“Jesus,” Jordan said.
“What did you see?” Chris asked.
“Courtney was still alive at the time of her death. Drugged, wholly incapacitated, but alive.”
“You saw that?” Agent Penner asked.
“And more,” Jordan answered. “Where did you find the remains?”
“The Blakey-Chadd Projects,” Penner said. “In garbage bags. Which doesn’t surprise me if you know the BCP area like I do. Drugs and gangs. The area’s polluted with them. The medical examiner said she had enough legal and illegal drugs in her system to kill her twice over. But chopping up the body? That’s overkill if ever I’ve seen it. Even for the lowlife that prey on their junkie customers.”
“Courtney wasn’t a junkie. She was a nurse. And she wasn’t killed there.”
“Then where?” Chris asked.
“A construction site.”
Penner crossed his arms. “You’re gonna have to do better than that Agent Quest. Construction site? This is New York City. There isn’t a block for miles around that isn’t under construction.”
“Then I’ll make it easy for you,” Jordan replied.
“How’s that?” Penner asked.
“Find the one with the blood-soaked concrete saw. That’s your crime scene. And one more thing. Have your pals Pallister and Keon put together a list of limousine companies in the city.”
“Why?”
“The Scroll Killer likes to travel well.”
Chris and Penner exchanged glances. “He has a driver?” Chris asked.
“He is the driver,” Jordan replied.
132
ANTON MOORE RAPPED on the door to the dancers dressing room and called out. “It’s Anton. Okay if I come in?”
Shona-Lee Cairns called out. “Thank you for asking, sweetie. Yeah, you can come in.”
Anton opened the door and walked inside. Shona-Lee sat in front of her make-up mirror applying her lipstick. Several of the opening acts dusted their bodies with stage powder, rendering their physical appearance as near to perfection as any club patron could imagine. The Odyssey had a reputation for delivering quality talent to its guests and that included Shona-Lee. Her perfect body shimmered in the light of the room.
“You’re looking beautiful tonight,” Anton said as he entered the room.
Shona smiled. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she replied.
Anton laughed. “Anyone seen Lacey?” he asked.
The women shook their heads.
“Everything all right, honey?” Shona-Lee asked.
“I suppose so,” Anton replied. “Russ asked me to check. He wants her to work a double today. She’s not answering her cell phone. He left a message for her last night and another again this morning. Nothing. That’s unusual for her.”
Russ Paley, the club’s owner, took great pride in assuring his dancers safe transportation to and from the club. Mike Degario drove the club’s limousine.
“You talk to Mike?” Shona-Lee asked. “He would have driven her home.”
Anton shook his head. “Not last night. Lacey had a private function.”
“She likes to party with the high-rollers,” Shona-Lee said. “Who wouldn’t?”
A look of deep concern was etched on Anton’s face. “I’ve warned her about these dates,” he said. “She should stick to the club. We can control what happens here. Out there the rules don’t apply.”
Shona-Lee put down her lip gloss. “You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?”
Anton nodded. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
“Have you checked her apartment? Maybe she partied a little too hard last night, got in late, slept in.”
“I don’t have her address. Besides, Russ didn’t suggest I do a wellness check.”
“Screw Russ,” Shona-Lee said. “This is Lacey-who-wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly we’re talking about.” The dancer walked to her locker, took out her purse, removed her cellphone and pulled up Lacey’s contact information. “112 St. Regis Court, Brooklyn. Apartment 3-B.”
Anton punched the information into his phone. “Got it. Thanks.”
Shona-Lee handed Anton the spare apartment key Lacey had given her. “The security keypad is in the closet on your left. Pass code is 41062. When you find her tell her she’s totally pissed me off,” she said. “Lacey knows the pro-dating rules: always call your back-up buddy before a date with the deets on where you’ll be, with whom and for how long. No exceptions. I’m her BB and she’s mine. She never called.” Shona-Lee suddenly sounded scared. “Jesus, Anton. Now you’ve got me worried too.”
