The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2

by Maegan Beaumont

  Down the hall, he heard the elevator let out a discreet chime, followed almost immediately by the loud bang of the stairwell door being thrown open. Within seconds his father’s office was flooded with Pips, guns drawn and pointed straight at him.

  Showtime.

  “Mornin’ fellas,” he said, cigar still clamped between his teeth, turning slightly to cast a dismissive glance at them over his shoulder. There were nearly twice as many as the eight Lark had counted. He lifted the stopper from the mouth of a cut crystal decanter before bringing it to his nose. Scotch. He hated scotch. He poured himself a couple of fingers anyway and turned to face them. He scissored the Opus between his fingers to pull it out of his mouth. “Something wrong?”

  Guns were immediately dropped but they weren’t re-holstered. A few of them had been there the day his father had ordered his head of security to put a bullet through his hand to stop him from saving his brother. Most had heard the story about what he’d done to the man afterward. All of them knew what he was capable of.

  Which meant none of them wanted to be the first one to approach him.

  He sipped his scotch and watched them. Fifteen of them now, all displaying varying degrees of apprehension. Waiting for him to make a move. Finally one of them found his balls and spoke up.

  “What are you doing in here, sir?” Mr. Ballsy said, The FSS-issued Kimber twitching in his hand as his flat brown eyes slid across the room, over the surface of the desk before landing on the pilfered drawer. “Mr. Shaw left for London an hour ago.”

  “I wanted a cigar.” He moved to the front of the desk, still grinning. “You guys want one,” he said, spinning the humidor around to face them. A few of them flinched like he’d just pulled the pin out on a grenade.

  “No, sir,” Mr. Ballsy said, shaking his head, trying like hell to put some bass in his tone. “You really shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Yeah, well...” He slammed the rest of his drink before gently setting the glass on the edge of the desk with a pronounced click. “What are you prepared to do about it?”

  “I, uh... I...” Mr. Ballsy looked around, hoping to find someone to back his play. Unfortunately for him, players were in short supply. “I’m gonna have to ask you to come with me, sir,” he finally managed, his eyes widening just a touch, like even he couldn’t believe what he was saying.

  “I’ll leave when I’m ready.” Leaning across the desk he reached into the drawer, Ben fished around while all fifteen of them tensed up, hands flexing around the grips of their guns. He pulled out the large desktop tighter his father kept there. “And I can guaran-fuckin’-tee that when I do leave, it won’t be with you, sweet-cheeks,” he said before sticking the cigar back into his mouth. Lifting the lighter, he clicked it, turning his head to the side so he could catch the short burst of flame, puffing on it until the blunt end of it glowed red.

  He stood there for a moment, puffing on a two hundred dollar cigar he didn’t want, letting the room fill with smoke, making sure every single one of them knew he was here and there wasn’t a fucking thing anyone of them could do about it. The file he’d taken pressed against his ribs. The key weighed heavy in his pocket. The fact that he took them wouldn’t stay hidden for long. As soon as he left, this chump would call his father and fill him in on his latest episode. Hopefully the show he was putting on would buy him a few hours—just another one of Ben’s tantrums—before his father realized what he’d really been up to.

  He pulled the Opus from between his teeth, flicking a considerable amount of ash onto his father’s desk blotter, the movement of it putting the mass of gnarled scar tissue in the center of his palm on display. He smiled, reaching into the humidor to scoop up a few thousand dollars worth of cigars. “Now,” he said. “I’m ready to leave.”

  He strolled across the room, Pips parting like the Red Sea. As he passed, he tucked a cigar into each of their breast pockets, smiling. Not one of them was willing to make eye contact with him, much less actually try and detain him. Stopping in front of Mr. Ballsy, he slipped a cigar into the guy’s pocket, before pressing his fingertips against his chest. His heart hammered wildly beneath the pressure of his hand. Ben’s smile widened. “Don’t worry,” he said in mock whisper, the thick, cloying smoke of the Opus X in his hand curled around his nose. “When my father and I have a conversation about this, I’m make sure to tell him how forceful you were.” He winked before fitting the cigar between his teeth and walking out the door.

