by J. D. Oliva
"Ask for the Advantage Treatment," is all she said before turning around and walking away.
That's the first and last time she crossed paths with this old woman. She waited three days before calling the number. She tried to research what she was stepping into, but couldn't find anything. She had no idea what calling that number would do. But a few weeks later, she sat at her parent's kitchen table waiting for a text message from the man behind the black business card. The man she only knew as Mr. Giancarlo.
BBZZZT—
Finally, something, she thought, reaching for her phone. To her surprise, a FaceTime call from a blocked number waited for her answer. Not too hard to figure out who's on the other end.
"Mr. Giancarlo," she answered.
"Hello, Miss Boss Lady."
He didn't use her name for a reason. Is he not alone?
"I got a friend here I think we need to speak with," he said before the camera perspective flipped from the awkward selfie view, to a view of a man seated in the backseat of a car. His face looked scarred, and his hands were zipped-tied together. He looked scared and confused. Good.
"Allow me to introduce you to Dr. Raymond Brewster. We tried to have a little conversation about Mrs. Casten, and he tried to play it off, but his tone changed when I showed him a picture of Miss. Markowski."
"Really? That is interesting," she said.
Alyse could see Brewster's face, but he couldn't see hers. If he did, he'd know she's Anne Casten's daughter. Mr. Giancarlo protected her. Alyse appreciated that.
"I'm not saying a word without my lawyer!" Brewster shouted.
"You think my friend here cares about your lawyer?"
Alyse didn't need to see Mr. Giancarlo's face to know he's smiling. She needed to make this count.
"Tell me about the Nightcrawler," Alyse said.
"What?"
The stupid look on Brewster's face told enough of a story. It didn't mean she couldn't learn more.
"The Nightcrawler was a serial killer who murdered his victims by stabbing them in the kidney and slitting their throat."
"Why, isn't that the same way Kelly Markowski and Jim Casten died?" Her ally added.
Brewster knew something. He turned his head from left to right, looking for a way to escape, but there's no way out. He's trapped there with them.
"Look, I had nothing to do with Anne Casten."
"Bullshit!" She screamed. "She had one date with you and disappeared for five days before killing her husband! Was that the plan? Tell her to lie low for a couple days and then spring it on him together?"
"No! I don't know what happened!"
"What about Markowski?" The man aiming the phone added.
Brewster started fidgeting. This one struck a deeper nerve than the Casten's.
"I can't explain it, but...but I have these dreams, more like nightmares, where I can see myself killing her. But it's like I'm standing outside myself, watching me do it." Dr. Brewster's eyes glazed over when describing the incident. Almost like his brain slipped into autopilot while using the same words her mother did explaining the murder.
"But I've never seen her before, I didn't actually do it! I swear!" It seemed Dr. Brewster realized he may've inadvertently confessed to murder.
Alyse didn't believe him. Not that he didn't kill Kelly Markowski, she's positive he did that. She didn't think Ray Brewster didn't have anything to do with her father's murder. Though she and her sister walked in and found their mother covered in blood with the weapon in her hand, Alyse knew he had something to do with it. He didn't stab her father, but this shady doctor was involved. He had to be.
"Tell me about your date with Mrs. Casten. Where did you guys go? What did you eat for dinner? What color was Anne Casten's dress?"
Why did Mr. Giancarlo ask that? What did it have to do with anything? But as she watched Brewster squirm from behind the digital window, she saw a man who couldn't answer.
"Dr. Brewster, you know there is video of the two of you. I know you had dinner with her. You know you had dinner with her. All I'm asking is where the two of you went. I know the answer. Do you?"
Brewster couldn't say the word no. It's like his mouth suddenly became inoperable. He just sat there, shaking his head with a dumbfounded look on his face.
"Kelly Markowski's body was found on March 4th. Where were you that day?"
