The killer - apparently deceived by Lucy’s bluff - retreated back to the desk, reached up, and began to peel away the balaclava. The neck of the mask had barely lifted from the leather coat when the strangler kicked the swivel chair into Lucy to block her shot. While she was stunned, the killer sprinted from the room. Footsteps receded to the right.
Lucy let out a relieved sigh. Keeping the revolver aimed at the door, she stood up, removed three spare bullets from the drawer, and reloaded the weapon. The firing chamber snapped into position.
Lucy took the phone in her free hand, shut off the Internet broadcast, and used the numeric keypad to dial a local number. An automated directory matched it to a name. Philadelphia PD - Homicide. There was a basic dialling tone - three complete rings - before someone answered.
“This is Duvall,” Lucy identified herself. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Ron Wallace. Career advisor.”
“Quit joking around!” Lucy yelled back. “And get your ass over to Taurus Studios.”
Liquid splashed in the background. Porcelain rattled.
“You went back there!?” Ron shouted. “To see Pryce. On your own. Unarmed. What part of our conversation did you actually listen to?”
“The security guy’s dead, and the killer’s still here. I got myself a gun.”
“Sit tight. I’m on my way.” Fabric rustled. “Where are you exactly?”
Lucy scanned the security monitors. She located the Taurus Strangler in the server room - left arm off-screen, back to the camera. The killer ripped cables from a hard drive, then sabotaged another.
“I’ll be in the basement,” Lucy said. “Bastard tried to kill me. I’m going after him.”
“Don’t be stupid, Duvall! Wait for back—”
Lucy switched off Levitt’s cellphone and threw it on the desk. Revolver in hand, she edged forward, and turned the gun in a wide, sweeping arc as she stepped into the corridor.
***
The light bulbs in the server room had all been shattered, cracked tube sections left in live sockets. Sparks fell off disconnected ends. Between those, blue text on the computer screens, and blinking indicators, there was just about enough illumination to see the data banks. Removed hard drives cluttered the aisles between, dumped in a sea of glass fragments that sparkled like diamonds.
The temperature on the thermostat rose to twenty-three degrees Celsius as the airlock door slid open. Lit from behind, Lucy was a faceless shadow aiming a silvery magnum revolver. The gun followed her head movement as she scanned the server room from outside. There was no sign of anybody else. Only sparks, fizzling electricity, and the occasional beep from a computer terminal. Darkness clouded much, with plenty of potential hiding places for a killer to lie in wait.
Lucy advanced through the airlock and turned continuously. Glass shards cracked under her shoes. Smouldering sparks landed on her shoulders as she neared the central console. She ignored them, and continued her search. Spying a glimpse of movement, Lucy turned sharply to her left. At first she saw nothing but sabotaged computer equipment. Then creaky metal alerted her to a black-clothed figure perched on a storage bank. A thrown hard drive knocked the revolver away.
The Taurus Strangler jumped down. Two thrust feet struck Lucy in the chest. She fell on her back with a thump. Broken glass scattered from her. Lucy had no opportunity to recover before the killer wrapped a replacement garotte around her throat. Like the cables that powered the few still-active hard drives, the black plastic cord was half-an-inch thick.
Trapped under the killer with her noosed neck pinned down, Lucy’s efforts to escape were hopeless. A shower of sparks rained from above, adding a yellowy glow to the strangler’s balaclava. Eyeballs - isolated ovals in a black void - shone with psychotic intensity.
Lucy gurgled and feebly groped at the mask. Her fingers slipped to the veil, and sunk into a narrow gap between the killer’s parted lips. The strangler pulled Lucy’s head closer, sucked in deep, and exhaled onto her face. Strands of blonde hair - trapped under the tension-creaky cable - lifted off her neck.
“Lucy!” Ron called out. His voice was quiet, still a good distance away.
Lucy’s hands relaxed and dropped on the fragmented glass. The sparks stopped falling, and darkness obscured the Taurus Strangler.
Chapter Fifteen
The police arrived at the Taurus Studios tower in force. Ron spearheaded the charge through the lobby. The team moved quickly but carefully to the open double doors. Ron kept his gun steady, aiming forward while three uniformed cops - two short-haired, brutish-looking men and a lean Hispanic woman - provided backup. The quartet stayed close together, almost shoulder-to-shoulder with all directions covered.
