Nature of Darkness

by Robert W. Stephens

  McMahon and Porter pulled into two spaces at the rear of the lot and climbed out.

  “Ever been to a place like this, Carly?”

  “No, but I assume you have.”

  “When I was too young and too dumb to know any better,” McMahon said.

  “Security camera,” Porter said, and she pointed to a camera above the front door.

  “I saw it. Maybe we’ll catch a break.”

  They entered the club and were greeted with the ear-splitting blare of rock music. They walked up to a hostess who seemed preoccupied with finding something stored behind her hostess stand. She must have seen them out of the corner of her eye, though, for she immediately demanded they pay the cover charge. McMahon and Porter had their badges out by the time she looked up.

  “We’d like to speak with the manager,” McMahon said.

  “He’s in the office. Just walk past the bar and it’s the door in the left back corner,” the hostess said.

  “Thank you,” McMahon said.

  He and Porter turned the corner after the hostess stand and entered the main room of the club.

  “She didn’t even blink when she saw the badges,” Porter said.

  “I guarantee you law enforcement is here at least once a week.”

  McMahon scanned the room. There were two dancers, one near each end of the runway. Customers sat beside the stage and against the walls several feet away. McMahon also saw a few video cameras placed in the ceiling.

  They reached the end of the room and found the back office. McMahon knocked on the door and heard a dismissive, “I’m busy,” from a man inside.

  McMahon pushed the door open anyway.

  The portly manager with thinning hair was about to protest, but then he got a better look at McMahon and Porter’s wardrobe and correctly guessed they weren’t his usual customers.

  “My name’s Agent Porter. This is Agent McMahon,” she said, and she flashed him her badge. “Are you the manager?”

  “What did one of my girls do now?” he asked.

  “We’d like to talk to you about Lily King,” McMahon said.

  “I fired her last night when she didn’t show for work.”

  “Can we get your name for our records, sir?” Porter asked.

  “Greg Bruce,” he said, and he watched as Porter wrote his name down in her notebook.

  “Were you here two nights ago when Lily worked?” McMahon asked.

  “I’m here every night. I own the place.”

  “Lily left that night with a man in a dark hooded sweatshirt. We’d like to see the security video for that night,” McMahon said.

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “I can get one, but do you really want to put an FBI agent through the additional work? We just want to see the video and ask you a few questions about Lily.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was killed,” McMahon said, and he studied Greg Bruce as the manager decided whether or not to cooperate with them.

  “Do you remember the man in the hooded sweatshirt?” McMahon continued, not content on waiting for him to make up his mind.

  “Not much. It always makes me a little nervous when I can’t see their faces, though,” Bruce said.

  “Do you remember anything specific about him?” Porter asked.

  “No, he looked like any other guy who comes in here.”

  “Can you describe him?” McMahon asked.

  “White guy, average looking.”

  “Average looking? Nothing beyond that?” Porter asked.

  “Like I said, he looked like everybody else who comes in here, except maybe you two.”

  “Okay, can we have a look at that security video now?” McMahon asked.

  The manager shrugged his shoulders.

  “Sure. Do you know what time?”

  “Peggy Boyle said Lily left around two, so some time just before that,” Porter suggested.

  Greg Bruce wheeled his chair to a table on the other side of the office. There was a large flat screen monitor in the center with a laptop off to the side. The monitor’s display showed six camera viewpoints – one for the exterior camera above the front door, one interior camera showing the lobby entrance and hostess stand, two monitors showing the bar, and the final two cameras offering opposite views of the entire club, including the dancers’ stage.

  Greg Bruce typed on the laptop and a second later the images blinked. The timestamp changed to 1:45 AM from two nights prior.

  McMahon and Porter leaned closer to the monitor. The club was full. Porter spotted the hooded man first.

  “There,” she said, and she pointed to one of the lower monitor images that showed a wide shot of the club.

  The hooded man was seated in a chair that was pressed against the wall opposite the bar.

  “Halfway between the two wide cameras and away from the bar,” Porter continued.

  “In other words, the best place to sit if you don’t want a security camera to get a good look at you,” McMahon said.

  He turned to Greg Bruce.

  “Is that the guy?” McMahon asked.

  Greg Bruce looked at the monitor for a few seconds.

  “I think so. But by that time of night, I’d probably had a few by then, if you know what I mean,” he said, and he chuckled at his own joke.

  The manager’s fuzzy memory didn’t matter, though, for a minute later McMahon saw Lily King approach the hooded man. He watched the video as Lily whispered into the man’s ear. The hooded man then reached into his front pocket and removed cash. Lily placed her right black boot on the empty chair beside the man and he shoved the cash into the top of the boot. She then proceeded to perform a lap dance for him.

  At the conclusion of the dance, Lily sat on the man’s lap. She whispered in his ear again. Then she called over one of the cocktail waitresses. McMahon watched as Lily said something to her and the waitress walked off. She returned a few minutes later with two mixed drinks. The hooded man handed her cash and the waitress left again.

