by Dan Ames
Kunzelman nodded. “Statistically speaking, yes.”
“Sure, even though I’m sure Des Moines has its ethnic neighborhoods, just like Miami has upscale white neighborhoods, the victims are members of the majority population,” Mack said. “Statistically, they would be the ones most likely taken.”
Kunzelman waited for the other shoe to drop.
“But what if it’s the other way around?” Mack asked.
“What do you mean?” Kunzelman asked as the room fell silent.
Mack gestured at the reports on the wall.
“What if the perp needed a young Latino, so they went to Miami? And then a young Asian girl so they went to Chinatown. And finally, they needed a purebred white girl of solid Midwestern stock, so they went to Des Moines?”
Kunzelman thought about it.
“Someone would have to be giving specific orders to fill. Like car thieves do,” he said.
“Exactly,” Mack answered. “And the person who took Rebecca Spencer in Des Moines, if her case is related to this one, was a woman. And women are rarely serial killers,” Mack said. “Poisoning has usually been their method of dispatch. Or they’re prostitutes killing their johns.”
Kunzelman nodded.
Mack looked over all of the police reports, the surveillance photos, all of the data compiled and on display at the war room in Denver FBI headquarters.
“Rarely do they engage in sexual activity,” Mack continued. “Maybe mutilation, but it’s usually on a male who’s wronged them, or that they’ve perceived has wronged them.”
He imagined the woman carting off these kids in the laundry cart, like dirty linen.
“Maybe she’s gay,” Kunzelman said.
Mack had thought about that, and dismissed it. Abduction and murder weren’t crimes committed because of homosexuality. There was always a deep streak of psychopathy involved.
No, whoever this woman was in the video, she wasn’t a serial killer with gender issues, or rape issues.
“She’s not the killer,” Mack said.
Kunzelman looked at him.
“She’s the collector.”
35
The very moment he decided to kill himself, Charles Starkey felt several things. The first and most powerful emotion was a profound sense of relief. It washed over him like a gentle warm wave, soothing his reeling mind and body. For the first time in days, months, years, he felt like himself.
But he also felt a calm acceptance that he had done some very bad things. Awful things. Despicable, deplorable things.
And finally, inside the core of this new and virginal being, a small resolute wish to do something about it took hold. It was the last true part of himself that still remained after the swath of destruction left by his unchecked addiction.
He sat now at his desk in the only big office at his plumbing company’s building and turned to the computer. It had been a gift from the owner of The Store, just before his first major purchase. Starkey didn’t know a lot about computers, but the owner of The Store had told him he needed to use it for all of his transactions, that it was loaded with all of the necessary encryptions, whatever those were, so that they could “do business” without any authorities learning about it.
Now, Starkey launched his Internet browser.
No one had ever accused him of being an intellectual giant, but Starkey knew he was smart in a more base way. Cunning, like a rodent. And like most rodents, he had a strong instinct for danger, so he knew, as his fingers hit the keyboard, that what he was about to do would not go unnoticed by the very man who had provided him the computer in the first place.
So when he typed in the web address for the FBI, Charles Starkey knew that he was doing more than just acting on his last, final wish.
He was signing his own death warrant.
36
Bernard Evans disembarked from the private jet, walked down the portable staircase, collected his bags, and made his way to a rented Cadillac. He was following the directions given to him by the people from The Store. He did not intend to deviate in any way.
Nothing would prevent him from enjoying the greatest weekend of his life.
He stowed the bags in the trunk and drove away from the airport, the route ahead clearly mapped in his mind.
Evans felt confident that he’d concealed his tracks up to this point. The forging of a flight manifest had taken some effort and required the involvement, albeit unwittingly, of others. But it had been necessary.
He was taking no chances on this one.
In fact, he nearly beamed with pride at all of his safeguards. He was so thorough, it had always been the hallmark of his work. What made it so much more impressive was that no one would ever discover that a crime had taken place.
The Store made guarantees to its customers and Evans had no reason to doubt them. It had worked wonderfully so far.
Any smart business person knew, the big money came not in the occasional big purchase. But steady purchases over time by repeat customers.
That’s how the rich got richer.
The car, however, was simply rented under a third party’s company name, and could not be traced back to Evans, at least on paper. He had no doubt that when he was done with it, the car would be “cleaned” of all traces.
In any event, Evans followed the road ahead. He felt relaxed and excited, a slight warm buzz from the scotch on the plane. And now here he was in the early evening, darkness creeping over the world, and he felt like an explorer, going boldly into the world of the unknown. The dark, where good things happened to bad people, and bad things happened to whoever was targeted by those with money.
Evans had money.
And he had a taste for doing bad things.