Still the same. Brewster couldn't answer if he tried. Like he tried remembering, but pulling the memory was like deadlifting a thousand pounds. Even if he wanted to recall it, he was incapable. Like being mentally impotent.
Alyse heard enough. "Dr. Brewster, what is the last clear memory you have?"
"February 23rd, I had a lunch meeting with a pharma rep. His name was Dan Soto. I remember cause it was Dorie's birthday. I was supposed to take her to Outback for steaks, but Soto came into the office. We did a lot of business together, so I had to take the meeting. We took those Outback reservations. I remember cause Dorie was so pissed. After that, everything is kinda fuzzy."
"I'm done with this," Alyse said, pressing the red button on her phone.
She didn't care what Mr. Giancarlo did to that scumbag.
XI
From its inception, Glendale, Missouri was a community built on wealth and country charm. The suburb, west of St. Louis, was settled before the outbreak of the Civil War and had largely remained the same. It's a quiet community and one of the least racially diverse cities in the state. Jericho pulled the Humvee up to a two-story New England-style cedar shake home, with its wrap-around porch and thick, green lawn on Parkland Avenue. He stepped out of the hummer and looked around the charming, white-bread borough. A man across the street in khaki golf shorts, mowing his lawn, stopped and stared at the wall of a man with long dreadlocks standing near his monstrous, far from eco-friendly vehicle.
Jericho smiled and waved. "Hey, neighbor! How bout them Cards?"
The neighbor shook his head and went back to his lawn. He's probably too worried about Jericho's presence dropping his property values to talk about the city's beloved baseball team with someone who looked like him. Which of course, made the traveling assassin smile. Sometimes there are better ways to hurt people without weapons.
Back to business.
Jericho and Alyse needed to meet, but location was an issue. This conversation needed to be a little heavier in tone and would need something more discreet than the local Starbucks. Meeting clients is always tricky, it's why he preferred to do it over the phone, old school; but this job is different. Alyse had already done a lot of the groundwork and research, which made finding their first target so much easier. But it also meant the direction things needed to move required further discussion. Jericho could see where things were headed, and the sad fact is, he's going to need the client's help.
It was her call to meet at her parent's old house, which according to her father's will, belonged to his client. An eight hundred thousand dollar home in the hands of a twenty-year-old. Horrifying.
Jericho rang the doorbell and looked around the neighborhood as the sun set. Even after living in Provo all these years, he still didn't feel welcome in places like this. Something about being in the old Confederacy always put him on edge. The dickhead mowing his lawn didn't help. The sooner this job is done, the faster he could get out of here.
The door opened, but it wasn't Alyse on the other side. It was another girl. She was shorter, with a rounder face. Jamie Casten, the fourteen-year-old little sister, had a more innocent look to her than the client. Of course, she was younger and hadn't gone out of her way to research a serial killer, or hire an assassin. She's just a kid. When this is all over, he hoped she still was.
"Can I help you?" She asked.
"I'm looking for your sister," Jericho said in the most passive way possible. Intimidation is a big part of his game, but he had no plans on making the kid believe she's anything other than protected.
Jamie didn't say a word, but it's apparent that she didn't buy that this guy
could have anything to do with her sister. She clearly didn't believe him, but didn't know how to express that disbelief.
"Thank you, Jamie," Alyse said, stepping in front of her sister and opening the screen door.
"You know this guy, Alyse?"
"He's helping me with some of Mom and Dad's legal stuff. Jamie, this is Mr. Giancarlo."
Jericho smiled and nodded at the kid, which seemed to intimidate her even more as she stepped behind her sister. That didn't go over as well as he would have liked.
"Hey, Jame, this is kinda important. Would you mind hanging out upstairs while we talk?"
"Can I go to Shelly's instead?"
"Sure."
"Thanks!"
Jamie gave her big sister a hug and looked back at Jericho with an uncomfortable glance. Jamie took off out the backdoor so she wouldn't have to pass him. She understood he was no good. Smart kid.