  “He’s paying with cash,” Porter said.

  “So we couldn’t trace it,” McMahon said.

  He watched as Lily stood and the hooded man placed more cash in her boot. She danced for him a second time. That dance ended and then Lily sat back on the man’s lap. She whispered something again. The man paused a moment and then nodded. They both stood and walked into another room, one that wasn’t shown on the security monitor.

  “Where are they going?” Porter asked.

  “The private dance room,” Bruce said.

  “Let me guess, no cameras,” McMahon said.

  “It wouldn’t be very private if there were cameras watching you, now would it?” Bruce asked.

  “Are most of the deals made back there?” McMahon asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bruce said.

  McMahon knew Greg Bruce was lying, but he didn’t press the point.

  “Is there someone who works that room and keeps the guys from getting out of control?” McMahon asked.

  “Jay was working that night.”

  “Is he here now?” McMahon asked.

  “Not yet. He’s not due for another hour.”

  McMahon nodded. He turned back to the monitor.

  “Fast-forward it until they come out,” he said.

  The manager advanced the video until he saw Lily and the hooded man appear on the main cameras again. The hooded man sat in the same seat, while Lily walked to a back room beside the manager’s office.

  “What is that room?” Porter asked.

  “The dancers’ dressing room.”

  Porter turned to McMahon.

  “I guess they cut their deal.”

  McMahon didn’t reply. He checked the display again. It was a few minutes after two in the morning when Lily emerged from the dressing room carrying a large bag. She’d changed out of her dancer’s attire, which had consisted of little more than a red string bikini and knee-high boots, and
was now wearing tight jeans, high-heeled shoes, and a white t-shirt with a black jacket over it.

  McMahon watched as Lily walked back to the hooded man. She said something to him, and he stood. They both walked toward the front door.

  “He’s keeping his head down the entire time,” Porter said.

  They saw Lily and the hooded man disappear from the main room cameras. The two were then picked up by the interior door camera. They exited the club and then the exterior camera caught their movements.

  “We didn’t get his face, not once,” Porter continued.

  “It’s not over yet, Agent,” McMahon said.

  The exterior video showed the two people walk to a beige sedan in the back of the lot. They climbed into the car and then drove off.

  “Back it up a few seconds,” McMahon said.

  Greg Bruce rewound the footage.

  “Stop there and freeze it,” McMahon said.

  The footage stopped as the rear of the car was facing the front-door camera. Porter leaned closer to the monitor.

  “The lighting is bad. I can’t make out the license plate. I can’t even make out the model of the car,” she said.

  “Yes, but we know what his car looks like. With any luck, we can pick him up on a nearby stoplight camera,” McMahon said.

  Porter turned to Greg Bruce.

  “Can you slide over, Mr. Bruce?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  Porter didn’t offer an explanation. She reached into her coat pocket and removed a thumb drive. She leaned toward the laptop, effectively nudging the manager out of the way. She plugged the drive into the computer and started to copy the appropriate video files to the drive. The manager looked like he was going to protest, but then he caught McMahon’s eyes.

  “We appreciate your cooperation. It would have been unfortunate to have had to come back here with more agents,” McMahon said.

  “Hey, no problem.”

  McMahon reached into his pocket and removed a business card.

  “Please have Jay call me when he gets in. I’m assuming he didn’t see the guy’s face either, but I still want to talk to him.”

  The manager took the card and dismissively tossed it onto the table by the laptop.

  Porter finished copying the video files and pulled out the drive.

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Bruce,” she said.

  “Anything for the FBI,” he said, and there was no hiding the sarcasm in his voice.

  McMahon and Porter didn’t respond. They simply turned and walked for the door.

  McMahon climbed into his SUV. He waited for Porter to get into her car and drive away. Then he pulled out his phone and logged into his government email account. He found the message from Agent Santos, along with the attached video file of Penfield’s meeting with Marcus Carter. He cued the video up to the point Santos said Marcus started talking and watched the exchange between Penfield and Marcus. It was as disturbing as Santos had indicated.

  He took a deep breath and then dialed Penfield.

  “He knows, Doug. He knows everything,” Penfield said, getting right to the point. “He told me there were seven killings so far. When we first spoke, you said there were five women missing, plus the one victim found in the woods. This morning’s victim at the winery makes seven. How did Marcus know?”

  McMahon didn’t respond.

  “Is the number of missing women common knowledge? Was that reported in the media?” Penfield asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you tell that number to Dr. Mata? Did you mention anything to Marcus in your two prior meetings?”

  “Come on, Alex. Do you really think I would be that careless?”

  “Then how did he know?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine at this point.”

  “Have you seen the video yet? I’m sure your agent sent it to you.”

  “I just watched it.”

  “Then you know he didn’t start talking until I brought up Angela’s death. That’s when he smiled.”

  “And he expects you to somehow bring him a dead person?”