“Lucy! Lucy!”
Ron repeated the frantic call every thirty feet or so, undeterred by the lack of reply. When the police reached the corridor, Ron signalled the woman officer to take point. He covered her from behind while the two uniformed men watched the rear. Ron navigated the maze of corridors without stopping, and reorganised the formation at junctions so nobody could approach unseen.
The team soon arrived at the security office. The two males remained in the corridor while Ron and the female checked inside. They came out ten seconds later, gloomy-faced with the woman suppressing a gulp.
“Server room’s that way.” Ron indicated a left turn ahead. “The killer could still be in the building. Keep your guard up.”
The others followed Ron’s lead. The close-knit group proceeded down a flight of steps, and through the basement corridors to a darkened airlock. Sensors flashed green as Ron approached, and the pressurised door slid open. Ron peeked around the corner, but saw only black shapes, sparkly glass, and faint gaseous wisps that could possibly be smoke.
Ron nodded to the Hispanic woman, who took out a pen-size flashlight and held it under the barrel of her pistol. The cops all moved at once. Ron crossed the threshold, the woman followed to provide light and potential cover fire, and the two men stayed close to the server room walls. The focused beam swept from left to right and back again, illuminating discarded hard drives. Then it stopped, directed downward at the floor.
“Lucy,” Ron gasped. “God, no.”
The circle of light vibrated across Lucy’s still body. Ron placed a steadying hand on the Hispanic cop’s wrist. He signalled the two men to keep watch over the airlock, and dashed over to Lucy.
Ron knelt to check her pulse. “She’s alive,” he told the others.
He pulled the loose power cable off her neck, revealing a red mark where she’d been choked.
“But she’s one lucky bitch.”
A cough came from somewhere opposite the airlock - whiny and suppressed. Ron took the flashlight from the female cop, held it alongside his weapon, and used the beam to search the room. Something glinted in one of the storage lockers, distorted by a narrow-barred grille. The numerical keypad light was green - unlike the rest - and the door a quarter-inch open.
Ron placed a finger to his lips, and handed the flashlight back to the woman. He approached the locker from the left while the three beat cops covered the front and right. Ron held his breath, aimed at the door, and tugged the handle. He knelt down as the locker opened, finger poised to squeeze the trigger.
“Don’t shoot!” the woman inside yelled.
Ron exhaled when light shone on Tania’s face. Perspiration dripped from her hair onto her already-damp shirt, and her dislodged spectacles were about to come off. One legging was rolled up to her knee, the other stuck in her shoe. Tania looked as if she’d been there a while.
“Don’t shoot,” she repeated.
“It’s all right.” Ron holstered his weapon. “You’re safe now.”
He approached Tania and extended a hand. She took it, giving Ron a gentle hug once she’d left the cramped confines of the locker.
“I heard a gunshot from upstairs,” Tania recalled, “so I hid in there. I saw somebody come in, a man in black. I think he’s gone now, but…�
�� She stumbled and stared at the prostate Lucy. “Your partner. Is she…”
Lucy coughed as she came around. Her eyes slowly opened.
“No,” Ron said. “But she damn well ought to be. You did the right thing. Some people aren’t so sensible.”
He beckoned the Hispanic woman across. She helped reposition Tania’s glasses, and comforted her while Ron joined Lucy.
“Did Pryce invite you over?” Ron asked. “Or was this your shitty idea?”
“Adrian wasn’t here,” Lucy said, voice quiet with exhaustion.
“You sure about that?”
Ron walked away and shook his head in disgust. He stepped over a damaged hard drive.
“What was stored on these?” he asked Tania.
“Archive footage.” She winced as she stood up. “The security cameras transmit data here, as well as the security office. We keep digital copies of all surveillance.”
“Which someone didn’t want us to see. Do these cameras cover every room in the building?” Ron glanced over at the recovering Lucy. “Even the president’s office?”
Tania seemed reluctant to answer the question at first. After a lengthy pause, she gave Ron the slightest of nods.
