✽ ✽ ✽
At two-forty-five in the morning, Derrick poured a scotch and stood in front the living room window, staring at the rainbow of lights, reflecting and shimmering off the river. Guilt twisted through him. He’d made a vow to never harm a woman or a child. He had been forced to take care of the reporter to protect the Elara project and everyone involved. He took a gulp of his scotch and cursed to himself, angry he’d been put in the position in the first place. No one was supposed to know about the project.
He thought about his childhood and how he had always felt as if he was different. It wasn’t until he was thirteen when he realized he wasn’t like the other kids at school. His height, pale skin, and dark hair made him an easy target by a group of boys led by Jake Needham.
Every day after school, Jake and his pals would corner him on the way home, harass him, and call him names, saying things like, “If you died no one would care because you already look like you’re dead.”
Fed up with the constant bullying, Derrick had lost his temper and somehow used his mind to move a large rock, smashing Jake over the head, putting the kid in the hospital for eight weeks with a cracked skull and a severe concussion.
After the incident, Derrick was labeled the bully. A freak. He doubted any of the kids involved understood what had happened that day. At the time, he had no idea either. All he knew was he had applied all his anger and energy at the rock. And it just happened. He could still hear the gruesome hollow crack when the rock smacked the back of Jake’s skull. The following day he was expelled from school, never allowed to return.
He grew up without friends, daydreaming of one day owning his own business. Being alone never bothered him. He embraced it and never had to worry that he would hurt anyone else. But everything changed on his twenty-first birthday when his grandfather drove him to a secret location in Fort Meade, Maryland, where he was taught how to use Etheric traveling along with his gift of psychokinesis, to become the government’s newest lethal weapon. There were others recruited into the program of the years with special abilities that most people would never believe existed.
His thoughts turned to his mother. He tried to see her as often as possible. She was happy and content, married to her high-school sweetheart and living in D.C. His parents had been divorced for over thirty years. To this day, his mother refused to discuss what had happened. Derrick could only surmise the failure of their relationship was due to his father’s decision to put his country first and his family last, which the man had done most of his adult life.
He bent over the laptop keyboard and typed, “Task completed”, then ran the DoD’s encryption software. With the message encoded for his father’s eyes only, he sent the email. A minute passed. A ding. A message box filled the screen.
Contact needs to meet - 2 pm
Derrick stared at the message. From previous meetings with their contact, a helicopter had been booked at the airfield on Taylor Road. He downed the rest of his drink and set the glass on the coffee table, harder than usual, still angry about the task that had been forced upon him.
✽ ✽ ✽
After hearing the woman take her last breath, the man moved the body onto a large piece of thick plastic and rolled it up like a carpet. As he secured the plastic with duct tape, he scolded himself for the split-second flicker of guilt he felt for what he had done. The guilt passed quickly. It always did. He lifted the body and placed it in the trunk of his car. Sweat ran down the sides of his face. She was much heavier than he had anticipated. Dead weight usually was. He studied the body one last time. Chipped remnants of the hot pink nail polish left on three of her fingernails glistened neon bright against her blackened flesh.
She had the same round face and angelic features as his Lily. He would find her one day and, when he did, she would suffer a hundred times worse than the look-a-likes. That day was coming. Suddenly the latex gloves felt tight and claustrophobic. He stripped them off and shoved them in his sweatshirt pocket, then slammed the trunk closed. He unzipped the HazMat suit and took it off, leaving it, the booties, and the gloves in a heap on the floor. He’d return to clean up and destroy any evidence after he dumped the body.
He climbed into his car parked inside the loading bay and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life inside the echoing confines of the warehouse walls. A pungent stench floated from the trunk, a nauseating mix of bodily fluids, burnt meat, and exhaust fumes. The smell clung inside of his nostrils and coated his tongue. He had already put a few dabs of vapor rub up his nose earlier to help with the atrocious odor. It wasn’t helping. He wound down the window and swallowed hard, fighting back the sour vomit rising in his throat. Frosty night air flooded the interior of the vehicle and made his damp skin prickle. He leaned his head back on the headrest, inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth until his stomach settled.
It was quiet at three in the morning. While most people were sleeping, he was dreaming of his next kill. He wouldn’t stop until he found Lily.
The large industrial area was made up of a maze of warehouses, distribution centers, and a plastics manufacturer. The buildings were old and worn, built in the early 1970s when manufacturing jobs were plentiful. Over the past decade, new businesses had appeared, then disappeared just as quickly.
The spacious warehouse he had rented was hidden deep at the back of the industrial park, away from prying eyes. It was the perfect location and had enough room for his purposes. He steered out of the warehouse, then put the car in park and hopped out. A loud rumble surrounded him. The ground vibrated below his feet as a train sped by to the east of the industrial park, the clatter echoing into the night air.
His greatest dilemma would be deciding on which park to use to dump the body. He had already visited seven with his previous victims: four in Cincinnati, and three in Cleveland. He wasn’t a risk taker and wasn’t going to take the chance revisiting any of the sites in case the authorities were watching. He wouldn’t put anything past the FBI or Agent McClane. There was always a slight risk he could get caught. She was a smart woman. He was smarter.
