Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2)

by Steele, Suzanne

  “Yeah, well, he doesn’t know you, does he?”

  “No ma’am, but he will. I can assure you, he will.”

  “What are we going to do when this job is over?”

  “My goodness, have I created a monster? You’re already looking forward to your next kill. I don’t the pick the kills, love; they pick me. I’m joking about it, but there can be a feeling of depression after it’s all over. In an odd way, we have a purpose, and when the job is over, there can sometimes be a sense of loss. After a kill, I usually spend time making certain there is no evidence out there that can lead back to me—now us. The only person I think who is interested in or even capable of catching us is Agent Turner.”

  “You’re pretty confident in yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not trying to be cocky. I’m simply making a statement. It’s because I’m so careful that I remain free, and even though Black Rose’s alter ego is a public figure, I keep him off the grid.”

  “So, you have an alter ego, huh?”

  “As do you, my love. You’re still sorting through how you’ll come to grips with being a killer. I accepted that I’m a monster years ago.”

  “Well, that’s true.”

  Now, I really just want to change the subject. I don’t like it that he thinks of himself as a monster.

  “Look at this,” I say, picking up a framed picture of the four men standing together at one of Richard’s seminars.”

  My husband walks over and takes it from my hand, speaking as if he’s talking directly to the group.

  “This could very well be the last picture this little group of ghouls ever took together. One thing is for sure; with two down and two to go, they will never take a group photo again. They grew up together, so I think it’s rather fitting they should all die in the same time period.” He sets the picture down and eyes me. “Don’t you?”

  “I most certainly do.”

  Chapter Forty Six

  Agent Turner

  I waited a day because I’ve been doing this job long enough to know exactly what’s going on in Brandon Jenkin’s head. It’s easy to be bold when you’re the first one questioned by the police, but having people drop like flies around you has got to have an effect on even the most determined suspects. I intentionally let that fear work on him before we went back to question him again. I won’t be taking him downtown for this little talk; I don’t anticipate there being any need to do so. Fear will break his silence. It has a wonderful way of making people talk. When you’re afraid, you’re going to reach out for the closest lifeline, even if it is an FBI agent.

  Even the strongest of people fear death. The will to survive is in all of us as an innate, primal instinct. Walking around, knowing there’s a price on your head, is terrifyingly stressful because you don’t know when or how it’s coming. It keeps you in a perpetual state of fear. You’re constantly looking over your shoulder, trying to anticipate when the grim reaper will come to collect his due. Then there are the agonizingly relentless thoughts, wondering if it will be quick and efficient, or slow and excruciating. It can wear a man down to be on the run. I’ve seen hardened criminals express great relief when they’re finally caught, just for the mere fact that they were tired of running.

  Yes, I know his fear is working in my favor, and I’m damn sure going to use it to my advantage. I am tired of my days being filled with the temptation to let Black Rose have his way with these goons. When I was sworn in to the agency, I made an oath that I intend to keep. As time goes on, though, it gets harder and harder to stay committed to those ideals. Some sick part of me knows that the quicker we get these last two men in custody, the quicker the spotlight will be taken off Black Rose. I came to terms with the part of me that doesn’t want him getting caught a long time ago. He’s effectively wormed his way into my life, developing a bond with me, and that isn’t an easy thing to do. The only other person who has succeeded in doing so is my partner, Rene.

  “Do you think he’ll talk today?” my partner asks as she pulls open the door to the bar.

  “Well, we’re about to find out.”

  Brandon Jenkins sees us immediately and shakes his head as if to say, you guys are relentless. He’s right; we are. You have to be in our line of work to understand and appreciate the dogged determination Rene and I have when it comes to our cases. I halfway expect him to take off running. Working law enforcement, you never know what a person of interest or a suspect will do. I learned a long time ago to not take anything for granted. Hell, I’ve seen people pull guns, knowing their behavior would be perceived as threatening, so they could go down using suicide by cop. They didn’t have the nerve to pull the trigger themselves, so they force the hand of an officer to do it for them. This guy doesn’t fit the profile for someone like that, but like I said, I take nothing for granted.