“Forget about it. I’m sure everything is fine,” Anton said. “I’m probably overreacting. Like you say, she messed up, forgot the rules.”
“Lacey forget? Not a chance. She’s whip-smart and as self-disciplined as they come. The girl doesn’t forget a damn thing. Unlike the rest of us she doesn’t need this gig. She’s got another six months to go, then she’s out of the business altogether.”
“I didn’t know she was planning on leaving,” Anton said.
Shona-Lee nodded. “This was never her long-term plan. She wanted to make enough money to pay for her education and set herself up in practice after she graduated.”
“Practice?”
“She’s going to be a psychologist. Lacey’s all about helping people. Like I said, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Anton turned to leave. There was an urgent tone in his voice. “I’ll tell her to call you as soon as I find her.”
“She better.”
Four three-story brownstones on the north end of Nostrand Avenue in Brooklyn comprised the St. Regis Court apartment complex. Unlike other buildings in the neighborhood its walls were free of graffiti. No overflowing trash cans or discarded household items lined its driveways. Like Lacey, the residences bore an air of subtle sophistication.
Anton removed the apartment key from his pocket, opened the main door, then rode the elevator to the third floor. The door to Lacey’s apartment was the second on the left. He slipped the key into the lock, turned the knob, and opened the door.
No security chain snapped tight to prevent him from entering, which told him Lacey was probably not at home. No beep… beep… beep from the security system announced its countdown. Anton checked the alarm control panel. Disabled. No single woman living alone in New York City, especially a beautiful exotic dancer like Lacey Chastain, would fail to engage the security chain on her apartment door and turn on her alarm system before retiring for the night. He knew how safety-conscious Lacey was. She was also quite capable of taking care of herself. A third-degree black belt in taekwondo, Lacey had taught her fellow dancers the basics of self-defense and never left the club without her pepper-spray in hand. Too many crazies out there, she said.
Concern made the leap to worry.
He called out. “Lacey? It’s me, Anton. You home?”
No reply.
Again. “Lace?”
Being head of security for the Odyssey Gentlemen’s Club and a personal security expert, Anton periodically found himself in situations that called for more than a physical response to deal with a potentially dangerous patron. He was licensed to carry a concealed weapon. Though he’d never had to present it on the job, every instinct within him cried out that something was wrong. Anton slipped his hand under his jacket and wrapped it around the Colt semi-automatic handgun fitted in the small of his back. He called out once more. “Lacey, if you’re here, answer me.”
All quiet.
Anton walked down the corridor and past the guest bedroom. Ahead, the door to the master bedroom was ajar. He was sure he’d seen it move.
“Lacey? That you?”
He debated whether to leave the apartment, call the police, report the suspicious circumstances, and let the authorities clear the residence. No, he thought. He had come this far. What if Lacey was in there, bound and gagged, being held against her will by a psychopath, unable to speak, or worse, unconscious? He wouldn’
t be able to live with himself if he failed to act right here, right now, at the time when she might need him the most.
Anton called out. “You... in the room. Step out… slowly.”
The door moved.
Anton stepped ahead.
He never saw the attack coming.
Steel met bone. The blow to the back of his head dropped him to the floor.
He lost consciousness.
133
LACEY SLOWLY OPENED her eyes and stared at the patterns of dust and dirt on the concrete floor below. Slumped forward, head down, her body was numb from the incredible pain she had been subjected to by the barbaric torture device. She wanted to cry out, to tell the asshole anything he wanted to hear, that she would do anything he wanted her to do, be anything he wanted her to…
Fuck that. Never going to happen.
In her dizzying return to consciousness, she couldn’t tell if the voices she heard were real or imagined. Lacey cut out the mental distractions and focused. They became real.
“Hey,” she said. Her voice was weak, without power, barely audible. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing… in… out… in… out. Slowly she drew air deeper into her lungs, powered up her body. She tried again. “Can anybody hear me?”
Her second attempt to speak, stronger than the first, met with a reply. Behind her a woman answered. “You okay?”