  “The man’s mad. There’s no other explanation. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know who’s behind these new murders. If you want to get this killer, then you better find a way to break Marcus Carter.”

  10

  I Knew Him

  Renee Rankin got up early and took a taxi from her hotel in Trastevere to Roma Termini on the other side of the city. She found Father Greco waiting for her outside the train station. He greeted her with a half-smile and led her into the building where they walked to the ticket kiosks. They bought two seats on the next fast train to Florence.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Father Greco asked. “We have another thirty minutes or so before the train arrives.”

  “A coffee would be nice.”

  “Yes, I could use one too. I’m a bit tired this morning.”

  They found a small coffee shop in the main waiting area of the train station. The line was out the door, and Renee was tempted to tell Father Greco she didn’t need the coffee that much. Nevertheless, she had to pass the time somewhere. It may as well be standing in line.

  She kept expecting Father Greco to tell her more about their upcoming journey. He didn’t. He’d phoned her the evening before and informed her that he’d located a potential source who might be able to give them some information on the mysterious Father David Lombardi, if the man even existed at all.

  All Father Greco had been willing to tell her was that this source had once taught at the Pontifical North American College. Father Greco’s tone had been reserved during the call, as it had been at their last face-to-face meeting. It wasn’t hard to understand his emotions.

  Renee knew he didn’t completely trust her, not that he should. They barely knew each other, and she hadn’t been completely honest with the priest regarding her reasons for wanting to learn more about the journal and its author. But the reality of the situation was that Renee didn’t know what the truth was anymore. She’d been surrounded by lies for as long as she could remember and the truth seemed like a distant memory, completely out of reach.

  They finally got to the front of the line. Renee ordered a coffee while Father Greco asked for a cappuccino. Renee paid for both drinks, as she’d paid for the two train tickets. They took their drinks and walked back into the lobby. They were lucky to find two empty seats near the large electronic display that announced the departure and arrival times of the various trains.

  Father Greco sipped his cappuccino. He seemed lost in thought again.

  “This person we’re going to see, is there anything you can tell me about him now?” Renee asked, finally breaking the silence between them.

  “He was an instructor of mine, a long time ago.”

  “What did he teach?”

  “He was an ancient languages scholar like I am. I’m sure he’s why I fell in love with the subject. He made it come alive. I followed the same path he’d followed. I graduated from the college, only to return a few decades later as an instructor.”

  “He was a student there as well as being a professor?” Renee asked.

  Father Greco nodded.

  “He was a student there about the time the journal was supposedly written, if my math is correct. If Father David Lombardi existed, and if he was associated with the college as he must have been, then Father De Luca may remember him. His mind is not what it once was, though. I’m afraid this trip may be a waste of time.”

  Father Greco stared into the distance again. Then he turned back to Renee.

  “I did more research since we last saw each other,” he continued.

  “What did you find?”

  “It’s more what I didn’t find. Forgive me for being so forward, but I searched for you online. I found no references to a journalist named Renee Rankin.”

  Father Greco didn’t break eye contact with her, and Renee knew he was looking for evidence of a lie.

  “I’l
l admit that I shouldn’t have introduced myself as a journalist, but I am a writer.”

  “I would have found that online. There are no books I could find under your name, unless you use a pen name.”

  “This is my first book. I wasn’t sure you’d agree to see me if you thought I was an amateur,” Renee said.

  “There are many secrets I keep for others, Ms. Rankin. I won’t betray your trust. If there’s something you need to tell me, you can be assured it will go no further.”

  “I appreciate your offer, Father, but I don’t need to make a confession. I did tell you that I have a personal connection to these crimes. I lost a dear friend. This trip has as much to do with that as it does the book, probably even more so.”

  Father Greco nodded, but Renee sensed that he knew she was holding things back.

  They finished their drinks and headed toward the platform when the information board announced the arrival of their train. They had a window and an aisle seat in the crowded third train car. Father Greco leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Renee took that as a sign he didn’t want to talk anymore until they arrived at their destination in Florence.

  The journey to the famed Renaissance city, the home of the notorious Medici family, was uneventful. They arrived on time and then caught a taxi into the Tuscan countryside. Father Greco’s mentor lived in a small house that overlooked a beautiful vineyard. The house was painted white and it had a red-tiled roof.

  They’d barely made it out of the taxi when the door to the house opened. A short woman who looked to be Father Greco’s age exited. She wore a cream-colored dress and she had her long black hair pulled back in a twist.

  “Buongiorno, Arianna,” Father Greco said, and they proceeded to converse in animated Italian.

  “Buongiorno, Renee. Benvenuto a case nostra,” the woman said.

  Father Greco turned to Renee.

  “This is my friend Arianna. She says good morning and welcome to her home.”

  “Buongiorno,” Renee said.

  “Arianna’s family has owned this vineyard and this land for decades. They were kind enough to invite Father De Luca to stay in this house once he retired. Arianna comes by a few times each day to check on him,” Father Greco said, and he turned back to Arianna.