He nearly laughed again and wished he had brought along a small bottle of booze for the car trip. But it was a short ride, maybe just a half hour tops. And then when he was picked up, he had no doubt his every need would be attended to. His every thirst quenched.
They had better be.
Considering how much he’d paid.
37
It had not been a good day.
Charles Starkey hurried out of the office even though it was only early afternoon. But he had accomplished very little all day, other than growing his conviction that the world was closing in on him like a shadow he had no hope of outrunning.
Now, he drove away from the office in the opposite direction of home. He couldn’t help but look over his shoulder. There had been several calls on both his office phone and his cell.
Charles Starkey had answered neither.
Instead, he had spent the majority of the day pacing in his office, drinking from a bottle of vodka in his drawer and debating about calling the FBI again.
He was not good at waiting.
Starkey drove in no consistent direction, taking quick turns without using turn signals. He checked his mirrors so often he narrowly avoided hitting two parked cars.
It reminded him of the time when he was a kid and his parents had taken him to an amusement park. They had encouraged him to try out a mini roller coaster. Not the real ones. This was specifically designed for children, who filled the seats around him. He remembered the bar coming down over his body, his hands sticky from cotton candy.
And then the ride began.
The initial push had excited him as the little car picked up speed. But the first big loop found young Charles Starkey screaming at the top of his lungs. His face wet with tears, he never stopped screaming until the ride came to an end.
He had never been on another rollercoaster his entire life.
Until now.
Eventually he was confident that no one was following so at the first bar he spotted he pulled into the back lot, ensuring his car wouldn’t be visible from the street. He parked and went inside.
It was a dive bar with one bartender and three customers. He went to a booth, saw the bartender roll her eyes, and he sat down. He put his cell phone on the table.
> He ordered a double whiskey on the rocks and gulped from it when it arrived. It was desperation time, he knew that. It was kill himself, be killed, or rescued by the FBI.
The more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea of witness protection.
The plan would be simple.
Testify against whoever was in charge of The Store, do whatever had to be done, then go into the FBI’s witness protection. Keep things under control for awhile. He could still go on the Internet, have some fun. And then, maybe after awhile, start to have some real fun again. Not cyber fun.
He found the bottom of his glass, and signaled the bartender for another. He knew he was drunk, but he felt mostly sick. The second drink was before him and he had a moment of dizziness. He felt like he was literally spinning until he grabbed the edges of the table with both hands and closed his eyes, squeezed them shut and ground his teeth.
When he opened them again, the spinning had stopped. He picked up the glass and drank it all down, threw a pair of twenties on the table and went out to his car. He keyed the ignition, and headed back toward his home. He had to piss, that was for sure. But maybe paranoia was getting the better of him. Could people from The Store know that he had already sent an email to the FBI? Could they be after him already? And what about the phone calls to his office? They could have been anyone.
By the time he made it back to his neighborhood, he was convinced that he could spend tonight in his own bed, and when he woke up, he would have a clearer perspective on things.
Still, just to be safe, he drove parallel to his street, and stole a glance down its length as he passed it.
That’s when he saw the car.
When he had begun his dealing with the mystery men in the dark coats, borrowing money at obscenely high interest rates, he had once joked about their penchant for driving dark, Lincoln town cars. Like they were an airport shuttle service. It had seemed to him back then that every wiseguy in the city drove one.
Just like the kind that was idling about four houses down from his house.
Charles Starkey immediately understood that he was not being paranoid and he wasn’t going home tonight.
STORE SECURITY
38
It had been quite easy for Butterfly to keep track of Bernard Evans’ movements. She had simply placed a tracking device on the underside of the car. An unnecessary precaution, but one she made anyway. Caution, she had learned, was never overrated. It was only overrated by those without the requisite patience.
She had given Evans a specific set of driving directions that amounted to one big circuit that caused him to pass by her vantage point at least three times. It was the best way for her to make sure he hadn’t been followed.
In addition to her visual confirmation, she followed the tracking device on a tablet and was satisfied that Evans was not deviating from the plan.
She had aborted previous deliveries when the buyer proved to be unreliable. There was too much at stake for everyone. No need for unnecessary risk.
Now, Butterfly waited while Evans made his last loop along the route.
At the appointed time, he pulled to a stop just up the road from her and she passed him by, flashing her headlights once. Butterfly checked her rearview mirror to make sure he was following.
In less than two minutes she led him to a nondescript building on a barren industrial lot. There were several structures on the property, all of them aluminum warehouses along with a few dumpsters and empty pallets.
Butterfly drove to the last building at the rear of the property, thumbed the door opener and pulled her vehicle inside. Once she saw that Evans had followed her in as well, she hit the control again and the door closed.