After closing the heavy bay door and securing with it with two locks, he jumped back into the driver’s seat, anticipating what was coming next—dumping the body and knowing he’d gotten away with it again.
CHAPTER NINE
Victory and Ryan arrived back at the Cincinnati FBI office four hours later. Sean met them in the hallway. Phones rang, keyboards clicked, and loud chatter came from inside the bullpen. A headache drilled at Victory’s temples. She glanced at Sean. “Who reported her missing?”
“Her father. She didn’t come home after a night out with two of her girlfriends. A BOLO was sent out an hour ago.”
He handed her a copy of the bulletin with a photograph of the missing woman. “Angel Hogan, twenty-three.” Urban search and rescue was already dispatched, as well as the canine unit. They’re searching area parks here and in Cleveland as we speak.” Ryan eyed the picture. “Pretty girl. Maybe she hooked up with some random guy and not our guy.”
“That’s wishful thinking.” Victory stared at Angel’s smiling face, brunette hair, and green eyes. Her stomach twisted, knowing there was a good chance it was already too late. “Where was she last seen, Sean?”
“A dance bar over on Pavilion. The Players Club. According to her friends, she left early because she had to study for an exam. They just assumed she got into a cab and went home. I’ve got a call into the cab companies to see if they had a pickup at the club, matching her description.”
Victory was silent, her mind churning. “She’s our second girl who disappeared after visiting a bar. A pattern may be emerging.”
“He’ll change it up again to throw us off his trail. He always has in the past,” Sean said.
“Agreed.” She spotted Curtis strutting toward them, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed.
“Where are we on the Bullington case?” Curtis asked. “I’m getting a lot of crap from the highe
r-ups and the mayor. That crap will eventually trickle down to you three.”
“Michael Vertus proved to be useless. He didn’t have anything to do with the murder—and his gun was legal. That one is hard to believe. We had to cut him loose.” She heard the frustration in her voice. “We’ve got nothing according to forensics. The Shadow killed Bullington.
Curtis wiped the sweat from his brow. “You sure?”
The trail had gone cold. She glanced at Ryan then back to her squad supervisor. “Yes.”
Curtis’ gaze bore into hers. “Great. A killer ghost, a girl burnt to death by The Wrapper, and now a missing girl.” His eyes shifted to the paper in Victory’s hand and his tone hardened. “At least try to find her before it’s too late.”
It was a tall order and Victory had a gut feeling it wasn’t going to end well. “We’ll do our best, sir.”
He shook his head and headed down the hallway toward the elevators.
Victory sighed. “Sean. Talk to the girls again. See if there’s something they’ve missed. A guy trying to pick them up, bugging them. Anything. The smallest detail could help us.”
Sean shot her a nod. “Sure. I’ll check in with you later.”
After Sean left, Ryan looked at her. “What are we going to do?”
“You’re going to talk to the staff at the club. Check the CCTVs and any other cameras in the area, in case the locals missed something.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve got something fun planned. A chat with Melissa Mann at the TV station.”
“She finally got back to you?”
Victory heard a ding, then the clang of elevator doors as they closed. “Nope. And before the crap lands on me and splashes on you, I need to speak with her.”
“If she isn’t playing you and she actually knows something.”
“Right.”
“Maybe I should tag along, play referee, help keep things peaceful.”
“I’ll be fine. No busting heads today. We’ve got enough on our plate.”
Victory walked away, pulled her phone out of her coat pocket and tried Melissa’s number one last time. When the call immediately went to voice mail she disconnected without leaving a message.
Inside the bullpen, she stopped at Angie’s desk. The woman was busy on her computer. “Can you call Melissa Mann at WKRC? Have the call transferred to my desk when you make contact.”
“Of course.” Angie looked up at her. “I heard about the missing girl. I hope you can find her.”
Most of the time the job made it difficult to be positive. With two serial killers on the loose, Victory preferred to be realistic under the circumstances. “I have a feeling that’s not too likely.”
Angie frowned. “I’ll make the call in a sec. Curtis wants an email copy of your report about Cleveland, and he wants it now.”
“Dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s, no doubt.” She placed the BOLO down on the center of the desk, her nerves tighter than usual. If The Wrapper had taken the woman, the chances of finding her alive were slim to none.
Victory understood the scrutiny they were under and had been for years. People were scared, impatient, wanting to feel safe again—and wanting it yesterday. The sooner she could deliver the better. And she would. As she walked to her desk, frustration swirled, and her thoughts turned to Derrick. He was hiding something and maybe it was time to take him up on his dinner invitation. It was still bothering her how he found out where she lived. Victory planned on asking. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the card with his phone number written on it. She decided to make the call from her office phone, not comfortable with him knowing her cell number. That is, if he didn’t already.
After a few rings, Derrick’s secretary answered and put her through to his office.
“Agent McClane. What can I do for you?”