Lacey raised her head. Her body swayed from side to side in the contraption. She remembered the words drilled into her through fifteen years of martial arts training… the only enemy is fear… and collected herself.
“I’ve been better,” Lacey replied. “Where are we?”
“No idea,” the woman said.
“How many of us are there?”
“Eight, plus the donor.”
“Donor?”
“The girl on the table. We don’t know her name. That’s what he calls her.”
The woman on the gurney moaned. The anesthesia was wearing off. She was coming around.
“How long has she been like that?” Lacey asked.
Another voice answered. “Two days.”
“What happened?”
“She tried to run,” the voice said. “We watched him. The bastard kept punching her. When she finally stopped moving, he strapped her to the table and hooked up the IV. Sometimes he’ll cut off the flow and wait until she comes around, take a section of her skin while she’s awake, then put her back under when she screams from the pain.”
“How long have you been here?” Lacey asked.
“A week,” the first woman replied.
“Ten days,” said the second.
“Jesus.”
“I’m Melinda,” the first woman said.
“Victoria,” the second said.
“I’m Lacey.”
The woman on the table moaned again. Lacey’s head was inches from the Velcro strap that bound her right wrist to the gurney. Despite the wrenching pain in her arm sockets, Lacey pushed off on the tips of her toes and rocked back and forth. The braided cinching rope behind her back squeaked with the momentum. The first attempt to catch a section of the Velcro band between her teeth failed. Lacey felt as if her arms were about to pull out of their sockets and tear away from her body. The second forward swinging attempt proved as unsuccessful as the first, and Lacey felt the familiar rush of darkness from which she had emerged mere moments ago returning. There was a limit to the pain her body could take.
One last try.
The only enemy is fear.
Lacey pushed off, threw her body forward, opened her mouth and caught a fraction of the Velcro strap between her teeth. She bit down hard and held fast to the material. Suspended in the air, the wiry plastic loops cut into her lips and gums and abraded the corners of her mouth. Lacey breathed heavily through her nose. Saliva pooled in her mouth, dripped down, soaked the strap. She refused to release her bite on the plastic strip. Tethered to both the table and the woman, Lacey saw her fingers move. As she came out of her medically induced stupor her head lolled to her right. Her eyes suddenly met Lacey’s, wide with fear. She screamed and yanked her arm away.
The counter-leverage was exactly what Lacey was hoping for.
Lacey bit down, turned her head away from the struggling woman and shook the Velcro strap in her mouth like a dog attacking a play toy.
In a blind panic, the woman pulled her hand free.
As Lacey let go, gravity took over. Now untethered, her body swung back. A wave of pain fell over her. For what felt like an eternity she stared at the concrete floor, floating on a tranquil sea of semi-consciousness. It was impossible for her to move. Her arms felt as though they were on fire within her shoulder sockets. She could feel her stomach roll. The pain was too much. She was going to be sick. She was helpless and bound. And for the first time since the beginning of her ordeal, she felt the agony of defeat.
Just as Lacey prepared herself to surrender to the pain, she suddenly felt tremendous relief in her shoulders. Her body was being lowered to the ground.
The bastard had returned. Not done with her yet, he was preparing her for the next level of torture.
“Just kill me already,” Lacey said. “I don’t have the strength to fight back. I lost. You won. Happy?”
“No one’s going to hurt you,” an unfamiliar voice replied. “Least of all me.”
Lacey opened her eyes. The woman from the table was kneeling beside her, holding her hand. “Think you can sit?” she asked.
Lacey smiled. “Yeah,” she replied. “I think so.”
“You saved my life,” the woman said. She helped Lacey up. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you. Thank you. I’m Bonnie. Bonnie Cole.”
“Lacey,” Lacey said. “Pleased to meet you, Bonnie. Do you mind if I ask a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Get me the hell out of this thing.”
Bonnie smiled. “You got it.”