“Pity,” Ron mulled. “Bet there’d have been some interesting stuff to watch.” He turned to the policewoman. “Take Tania somewhere cosy. Somewhere out of the way. You get me?”
The Hispanic officer gave Ron an understanding nod, and escorted Tania to the airlock. Glass cracked as the two women made their way past the wreckage. No sooner had the door closed than a police radio crackled into life.
“Go ahead,” the man nearest Ron said.
“We found another.” The woman on the police band spoke with morbid flatness. “Another body. She’s been strangled too. Her name was Jenna McCoy, a video capture artist who worked in projects. I know her name because… Because I spoke to her yesterday afternoon, when I took her statement. She was looking forward to spending Christmas with her family.” Anger crept into her voice. “And he left her like this. That sick bastard.”
Ron took the radio from the policeman. “All units,” he announced grimly. “Complete your sweep of the building. Take extreme care. This is a double homicide. There could be a killer lurking around, so watch it.”
Ron gave the radio back and returned to Lucy, hands squarely on his hips. “Two of Pryce’s lovers dead,” he stated bluntly. “If we’d shown up a few minutes later, it would be three. Starting to see a pattern yet?”
“The gymnastics lady wasn’t his lover. She just worked for him.”
“Right. Like Miss Gallier used to,” Ron said cynically. “Being this guy’s girlfriend isn’t healthy. Unless you’re into being choked.”
Ron removed a surgical glove from his trouser pocket and slipped it on. He reached down to collect the computer cable.
“I’ll take that,” he told Lucy. “It’s police evidence. Not to be handled by civilians.”
Ron knelt by her side, and pretended to check her neck. He spoke quietly so the others wouldn’t overhear.
“We got an anonymous tip. A passer-by saw a suspicious character outside the Taurus tower. Wearing a mask, dressed in black. We came to investigate. That’s when we heard gunshots, and radioed for backup. You were never here.”
“Thanks,” Lucy said gratefully. “Look Ron, I…”
Ron sniffed at Lucy. “And stay off the booze. So you know, this is a one time deal. Fall off the rails again, and there won’t be anybody to catch you. You’d best disappear before Blake shows up. He won’t be too happy when he finds out Fitzroy wasn’t the strangler.”
Lucy stood up to leave.
“Duvall,” Ron shouted to get her attention. “I know you’re going to ignore every damn word I just said. So when you do see Pryce, be sure to ask why he left the office early tonight. I’d be interested to know what business he had that was so pressing.” He coiled up the computer cable and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag. “And you might want to hide any wires before you go to bed with him. Just thought I’d share a tip with my old partner. You know, while she’s still breathing.”
***
The elevated, concrete-pillared highway that connected central Philadelphia to the suburbs was quiet. The occasional car sped by on its journey along the monotonous and repetitive, six-lane stretch of basalt, mileage signs, and glaring street lights. Music pounded from a seedy, brown-bricked bar in the slums. None of the passing vehicles took the exit that led to the urban labyrinth of graffiti-smeared tenements, gravelly basketball courts, and poorly-lit alleys. This was an ‘underclass’ neighbourhood - a rough, unwelcoming wilderness commuters steered clear of.
Lucy had pulled over into a lay-by, close to a gang-tagged emergency phone booth. The car engine was running, and exhaust fumes dissipated into the night air. Lucy took a long, blank look at herself in the rear-view mirror. The strangulation bruises around her neck - partly shadowed by her chin - had turned deep purple. Lucy was a total wreck: sweating profusely, blonde hair all tangled up, eyes of a sleepwalker.
Lucy lowered the driver side window, and leant back as a gusty breeze dried perspiration from her face. She took out a half-full bottle of scotch from the glove compartment. Lucy swirled the thick, brown liquid round the glass, watching waves crash and ripples die out. She unscrewed the tin cap - a precise, almost mechanical rhythm - and held the rim to her mouth. Scotch filled the bottle’s neck as Lucy tipped it back.
Alcohol touched Lucy’s lips. She stopped to glance at the passenger seat. Her photo album rested on top, open at the page with the university pictures of her and Adrian. The breeze picked up strength, whistling as it blew Lucy’s hair over the bottle. Caught in the wind, laminated paper sheets flipped across the album’s binder rings. Snapshots of Lucy’s life flashed before her: later years as a maturing student, induction into the police force, promotion to detective. Then blank emptiness.
