The Deepest Wound

by Rick Reed

  “But why would my uncle get involved with them? He was always a shoo-in for governor. And what was Bob Rothschild going to get out of it?”

  “The FBI said Bob was going to get in the witness protection program. He told them the rest of the story. If Trent was elected governor, Bob would become lieutenant governor. He planned to run for governor when Trent stepped down. It was Bob who had contacts with the organization in Atlantic City. It was Bob who called them for help when . . .”

  Jack took Brooke’s hand and said, “I don’t know if you want to hear the rest of this. If you’re not up to it, I can tell you later. You already know most of it. Maybe you should get some rest.”

  She was not going to be fobbed off as a medical patient. “Maybe you should just tell me. I’m just wounded. I’m not a basket case, Jack.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you,” he said, though a part of him still wanted to spare her from truth.

  “Trent killed Nina,” he said. “She had worked on his campaign with Bob, and everything was fine until she found out about a sexual liaison between Trent and Hope Dupree.”

  The only reaction from Brooke was a quick blink. “Really?”

  “Nina had a diary on her office computer. Moira found it and showed it to me. In the diary Nina said that she had found out about someone in the prosecutor’s office trading dismissed charges for sexual favors. Apparently Hope had somehow communicated with Nina and told her about Trent. According to the diary, Nina didn’t believe it and did some research.”

  Brooke said, “The list on the thumb drive.”

  Jack nodded. “The diary didn’t name anyone, but apparently Nina was having an affair with Trent. When I first read the diary I assumed it was Eric.” Before she could comment he said, “Don’t worry, I don’t suspect him of anything more than being a prick. Trent had called him and asked him to go to Nina’s to check her welfare. This was the day of Katie’s engagement party. So, anyway, Trent told Eric where to find the key to Nina’s door. I’ve talked to Eric and he said he didn’t tell on Trent because he didn’t want to ‘make waves.’ Can you believe that?”

  “Not everyone is as ethical as you, Jack,” she said, somewhat sarcastically, and he grinned.

  “So, I questioned Eric at length.” He gave a satisfied smirk. “He finally admitted that he, too, was having an affair with Nina. He had his own key to her house, but he pitched it in a dumpster after he discovered she had been murdered.

  “He was actually glad Trent had called him because he wanted to make sure that if we found his fingerprints, he would have a good excuse. He did all this after identifying her head at the morgue. So he went into a possible crime scene before we could get there to try to destroy evidence. Unfortunately, I couldn’t arrest him. The chief wouldn’t let me.”

  “Felony prickery,” Brooke suggested.

  “There’s that,” Jack said. He was glad to not go into the true depths of Trent’s sordid sexual past. Brooke didn’t need to carry those memories of her uncle, even if he was a scumbag.

  “So, what you’re telling me is my uncle was dirty, and in bed with the mob? And now he’s dead, and Bob and one of the killers get a free ride?”

  “I was turning Trent over to the FBI when he took his own life. I’m sorry you had to go through that, Brooke.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “I still don’t understand how you got all of this from Hallard before the ambulance arrived. In about—what—three minutes?”

  “I was very convincing,” Jack said. “Do you want to hear the rest?”

  She made a vague wave at all of the medical equipment surrounding her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He continued. “Clint said they were sent here to get rid of a woman’s body that someone else had killed.”

  “Was that Nina?” Brooke asked.

  “Yes. Clint said they met a man inside Nina’s house. The guy was in a panic and Clint got him out of there.” He paused. “He said the guy was driving a silver sports convertible.”

  “Bob Rothschild,” Brooke said. “But what about Hope Dupree and the guy in Harrisburg?”

  “Clint said that when they were on their way to Evansville, their boss called and said they needed to take care of another job in Illinois. The pimp with Hope was collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time. Clint said the boss knew about the old MS-13 murders in Harrisburg, and so they were supposed to make it look like gang killings. That’s why they left the heads.”