  In the outer office, he passed by Celine’s empty desk and felt a twinge, remembering what Gloria had said him earlier about her. About how his father would kill her if he found out they were sleeping together. Once his father figured out what he’d really been up to and how he gained access to his office, death would be a welcome alternative to what he’d do to her.

  “Sorry, sweetheart, my boat is full,” he muttered under his breath, swiping the key card through the reader for his father’s private elevator. He waited less than a half a second before its door slid open.

  Stepping inside, he turned to find them all where he’d left them, standing there, clustered in the doorway of his father’s office, cigars sticking out of their pockets like party favors, staring at him like he was some sort of rabid dog who’d slipped its chain. Like he was unpredictable. Indiscriminately dangerous. Someone you didn’t want in your blind spot. Not ever.

  They had no idea.

  As the elevator door slipped closed, Ben gave them one last grin. Lifting his scarred hand, he waved them goodbye.

  45

  Sabrina turned the key in the ignition, switching the car off but she didn’t get out. Not yet. A few yards away, she watched Ellie climb out of her late-model compact while Alvarez and Santos slammed the door closed on their unmarked. None of them looked in her direction but she knew they were all waiting for her, the FBI agent, to get out and take charge of the situation. She yanked on the door handle, throwing it open before stepping her foot onto the rain-softened ground so she could stand.

  She could see bright yellow tape fluttering in the breeze, wound around bushes and sharp outcroppings of rocks—but that’s all she could see. At first glance, the crime scene looked deserted.

  “Where’s your partner?” Santos said, meeting her at the hood of her car while Alvarez and Ellie walked ahead, heads bent while they talked quietly, shoulder to shoulder.

  “She pulled the short straw—8 AM debrief with our S.O.,” she said, the lie delivered so smoothly that for a moment, even she believed it. “She’s going to meet me at the station later.”

  Sabrina thought about where Church really was. Running down the legal name attached to the P.O. Box used to exchange letters with Wade. There was a definite link between what happened to her nearly twenty years ago and what was happening now. She didn’t want to say anything until she’d untangled the truth.

  You sure you’re ready for the truth, darlin? You sure you even know what it looks like anymore?

  “You ready for this?” he said as they started walking toward the crime scene, hands dug into his pockets like they were out for an evening stroll.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” The question echoed Wade’s. Hearing it spoke out loud sharpened her tone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Santos pulled his hands from his pockets and held them up in surrender. “I just meant that chasing after these serial killer freaks probably gets old after a while is all?”

  “You could say that.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile “Sorry—I’m running on two cups of coffee and about three hours sleep.” She’d been up well into the small hours of the morning, reading Wade’s journals and the letters he’d collected from Nulo during their correspondence. Croft had been right—the two of them had been partners in at least three kills, possibly more.

  There’s more. There’s always more, Darlin’—how’s that for truth?

  Santos nodded. “No worries,” he said as he started to walk in the direction Alvarez and Ellie had tak
en. “Body was found in a ravine by a couple of border militiamen this morning. Crime scene is a mess. Assholes damn near ran her over before they realized what she was. They figured it for a smuggling operations gone wrong and called border patrol. BP called us.”

  “In a ravine?” she said while she walked, keeping pace beside him. “That is different. You sure it’s our guy?”

  Santos jammed his hands into his pockets. “That’s not the half of it and yeah—” he said, lifting the tape for her to step under. “I’m sure.”

  About five yards from the tape was a steeply sloped drop-off, shrubs desperately clinging to its face, a path trampled through the middle of them, like someone had slipped and slid their way down the side of it. “We think she came in here,” Santos said, confirming what she’d been thinking, pointing to a place where the mud and rock had crumbled away from the ledge a few feet away. “No tire tracks, aside from those militia fucks, so we’re thinking she came on foot.”