She adjusted the .45 fitted snugly in her shoulder holster, and stepped out of the shadows.
“You probably have to use the restroom,” she said.
39
The Owner was home. The luxury condo was on the top floor and had been built to his specifications. He had his own communications center that operated separately from the rest of the building.
It was his lair and his fortress.
Best of all, was the view.
He had built his own living space solely around the view. And he had arranged it so that when he worked, the various computer screens and television monitors failed to block his view.
It was a glorious snapshot of Washington, but best of all, he could clearly see in the distance, one building that he never failed to single out, and relish the image before him.
The J. Edgar Hoover Building.
Headquarters of the FBI.
The monitoring system The Owner had installed was very complex. It was designed to be a cyber watchdog, continuously patrolling his own enterprise, while simultaneously keeping a close eye on anyone and everyone with whom he did business.
While the mechanics were very complex, the basic idea was simple. Every single “partner” in his enterprise was tagged. Their computers, cell phones, home phones, car phones, anything and everything they used to communicate with others was flagged. And the usage of each of those items was also monitored with a flagging system. A master list, comprehensive and thorough, was used to corroborate safe usage of the items by his customers. If one of his clients used their home computer to buy a book on Amazon, the monitoring system noticed, but did not do anything about it. If one of his clients called his distant relative’s home in Flagstaff, the monitoring system noticed, but did not raise any alarms.
However, any calls to 911, or a police station, hospital, attorney’s office, government entity, etc., any of those types of contacts, whether it be via cell phone, home phone, computer, and even a personal visit (the system was linked to an unofficial security camera network), the alarm was raised.
So the minute Charles Starkey, hundreds of miles away, typed the web address of the FBI into his browser window, a shower of warning lights cascaded across The Owner’s main monitor.
He read the report and knew instantly what was transpiring.
The Owner sighed softly and picked up his satellite phone.
40
The two happiest days of a boat owner’s life are the day he buys the boat, and the day he sells the boat.
But right now, Charles Starkey was happy to have the boat, period.
When he’d seen the mobster’s car parked outside his house, he knew he could never go back. They’d already given him multiple warnings about his lack of payment. Plus, they’d clearly given up trying to reach him via phone.
They were going to hurt him, and hurt him bad. Maybe even kill him. Then try to get the life insurance money from his wife.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen.
Because no one knew about the boat.
Not his wife. Not his insurance agent. Hell, no one at the marina knew it was his because he hardly ever used it. He’d gotten it because at one point in his foolish past he thought it would be a good place to take the underage prostitutes he had developed a taste for. But he’d quickly discovered that wasn’t practical. Most of them wanted to have sex in a hotel room or his car. They didn’t like the idea of being transported to a boat.
So he’d given up on the fantasy, but hadn’t given up the boat.
Now, he had the power on, and was charging his cell phone. He couldn’t hide forever.
He needed to get in touch again with the FBI before his enemies found him.
Starkey checked his phone again and there was barely 5% of battery power. He had to wait until–
The boat shifted.
He looked up from his phone.
Could it have been the water? There was no boat traffic whatsoever in the marina.
It had seemed odd.
He wished he had a gun. There was a flare gun somewhere on board, probably near the emergency first aid kit. But it was stowed in the bench by the captain’s wheel.
He started to get up.
“Sit down,” a voice said from the doorway.
Stark
ey looked up and found a woman watching him. She had a gun in her hand and a face that was totally devoid of any emotion.
“Who are you?” Starkey asked.
The woman squeezed the trigger and Starkey felt something hit him hard in the chest and he struggled to breathe. He saw the gun spurt flame again but didn’t hear anything.
He wanted to ask the woman if she was from the Mob.
But his last thought was an answer.
She wasn’t.
She was from The Store.
41
Rebecca Spencer sat on the edge of her bed, trying to think. She instinctively knew the cabin, or cell as she thought of it, had been thoroughly stripped so as not to provide any type of weapon.
No phone. No unlocked doors. Just the bed, a toilet, and a sink.
It was not her style to wait.
Although it seemed like they had no intention of harming her, that they were basically storing her until the ransom money came in, she wasn’t about to sit around and wait.
She needed a weapon.
Rebecca considered the bed.
She stepped back, lifted the mattress and looked at the metal frame, thinking maybe there were springs she could bend into some type of shiv, like they do in prison movies.
But beneath the mattress all she saw were two strips of metal welded to the frame.
“Damn it,” she said.
She put the mattress back down, sat on it, and studied the floor.
It was wood. She believed it was called tongue and groove – solid.
The walls were wood planks as well. And there was nothing in the bathroom. She’d already looked at that.