’s smiling face in a photo taken for her identification card. A beaming, happy smile. Eyes full of promise for what the future could hold. For an instant, Cat feels guilty looking at the dead woman’s photo. She feels guilty for all the good things she has in her life that Anna Perez will never have. For her health, for Joey’s love, for her job and her career – things she is passionate about.
Cat takes photos of the file’s contents with her cell phone. She returns her cell phone to her purse. She returns the file to Miss Jennings with a polite thank-you. Miss Jennings doesn’t make eye contact as Cat gives her back the file. Instead, the woman’s face turns red, as if she is going to pass out.
“Are you all right? I’m a medical doctor.”
“Yes, it’s nothing. Some of my blood pressure pills make me like this sometimes.”
“Are you sure?”
Miss Jennings says nothing and looks away. Cat drops her a card as she goes to leave in case the woman wants to talk on safer turf. Not at work.
At least she has more information to work with. And once again, her sixth sense related to Thomas Pierce has shifted into high gear.
There is something about that man. Something he is hiding.
She just can’t put it together.
Yet.
CHAPTER NINE
Beware the fury of a patient man.
—John Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel
Big Tiny sits at the outdoor café area of El Exquisito restaurant watching people go by, inhaling the delicious smell from roasted pork with crispy crackling, white rice, black beans, yucca and fried plantains. He loves Calle Ocho in Miami’s Little Havana for its food, its energy and its colorful and vibrant people.
The girl he raped and left for dead at the warehouse aroused his senses in every sense of the word. He feels like he is on fire. He is hungry and thirsty. He wants more of everything, especially sex—this time with a clean girl, not a whore. Calle Ocho is the perfect place to watch people and to be watched. He eats without regard to table manners. There is no one with him. The Cadillac margarita he orders with an extra two shots of Patrón Silver tequila is doing its job.
He feels loose, free and happy.
Calle Ocho is his place.
This town is his town.
Miami has always been his town.
Across the street, he watches four old men engaged in a clearly serious game of dominos. It is obvious there is money on the line as the men slam down their dominos, taunting one another to do better, a look of determination on their faces.
Big Tiny listens to one of them spew a string of profanities in Spanish.
He doesn’t mind. He feels like he hasn’t felt in so long. Full of happiness.
Even passing thoughts of Isabella cannot dampen his mood.
Thoughts of the voices cannot dampen his spirit.
And the people here. He draws energy from them. He watches as Latinas walk by his table, many with long, thick dark hair—j
ust like he likes it. One girl catches his eye. He looks at her, and for a millisecond she makes eye contact with him.
In that second, he knows he must have her tonight.
He watches as her hips sway in that unique way that only Latinas can do.
Yes, she is a perfect specimen.
Her hair glistens in the sunlight like oil glowing in a lamp.
She is the object of his desire.
From the glimmer in her eye, she knows he wants her. She is a flirt. His kind of girl.
She keeps walking. Her small, tight ass moves from side to side. He can’t take his eyes off her as she starts to disappear into the crowd.
He cannot miss this opportunity. He takes another bite of food, sips the margarita, lays down two twenty-dollar bills, and is off after her. He is about twenty steps behind her on Calle Ocho, far enough back that she does not know he is there.
He watches her hair sway just above her waistline. It shines as it catches the Florida sunshine. Around him, he can hear Cubans talking at an insanely fast clip. His nostrils fill with the smell from sweetened Cuban coffee and heavily buttered Cuban bread.
He is still hungry, but it does not matter.
He has another hunger to satisfy. A need to fill.
He needs this girl—this girl who does not know he is there.
She will know soon enough.
He has been to Calle Ocho many times, enough to know the layout and where certain things are. This will help him tonight. It is always to a killer’s benefit to know the lay of the land, he thinks.
He catches up to her. Walks next to her until she stops. She has two friends with her. They are not important to him. They are nothing to him.
“Hola.” He tries to sound casual even though he knows his physicality is imposing.
She seems not to care about his size.
Her friends want to make small talk. He says nothing to them.
His laser vision is focused on her.
She says to him, “Hola, señor. Soy María. ¿Qué pasa?”
Dying Declaration Page 6