  “On foot?” Sabrina turned, surveying the vast stretch of desert behind her. It was flat and brown, splashed liberally with varying shades of green. “From where?” she said, her skeptical gaze finally landing on his face. “There’s nothing out here.”

  Santos gave her a grim nod. “Yeah—but unless she was dropped from the sky, there’s no other explanation for how she got out here. I’ve got uniforms walking the desert, trying to pick up her trail but I’m not holding my breath.”

  Neither was she. It’d rained again, the second wave of monsoon moving through at about four AM. It’d come down pretty hard. Any foot trail their victim might have left had more than likely washed away. But if their victim came in on foot, she couldn’t have come more than a few miles.

  That meant that wherever she’d come from had to be close by.

  About twenty yards away, a couple of men in ball caps and long-sleeves despite the warm weather stood next to a pair of all-terrain vehicles with rifles slung over their shoulders, too busy answering questions from a pair of Yuma county deputies to pay her much attention. They must’ve been the militiamen Santos had referred to earlier.

  “We’re about a mile from the city limits so, Yuma PD is outside its jurisdiction here,” Santos told her while they picked their way down the slope. “YCSO called us in anyway.”

  It made sense since Yuma PD caught the initial case. They landed on the bottom of the ravine, a few feet from where Alvarez and Ellie stood, faces aimed at the form stretched out on the ground, face down. It had been burned beyond recognition, hair and skin seared away, leaving nothing but charred bone covered by patches of scorched muscle.

  Sabrina moved closer to the body, hunkering down beside it so she could get a better look. As soon as she did, she understood Santo’s certainty that despite the difference in MO and signature, that they were dealing with the same killer. At the base of the victim’s skull was a quarter-sized hole. “She?” Sabrina said, looking for something that would identify the victim as a human, let alone a woman. “You’ve identified the victim as female?”

  Instead of answering her, Alvarez sank down across from her and reached over, placing a gloved hand on the charred shoulder of the body between them. Gently rolling her, he exposed the face. It was intact. Completely preserved from the damage done by the fire that had consumed the rest of the victim. She looked up at Ellie, trying to catch a glimpse of recognition like she had with Rachel Meeks but there wasn’t one.

  “You have any missing persons that fit her description?” she said, noting there wasn’t any clothing debris mixed in or melted to the victim. Whoever she was, she’d been out here naked, which lent to Santo’s working theory of her being on foot. It also told her that the escape attempt had been an impulse born of opportunity and panic. If she was running for her life, she wouldn’t have stopped to put on clothes.

  “We’re a border town, Agent Vance. Plenty of missing persons—unfortunately, more than a few of them young females,” Santos said, rubbing a gloved hand along his jaw. “Maybe the Bureau can run facial recognition. See if we can get a match.”

  Sabrina nodded. “I’ll have Aimes do it as soon as we get back to the office.”

  “What I don’t get is why the deviation?” Santos said, crouching down next to the burned, human-shaped ruins. “Four victims left exactly the same way and then this? I don’t get it.”

  Whoever she was, she’d been left face down in the mud killed and then cast aside like a broken toy. No theatrics. No feigned remorse. This is what their killer really thought of the people he killed.

  Our boy got some anger issues he’s workin’ on Darlin’. Running from someone who’s got ‘em ain’t such a good idea... but you already, know that don’t you?

  “She ran,” Sabrina heard herself say without bothering to raise her head. “Ruined his fun and that made him very angry.”

  “His fun?”

  It’d been Alvarez who’d said it. When she looked up, she found him standing where she’d left him. He was watching her, his expression decidedly hostile.

  “Yeah, his fun.” She stood up, the movement bringing them nearly nose to nose. “The posing, the praying, the shrines—it’s all a game to him. None of it is means anything.”

  That’s where you’re wrong, Darlin’. Our Nulo is a complicated guy. It means something, you just gotta figure out what.

  “What makes you say that?” Alvarez scoffed at her. “You FBI-issued Magic 8-ball?”