“Get a grip, Duvall,” Lucy told herself.
Lucy lowered the bottle slowly, and let scotch collect at the bottom. After taking a moment to compose herself - and another glance in the mirror - she stuck her hand through the open window and dropped the bottle on the road. It smashed on impact. Fluid settled in its jagged, broken-off bottom end.
Lucy reversed out of the lay-by into oncoming traffic, ignoring horns and screechy tires. A speeding minivan veered into the next lane. Its furious driver waved a clenched fist at Lucy. With a look of steely, unflinching determination, she stopped her car, shifted gears, and drove forward over the broken bottle. Badly damaged by the front tire, it was completely pulverised under the rear, shards ground to glassy dust on the tarmac. Runny scotch trickled into a drainage gutter.
***
Doctor Vickers took a photo of Jenna’s body from underneath. She didn’t have much choice regarding the angle. The corpse was suspended in mid-air, harness cables arranged so the death pose was decidedly erotic. Jenna’s legs - tied around the ankles - were spread wide, kept apart by suction-padded winches. Her body arched back, with her waist and neck secured in tight steel nooses. Jenna’s upside-down head and breasts faced the entrance. Stripped half-naked, she’d been left to hang in underclothes: elasticated gym shorts and a rosy-pink bra. Her Lycra motion capture suit was nowhere to be seen.
Ron walked past a visibly shaken policewoman - possibly the one who’d radioed earlier - and joined Vickers by the giant screen. Footage of Jenna’s murder ran in a continuous loop, acted out by the wireframe avatar - the struggle with the unseen killer, hands scratching her neck, dropping to the ground dead. A message underneath the video pulsed green with an outer-glow effect.
Your contract was only temporary, Jenna. With the project nearing completion, we have no further need of a model or motion capture artist. The sensor suit is property of Taurus Studios, and will be retained for later use. Consider your employment terminated.
“This one didn’t even get a letter,” said Ron.
Vickers stepped on a computer des
k to snap another photo. She was all businesslike, with no trace of a smile. “Duvall didn’t get a note at all. Maybe those two only got in the killer’s way, and the security guard was the intended victim.”
“Thought you dealt in facts.”
“I usually do. But I don’t think we’re going to find any here to help us. For an improvised crime scene - if that’s what this is - it’s remarkably clean.”
Ron watched another replay of the murder. “If you look at the beginning closely,” he said as it looped back, “you can see the girl turn away right before she was attacked. She wasn’t fleeing. She was at ease. Which means she knew her killer, and he wasn’t wearing a mask. That’s why he risked staying around to wipe the surveillance footage. Maybe there was something else on those videos. Something that incriminated Pryce.”
“You’re basing a lot on computer graphics. That’s what I don’t like about modern technology. It’s too easy to manipulate. DNA and fingerprints I can work with. Some jazzy drawing on a screen, no. Sorry Ron, but there’s nothing here that directly links Pryce to the murder. For all we know, this isn’t even what happened.”
“It’s his building, isn’t it?” snapped Ron. He gave himself a moment to cool off. “Look, I’m just worried about Lucy. She’s convinced herself he’s innocent.”
“Maybe he is,” Vickers argued. “As I said, we don’t have any proof.”
Ron looked up at Jenna’s body, and eyed the harness cable fastened around her neck. “What if Pryce is the strangler? And he’s planning to finish what he started?”
“If he and Lucy are as involved as you say they are, you’d better find some real evidence quickly.”
Chapter Sixteen
Lucy parked across the street from Adrian’s luxury abode, and observed the front gates from a distance. Since her previous visit to the suburban cul-de-sac, glittery red-and-silver tinsel had been draped from porch coverings and mailboxes, and shiny baubles hung on bare tree branches. Adrian’s residence was the only one without festive decorations. Curtains were drawn over every window. Red-glowing bulbs screwed in the bull statue’s eye sockets gave it the appearance of some mythical, horned beast guarding the garden path. With the taller-than-average picket fence and extensive security camera coverage, the house was virtually a fortress.
Termination Notice (Action Girl Thrillers) Page 11