“Victory.”
“Okay. Victory.”
“Thanks for the flowers. We need to talk about that.”
“Sure. When and where?”
“Season 51 on Vine. Six o’clock.” She figured she might as well pick one of her favorite eateries, a casual restaurant with a city view and a great Italian menu. Besides, she could use a decent meal and there wasn’t much more she personally could do to help find Angel Hogan. There were at least fifty cops and FBI agents out on the street looking for her.
“Shall I send a car to pick you up?”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Are you always this straight forward and official-like?”
“It comes with the job. I’ll see you later.”
Angie appeared at her desk the moment Victory set down the receiver.
“The station said they have no idea where Melissa is. She could be out on an assignment they don’t know about, or maybe working at home on a story.”
Victory’s stomach tightened, and her head thumped harder. The reporter wasn’t going to make it easy for her, and that made her question Melissa’s motives even more. She rifled through the desk drawer and found the bottle of Aspirins she kept there for days like this. She popped two into her mouth and downed them dry. “Call the station back and get her home address.”
✽ ✽ ✽
By the time Victory left the office and drove to Melissa’s home on Monticello Avenue, it was four-thirty in the afternoon. Thankfully, her headache had finally disappeared. She steered into the driveway and shut off the engine. As much as she didn’t want to speak to the woman, she didn’t have a choice. If Melissa truly knew something that could help with Bullington’s murder investigation, then it would be worth it.
The house was a small gray brick ranch with a large front yard and cement-colored attached garage. A tall tree in the middle of the front lawn was weighted down with snow. There weren’t any personal touches that made the home stand out, which was odd considering the reporter’s classy fashion flair. The house was simply plain compared to the other homes in the Bellmeadow neighborhood decorated with whimsical Christmas decorations and lights.
Victory swung open the door and climbed out. A cold north wind whipped around the corner of the house and thrashed at the treetops. A chill skittered through her, even though she was wearing a heavy Shaker knit sweater underneath her coat. She headed up the snowy walkway to the front door. After knocking numerous times and no one answered, she went and checked the garage. Peering through the window, she saw Melissa’s black Volkswagen Jetta parked inside. She rounded the side of the house, leading to the backyard when her phone rang. She dragged the phone from her pocket and smiled when she checked the display.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Hi, Mom. I can’t talk long. I have to get back to studying. My friend, Karen, is going to bring me home for your birthday, so you won’t have to come and pick me up. Two more days and you’ll be as old as the hills.”
“Do you have to be such a smartass?” Victory scanned the empty yard and continued walking to the back door.
“I got that from you and Dad.”
Victory smiled again at the mention of Josh. Her daughter was very much like her father. She had the same free-spirit, cool demeanor and humor.
“I’ll be in town by four-thirty. Oh—I have to run.”
“Just remember life’s not all beer and skittles.”
“God, Mom. I’m not even going to ask what that means.”
Victory’s phone beeped three times indicating an incoming call. “I’ve got another call, hun. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Victory disconnected and tapped the ‘answer’ button. “Already miss me?”
There was a beat of airy silence on the other end before Ryan spoke, then she heard ‘90s dance music playing in the background.
“Vic, search and rescue found a body at Rapid Run Park in Price Hill.”
The air swooshed out of her lungs. “Angel Hogan.”
“I’m guessing—yeah.
“You better contact Sean.”
“I’m still downtown
at the Players Club. I’ll meet you at the park.”
She took one last look at the back of the house then rushed to her vehicle. “On my way.”
✽ ✽ ✽
After a thirty-minute drive and a two-hour helicopter flight from Cincinnati, Derrick sat in the small waiting area outside the Oval Office and waited for his father. Heels clicked on highly polished floors, the high-traffic corridors bustling with staff, military, and Secret Service agents. He spotted his father speaking with White House Chief of Staff, Adien Clark, a stocky man in his late-forties with a face like a sad bulldog. Moments later, his father came into the waiting area.
“Sorry, I’m late, son. I was stuck in a meeting with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”
Derrick stood and glanced at the two Secret Service agents standing like poles on each side of the door to the Oval Office “I know how busy you are. But why was I summoned?”
“We have a delicate situation.”
“I hope it’s not like the last situation because—”
“I assure you it isn’t.”
Intrigued, Derrick followed his father into the Oval Office.
The office was tastefully decorated the same as in the Obama days with striped wallpaper, red drapes, and taupe rug bordered with quotes from Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Martin Luther King, Jr, and John F. Kennedy. A Christmas tree was erected next to the south garden window, extravagantly embellished with red balls and gold bows.
Myron Burke was sitting behind the historic Resolute desk, the elegant nineteenth-century desk used by seven previous presidents; the same desk at which President Kennedy had signed Proclamation 3504, authorizing the navel quarantine of Cuba. Each time Derrick set foot inside the office he was in awe of the rich history and artwork. A teleprompter, cameras, and lights were ready for the presidential address, regarding the latest terrorist attack in London that claimed over fifty innocent bystanders at an outdoor market.
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