  She smirked at him. “I let that at home—thought I’d rely on my training and experience for a change.”

  Alvarez opened his mouth the fire off a comeback but Santos rose from his crouch to drill a finger into his partner’s chest. “You need to—”

  “Uhhh, guys?”

  She looked over at Ellie and found herself gazing at the top of her dark head. Instead of watching her and Alvarez go toe-to-toe, she was looked down at the body they were all standing around. “You find something, Ellie?”

  “Yeah...” Ellie looked up, a deep frown creased into her brow. “This isn’t the crime scene. Wherever this woman was killed—it wasn’t here.”

  46

  They all stared at Ellie for a moment, letting it sink it. When it finally did, Sabrina felt the hope she’d been harboring slip loose, cut free by the certainty in Ellie’s tone. The same tone she’d used earlier when she’d told her she was certain that the blood evidence found under Stephanie Adam’s fingernails hadn’t been a mistake.

  Santos didn’t give up so easily. “Sure it is,” he said, pointing at the obvious trail that tumbled down the face of the ravine. “She came in here—”

  “Probably a mule deer or cattle coming down for a drink of runoff left in the ravine.” Ellie shook her head firmly. “Whatever it was—it wasn’t the victim.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Santos said, stubbornly holding on to the illusion that they’d finally caught a break.

  “The sky opened up at about 4 AM and it poured buckets out here for a good forty-five minutes.” Now it was Ellie’s turn to crouch down, angling her gaze upward so she could see them standing over her. “This ravine would have been full of fast moving water—I’d guess four to five feet deep. Water that deep and fast would’ve carried her down river, no problem.”

  “Maybe he weighed her down?” Alvarez said, shooting his partner a nervous glance. “Or maybe she—”

  “Why would he do that? He’d want her carried away from the crime scene.” Ellie shook her head impatiently. “And he got what he wanted. This isn’t where she was killed. This is where the current left her.”

  “You’ve made mistakes before,” Santos said, ignoring his partner in favor of leveling a caustic glare in Ellie’s direction. “Been dead wrong before too.” Sabrina was suddenly sure that Santos didn’t share his partner’s protective instinct when it came to the crime tech.

  “I wasn’t wrong then,” Ellie said, aiming a pleading look at her before continuing. “And I’m not wrong now.” Doing as Alvarez had done earlier, sh
e wrapped a careful hand around the victim’s shoulder and rolled her, exposing her face and torso again. It was littered with debris. Leaves and a few pieces of trash that’d been left in the desert and swept into the ravine by the torrent of rain speckled her blackened belly. None of them were burnt but Sabrina had a feeling that wasn’t what she was showing them. “Her face is completely preserved—my guess, he was chasing her and managed to incapacitate her somehow and she fell face down in the mud,” she said, pointing to the hole that’d been punched into the victim’s skull. “That’s when he did this. Instead of taking her back to wherever he chased her from and risk getting caught, he set her on fire and let Mother Nature handle the rest.”

  Sabrina looked at the ground. It was stony, covered in rock washed there by the flood, stuck to the floor of the ravine with the thick, clay-like mud that it was carved from, creating a surface nearly as smooth as a mortared walkway.

  “Goddamnit,” Santos bellowed, snapping his gloves off with a frustrated yank that ripped the latex, causing uniforms and crime techs to cast wary glances in their direction. Seemingly oblivious to the concern his outburst caused, he turned away from all of them, walking further into the ravine.

  Sabrina followed him. Removing her own gloves slowly before tucking them into the pocket of her slacks. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Santos, she aimed her gaze in the same direction as his, up the wide swath of the ravine, in the same direction the body would have traveled. “We need to talk,” she said, her tone low and even. From the corner of her eye, she could see Santos nod.

  “I was wondering when we’d get around to it,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sardonic half-smile. “To be honest, I’m surprised my CO hasn’t called us in for a sit-down to discuss my limitations yet.”