  “Let me guess. They were supposed to make Nina disappear, but then parts of her turned up at the dump and that threw a wrench in their plan . . .”

  “And so they were told to stay and kill some more women to make it look like a serial killer,” Jack finished her thought.

  Brooke’s painkillers were kicking in and she looked sleepy. She said, “Trent insisted that the killings were MS-13. He knew all along who and why the killings were taking place, didn’t he? That’s why he brought me in. I was family, so he thought he could control the investigation.”

  Brooke took Jack’s hand, and tears welled in her eyes. “He was my uncle, Jack. He took me fishing at that cabin. Drank beer with my father. Attended every graduation from high school through the police academy. I was so proud to be his niece. I can’t hate him. I can’t—” Her words were choked off by a torrent of tears.

  Jack leaned over the bed and gently held her. No offense meant to Liddell, but she was as good a partner as he’d ever had. He wished he could take her pain away, both physically and emotionally.

  Brooke lifted her face and asked, “So what now?”

  “Clint Hallard and Bob Rothschild are in a federal holding facility until the FBI decides what to do with them. With any luck they’ll costar in a movie, Desperate Housewives of San Quentin.”

  She laughed at that crack and wiped away her tears with one hand. “What about Cinderella?”

  The dog had turned out to be a miracle story. “That mutt should have been a cat. Talk about nine lives. She was found by one of the officers searching around my cabin.” He didn’t mention that Cinderella had been shot. The bullet had taken out a chunk of scalp, but her hard head saved her life.

  “How is Moira?” Brooke asked.

  “She’s not even going to have a scar,” Jack said.

  “Well, she’s a lawyer. They have nine lives, too, don’t they?”

  Katie and Moira rode to the third floor in the hospital elevator. They wanted to offer their condolences to Brooke for the loss of her uncle, and to thank her for saving Moira’s life.

  “Sis, I’m so glad you aren’t going to marry that stuffed shirt!” Moira blurted out.

  “I’m so glad you approve,” Katie said dryly.

  “Damn right, I approve,” Moira said, and impatiently punched the button for the third floor. “Jack wouldn’t tell you, but Eric has a reputation for being a womanizer.”

  Katie gave Moira a hard look and sighed. “That is my fiancé you’re talking about, Moira.”

  “Ex. Ex-fiancé, sis. And he really, really creeped me out.”

  Katie was grateful that Moira needed nothing more than a tetanus shot and some Steri-Strips for her injuries, but her emotions and self-worth had been sorely tested by what she’d gone through. Katie only wished some Steri-Strips would hold her own emotions together.

  She didn’t know now why she had fallen for Eric. Sure, he was good-looking, and was charming when he wanted to be, but he didn’t have the personality that would allow him to settle with one woman. She had always known that on some level, but she so desperately didn’t want to end up alone.

  “When I told Eric I wanted to call the marriage off, I think he was relieved,” Katie said. She had worried herself to death about how to tell him, and had finally decided that she owed it to him to tell him face-to-face. It had been easier than she thought. When she told Eric that it was over between them, he just shrugged and said, “Your loss.” Then he walked away—to his next conquest, no doubt.

  Moira hugged he
r sister.

  “Are you going to stay with the prosecutor’s office?” Katie asked. She and Moira had had a long talk about that topic. Moira didn’t want Eric for a boss, and even with all that had happened, it looked like he was going to take Trent’s place as prosecutor. She had decided to move on.

  “I’m seriously thinking about hanging out my own shingle,” Moira said. “That is, if I can stay with you for a while.” The elevator arrived at the third floor, and Moira added, “Katie, you’ve got to tell Jack how you feel.”

  “It’s too late,” she said, although it was her feelings for Jack that made her realize she didn’t love Eric. She had known it from the moment she invited Jack to the engagement party, but the thought of being alone, of not having her feelings returned by Jack, was just too much to endure.