When Alyse was sure her sister was gone, she turned back to the man in black.
"What happened with Dr. Love?"
"He turned himself in to the Belleville Police."
"Really?"
"He wasn't a fan of the other choice I gave him."
It was easier to leave it at that. Alyse knew what she hired, but didn't need the details.
"Do you believe him?" She asked.
"About what?"
"Do you think he helped kill my dad?"
"You were here. You see him anywhere?"
Alyse turned away. Her mother was alone when she took the knife. But that didn't mean Ray Brewster was innocent.
"You read about Dan Soto?" Jericho asked.
"I did."
Dan Soto was a thirty-three-year-old pharmaceutical rep. A high paid, legal drug dealer. He was also dead. He killed his wife, Isabella, twenty-nine, and then committed suicide three days later. Isabella died after being stabbed in the back and cut across the throat. Dan hung himself in the family living room after leaving Cody, their dog, at his mother's house.
"So, you know we can't talk to him, but there's a trail."
"A trail that leads where?" Alyse threw her hands into the air.
"Soto and Brewster didn't meet at that steakhouse. They connected before that at a hotel in O'Fallon, Illinois. A Drury Inn."
"So?"
"I was able to read the police report. Your mom and Brewster's date was at the Hilton Inn near the Lambert airport. They met for drinks. Kelly Markowski disappeared after checking into the Hilton across the street from Busch Stadium in downtown St. Louis. You see?"
"Hotels?"
"Hotels with bars. I got no clue if this new Nightcrawler has anything to do with the one from back in the day, but this new one has a hotspot."
"How did you read the police reports?"
"Don't worry about it."
Alyse took a seat on her couch and stared off into space, trying to process the information. She saw the pattern, but the killer was someone different every time. Even if the MO is the same, how could they make a real connection?
"I'm confused," she finally said.
"What if this Nightcrawler isn't the killer, but the one making people kill?" Jericho asked.
"What does that mean?"
"Charles Manson died in prison, but never actually killed anyone. He just pushed people in the right direction."
Alyse still wasn't following. She walked over to her father's liquor cabinet and reached for the bottle of Dewars. She popped the top and poured herself a drink.
"Want one?" She offered.
"Pass."
"More for me," she said, throwing back the drink. "Are you suggesting there's some kind of cult leader brainwashing people into becoming murderers?"
"No. That'd make sense. In my old job, I heard stories about mind control, turning everyday folks into weapons without them knowing."
"Are you serious?" Alyse asked as she poured another drink.
"They're stories, but these people supposedly had vague memories of what they did. Both Brewster and your mom talked about watching themselves do it, like they were somehow detached. Dan Soto killed himself three days after murdering his wife. Almost like he suddenly realized what he'd done a few days after. Most murder/suicides don't have that big of a gap in between."
Alyse looked back at the man she hired and couldn't believe his words. But she didn't offer anything to rebut them either.
"So, you're saying the Nightcrawler isn't a killer. He just likes to watch."
"Maybe?"
Alyse took another drink and poured a fresh glass of whiskey. The more she processed this, the more she needed the alcohol. She envied her mother's brain and its ability to detach.
She took the entire glass down in one gulp. She strained her face and asked, "Then what do we do?"
"We level up this little investigation. We go undercover."
XII
The Chase Hotel is a legendary institution in the city of St. Louis. Officially known as The Chase Park Plaza Royal Sonesta St. Louis Hotel, the luxurious hotel was built in 1922 and had been considered the hotel since. Overlooking St. Louis' Forest Park, the Gateway City's answer to Central Park, the immense building that housed both a luxury hotel and high-priced condominiums. For thirty years, KPLR TV produced a professional wrestling program called Wrestling at the Chase in the famed ballroom. The sight of mid-century gladiators battling in a ring under crystal chandeliers, while dressed-to-the-nines archway socialites dined on fine cuisine was surreal. Jackie Robinson fought to desegregate the hotel in 1953, six years after breaking into the Major Leagues and shattering its color barrier.