134
OTTO SCHREIBER HAD used Lacey’s house key to let himself into her apartment. Back at his shop he had rummaged through her purse, found her pocketbook containing the residence keys, driver’s license (from which he had obtained her home address), New York University student identification card, cellphone, and canister of pepper spray. He recognized the man laying at his feet as the doorman from the Odyssey Gentlemen’s Club from which he had picked up Lacey last night. He had struck him from behind with enough force to knock him out cold. Otto knelt and inspected the area of impact. No blood. He checked the man’s pulse. Steady. Except for a walloping headache on waking, he would be fine. If he wasn’t, if his injuries proved to be greater than what his cursory examination could provide, resulting perhaps in a subdural hematoma, hydrocephalus or neurological impairment, well, too bad for him. In coming to Lacey’s apartment, he had brought the problem upon himself. He should be thankful he wasn’t dead although that option still wasn’t off the table.
Schreiber returned the aluminum baseball bat he had used to subdue the man to the umbrella stand beside Lacey’s front door, stepped over the unconscious man, and entered her bedroom. If she was to be comfortable in her new home, she would need fresh clothes and familiar items such as her favorite perfumes, soaps, makeup, hairspray, undergarments and shoes. There would be a period of adjustment, of course. Change of any kind is never easy.
Otto took a moment to reflect on his success. To date, he had kidnapped and murdered thirty women over the course of his serial killing career and evaded capture by the authorities. He didn’t see it as killing as much as a ‘sorting’ process. In the early days of his murder spree, he applied the tradecraft he had learned during his time in the military; interrogation as an art form, and one which he had perfected. The right question, asked the right way and supported by a strong physical incentive, always elicited the desired response. The custom blend of odorless knock out gas and time-delay fuse mechanism he had designed and used to render his victim’s unconscious had made the skinning process that much easier t
o execute. He had devised many ingenious methods to deliver the gas but the false bottom gift box with its hidden diffuser provided the best results. In his experience, no woman could resist the desire to know what treasure lay within the ornately wrapped boxes, especially when accompanied by a note handwritten by an expert calligrapher. The romantic notion of a gift being sent by an unknown admirer worked like a charm. All he had to do was observe her routine, follow her, wait until she was alone, then knock on the door and hand-deliver the box. None of his victims had taken longer than five minutes before they’d opened the gift, proving curiosity to be the bane of human nature. He would wait in the Bentley for a few minutes, then return to the domicile, deftly work the lock with his professional burglar’s tools, then enter the premises to find his victim lying unconscious on the floor. If he were to elevate murder to an art form perfection was required, much like the attention he paid to his book restoration commissions. He had carefully considered every aspect of his home invasions. After locking the door, he would secure his victim, usually in her bedroom, bind and gag her, then wake her and begin the interview process. He was always polite and courteous. When one is in a state of unadulterated panic cooperation is best gained by building rapport. Gags were necessary at first, and he opted to use a piece of her clothing most of the time, usually her top. When she had stopped screaming into the gag and promised to obey, he would loosen the material, assure her he meant her no harm, and permit her to speak. He would then remove the small custom-made notebook from his pocket and ask his standard interrogation questions: If today was your last day on Earth, how would you prefer to die? What body part would you least like to lose? On a scale of one to ten, ten being completely satisfied and one being extremely unsatisfied, how would you rate the quality of sex with your partner? Cat or dog person? Meat lover or vegan? Pop or rap? He didn’t really care what answers she gave. He had already decided she would die from the moment he had laid eyes on her. The interview made the pretext to the inevitable more intimate and enjoyable. He was equally accommodating and offered to answer her every question although they were often disappointingly few and always the same: Why me? What are you going to do with me? Let me go. I won’t tell a soul. No, they wouldn’t. He would see to that. Over time, the mechanical act of killing had lost its zeal. Now it was all about the game. Stepping up the body count, evading capture, being smarter than his adversaries at the NYPD, pushing the envelope, daring them to catch him, reveling in their ineptitude, raising the stakes and the penultimate rush: having the God-like power and ability to take the life of another human being at will.
The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1 Page 53