  Moira put her arms around Katie and whispered in her ear, “Jack still loves you. He has always loved you. Don’t you know that by now? You belong together. Don’t let him get away, sis.”

  The elevator doors slid open, and Moira pushed Katie out in the hall, saying, “Liddell told me Jack is visiting Brooke. I’m going to give you two a chance to talk. I mean you and Jack, of course. I’ll come back up and see Brooke in a bit.”

  “Wait,” Katie said, but the elevator doors shut.

  Katie stood there for a moment, and then slowly walked down the hallway toward Brooke’s room. Moira’s right. To hell with my head. I need to tell Jack what is in my heart. But her confidence flagged as she approached the door. What if he doesn’t feel the same as I do?

  She hesitated, and then with a smile on her face, she pushed on the door.

  “I’m thinking about resigning,” Brooke said.

  Jack shook his head. “They would lose a great investigator.”

  “I have a law degree,” she said. “I could join a law firm.”

  Jack stared at her.

  “I know. I know. You hate lawyers.”

  He smiled, leaned over, and gently hugged her. “If that’s what you decide, I’ll make an exception. I guess I owe you that.”

  Jack didn’t know if it was the painkillers she was on, or the bonding between two people that had just narrowly skirted death, but she began kissing him. He was trying to unlatch from her embrace when Brooke suddenly looked over at the door. She pushed him away, and said, “Oh! I think that was your Katie.”

  “My God! Katie!” Jack jumped up and rushed out of the room.

  He reached the end of the hallway and saw Katie standing alone at the back of the elevator with a hurt expression on her face.

  “Katie, wait!” He ran, yelling, “Wait a minute. Katie. Wait.”

  As the elevator the doors shut, he saw the look of betrayal in her eyes and heard the elevator’s descending hum.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not have been possible without my wife, Jennifer. She held my hand from the idea to delivery, listened to ten million versions of scenes, names, dialogue, and unfunny jokes, and never once asked for a divorce. Instead she listened patiently, gave her honest opinion—good or bad—and then brought me a Scotch. She’s my jackpot.

  To my editor, Michaela Hamilton and all of the staff at Kensington who worked so hard behind the scene. I hope this book meets your approval. Thanks for everything you attempted to teach this old man.

  My brothers, Mike and Tim, and my brother-in-law, Jeff Hudgins, offered priceless suggestions during the development of this book and any errors of fact are all mine.

  My biggest thanks goes to all of you who enjoyed this book. You are the reason I write.

  BONUS MATERIAL

  If you enjoyed The Deepest Wound,

  please keep reading to enjoy an exciting preview of

  THE HIGHEST STAKES

  A JACK MURPHY THRILLER

  Coming from Lyrical Underground in Fall 2016.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chicago’s financial district

  The steady June downpour in Chicago’s financial district didn’t stop the workforce from hurrying about their daily tasks. The storm came up suddenly, umbrellas sprouted and those women who came to work unprepared held scarves over their head, while men pulled up their coat collars. A hive of worker ants, they streamed along the sidewalks, impervious to the rain, to each other—to Mr. Smith inside the shiny black Hummer.

  He punched a number into his iPhone and held it in his lap. From his vantage point at Wacker and LaSalle he could see the Chicago River meandering along on his right, the Sears Building looming impossibly tall just behind him, but, most importantly, he had a clear view of the Bank of America two blocks distant.

  He was of average height, average weight and build. His mousy brown hair was cut not too long and not too short. Only his lifeless gray eyes were remarkable. Dressed in dark clothing behind dark-tinted windows, only the intermittent movement of the wiper blades gave his presence away.

  He continued to watch the Bank of America, or more precisely, the telephone booth on the sidewalk next to the bank. In the last hour alone he watched a dozen or more people duck into the booth to hide something in a briefcase or a purse that they didn’t want drenched with rain. No one stayed inside the booth for more than a few moments. He wondered if they sensed they were putting themselves in harm’s way and thought it not likely. The average person made it through each day by pure luck and not by skill or alertness.