Ethan Jericho stepped through the door of the Preston, the renown restaurant connected the Chase, and quickly scanned the scene. The clientele weren't quite the social elites who fifty years ago might have watched Pat O'Connor and Lou Thez battle for the NWA World Title while dining on chateaubriand. But they all had money. Money spent on overpriced alcohol and from the smell, pretty damn good stakes.
With his locks tied back behind his head, Jericho left behind his normal attire of black tactical cargo pants and black Under Armour t-shirt. He traded the usual threads in for a gray Armani suit with a black, silver, and gray tie. The undercover game isn't something Jericho often did, but when he did, he knew how to commit to the gimmick. Even his sunglasses, which are as much a trademark as a medical necessity, were missing. He squinted his gray colored eyes, damaged in flash bomb explosion years earlier, as he adjusted to the dimly lit bar. He looked good. He looked professional. Not like a professional. More like a man of business, with a taste for the finer things, which was true. A slightly different image he needed to project for this job.
Jericho took a seat at the granite-top bar and gazed down at the green and white tiled floor. For a beautiful, classic hotel, the floor is hideous.
"What'll you have?" Asked the tall bartender with the shaved head.
"Lime and soda."
The bartender surprisingly raised an eyebrow, as if he didn't believe the order. He paused for a moment and leaned in to make sure he heard the man with the thick dreads and linebacker shoulders correctly. Jericho didn't react. The bartender nodded and got to work on slicing a lime. Normally, Jericho would opt for a glass of water, but tonight he had to look like a guy who'd be hanging out at a bar, and the drink would pass muster for anyone looking.
Jericho looked across the room and saw a gorgeous young woman with dark hair in a form-fitting red dress. She was stunning. He watched as two different men stopped in their paths just to take a look at her. Both debated talking to her, but only ended up wandering away like a dog who tried to challenge the alpha and wound up short. She was perfect, which was exactly the idea.
-Jericho made a couple calls to a friend who made Alyse over, so she looked less like a twenty-year-old college kid and more like a burgeoning fixture on the city's social scene. Watching guys in their thirties and forties trying to work up the nerve to talk to her, only to back away, was humorous. Or at least, it was the first two nights
. Now it got a little old.
This was the fifth night in a row where the two of them had staked out a high-class city hotel. The previous four nights turned no leads at all. Jericho still isn't sure what to make of the supposed Nightcrawler, but everything pointed toward hook-ups at trendy hotel bars. Not regular city bars, but ones connected to major hotels and airports. It's an easy MO to find if someone knew that these crimes were at all related. Jericho didn't fully buy it, but couldn't deny a pattern when he saw one. Another problem was, the various potential Nightcrawlers seemed to be both men and women. That's why both of them had to be undercover, even if they'd rather be anywhere else.
The bartender slid Jericho his lime and soda. He stoically nodded his head and took a drink.
This is stupid. What the hell is he doing? What are they looking for? He never should have taken this job. Now that he was in, how could he get out? He could walk. It's not like Alyse is going to file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau. Honestly, he should finish that drink and walk right out the door. This whole thing was just a waste of—
"You seem upset," said a voice.
Jericho looked up to find a woman with short, blonde hair and incredible green eyes wearing a silver cocktail dress. She smiled, eyeing him up like a lioness stumbling on a gazelle. Jericho wasn't a relationship kind of guy, but he knew that look. He smiled and took another sip, wondering what she planned to do with that gazelle.
"Rough day at work," he finally said.
Jericho's eyes wandered across the bar to Alyse, who watched from her stool across the bar. They made quick eye contact, which they both agreed was the signal to commence the mission. The mission was to find the Nightcrawler, by any means possible.
"I'm Katie," she said.
"Eric," he said, looking down to her half-empty glass. "Chardonnay?"