  The target would be in the phone booth at noon awaiting a call. Mr. Smith’s employers had picked the location because it would facilitate a hit and run. He thought it had a more appealing feature. One that wasn’t so boring.

  His eyes gave the barest hint of recognition as a middle-aged gentleman, stepped out of the bank. He pulled the collar up on his twelve hundred dollar Brooks Brothers suit coat, walked down the steps, folded his newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and entered the glass and aluminum rectangle that would soon become his tomb.

  It was time. Mr. Smith started the Humvee, put it in gear and hit the cancel button on his iPhone.

  The shock wave from the blast violently rocked the Humvee. Mr. Smith watched in morbid fascination as bodies were thrown about like rag dolls, some landing on the sidewalk, some had been hurled into the street, some landed on top of cars. The unlucky ones, those closest to the blast, were now a sticky film on his windshield.

  Those lucky enough to live were frantically running away, others crawling or rolling around with their clothing aflame, their flesh melted by the heat, internal organs damaged from the blast. It was beautiful.

  A woman staggered out of the chaos and smoke and stumbled against his window. The left half of her face and most of hair were melted. She clawed at the door with skinless fingers and collapsed. He allowed himself a smile.

  Washington, D.C.

  Three blocks north of the National Cathedral in the nation’s capital Mr. Smith waited for Pamela to come home. He could smell her scent in every room. Faint, but it was still there.

  He met Pamela last year during an assignment in D.C. She tended bar at a downtown nightclub facetiously named Madam’s Organ. He had introduced himself as Alex Stanhope, day trader. When he awoke beside her the next morning he had been surprised. Not by the fact that he’d slept with a beautiful woman, but that he had actually stayed the night.

  He found he enjoyed her company and she his, so he rented a condo and let her live there as part of his cover. She worked the nightclub and he stayed with her as often as possible. She had never once questioned his prolonged absences, or his need for angry sex immediately upon his return. His cover job perfectly explained his strange and frequent absences and narcissistic lifestyle. Lying about whom he was and what he did was like taking a breath. Involuntary yet necessary.

  In Columbus, Ohio, he was Daniel Whitcomb, who ran a successful consulting business. In Seattle, he was Professor Douglas Levin, on sabbatical from Shoreline College where he taught Criminal Justice. There were many others, and in each location there was someone to complete his cover. But of all these ident
ities he preferred being Alex Stanhope because Pamela was like no one he had ever known, and the Agency didn’t know of her existence, or of the condo, and keeping them in the dark was extremely satisfying.

  The killing in Chicago had also been satisfying. He was tired of creating accidents, and suicides. He truly enjoyed killing. The bean counters at the Agency had become soft, politically correct, worried about public opinion or political fallout or budget hearings or congressional oversight. Only in the aftermath of 9/11 had he been truly happy. He was like Hercules unchained, doing what he was born to do.

  But he knew he had stepped over a line in Chicago. The pussies in the Agency were likely wringing their hands and crying like old women. Or more likely, doing damage control, eliminating any thread of connection between themselves and the Chicago incident. He was one of those threads.

  The condo was dark. He looked at the luminous face of his watch. It was almost time. He had turned the forced air off, silenced the ticking of the wall clock, sat on the sofa, closed his eyes, and let his senses take over. Pamela would be walking in the door at exactly one a.m. She was very punctual for a woman. He would wait for her. Hopefully spend one more evening with her. And then he would have to kill her and move on. Such a waste.

  He heard soft footfalls on the hall stairway. She always rode the elevator. He should have heard the hum of the motor and the clattering noise the doors made when they opened. She was five minutes early. There was no sound in the hallway of someone coming toward the door, but he could feel the slight movement in the floor. Definitely not Pamela.

  He knelt beside the sofa and retrieved a handgun he had taped underneath the coffee table. He thumbed the guns safety to the ‘fire’ position, stepped into the bathroom, and stood with his back against the doorframe.