  He stops rinsing off the beer mugs he’s washing and dries off his hands, giving us his full attention.

  “How ‘bout we go and talk somewhere more private.”

  He doesn’t respond to us, just informs the guy helping him man the bar that he’ll be back in fifteen minutes.

  We make our way over to a quiet corner table and sit down. I take my standard seat where I can watch the patrons and other employees. Sitting in a position to where I have a clear line of sight to the door became a habit years ago. I like my back to the wall and my eyes on the entrance points. This way, no one will be sneaking up behind me, and I can see who is coming and going. It may seem paranoid to some, but hunting serial killers will make you that way.

  “He’s coming for me, isn’t he?”

  I’m not going to lie to the guy, so I tell him, “Yes, it’s only a matter of time at this point.”

  “Man, my head is so fucked-up. It’s all I can do to even function. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and I live in constant fear.”

  It takes all the self-control I have to not tell him he’s getting what he deserves. I mean, seriously, is this douchebag looking for sympathy from us? He abducted and tortured those women. They spent days feeling terrified, demeaned, and wondering when they would die at the hands of their brutal captors. What’s wrong with this fucking picture? I’m baffled, I really am. He’s experiencing the same thing his victims did, and he doesn’t get it. I need information from him, or I would set his ass straight. One of the hardest things about my job is sitting down with guys like this and hiding my feelings because I need them to talk. I keep reminding myself that it’s about getting Richard Roundtree off the streets and behind bars where he can’t kill again.

  “Don’t you think it would be better to tell us where Richard is hiding out? The prosecutor will be more willing to work a deal if you do.”

  “Can they put me in protective custody?”

  “In jail, sure. I think we both know you’re going to do time for this, but if you tell us where he is, you’ll do less time. Did you kill any of the women?”

  “Hell no, we just brought them to Richard. I got nothin’ left to fuckin’ lose. That bastard is the reason my life’s in danger. If it hadn’t been for Richard fuckin’ Roundtree I wouldn’t be in this position.”

  Once again, I bite my tongue. As far as I’m concerned, this guy is just as guilty as Richard Roundtree. He willingly brought the women to him, and he participated in their torture. How can someone sit back and not only witness the heinous crimes committed against these women, but also egg it on and do nothing to stop it? It’s beyond my comprehension. In my mind, they’re nothing but a pack of wolves in mob mentality mode, and they deserve whatever they get. One of the hardest things about my job is hiding my emotions while I question a dirtbag, especially one that, deep down inside, I loathe. I have to constantly remind myself I am doing it for the families who need justice and closure, or at least some semblance of those things.

  “Fuck Richard Roundtree,” he speaks again as if convincing himself. “I owe him nothing. Have you got a pen?”

  With
that, he writes the address down on a napkin and starts to pass it to me. As he stretches his hand out to me, he has second thoughts and pulls it away before I can grab it. The air is thick with anticipation. I’m so close. He looks at us and makes one last request.

  “Let me spend one more night in my home, and I’ll turn myself in to my lawyer tomorrow. He can accompany me down to your office.”

  I lean in, and though my voice is calm, I know there’s fire in my eyes.

  “Don’t even think about running. There’s no place on God’s green earth that you can hide from me. Don’t even try to fuck me over.”

  I bite the statements out with a look on my face that lets him know I am dead serious.

  “I won’t; I got nothin’ left. I just want one more night in my home.”

  “You got it,” I state, taking the napkin and getting up before he can say anything else. I wanted that address and now I have it.

  My partner’s questioning me before I even get out the door of the establishment.

  “What the fuck was that? You know he’s going to run.”

  I wait until we get in the car and I’ve started it before I answer.

  “Do you actually think I would let him have one more night at home without putting a tail on him? If the son of a bitch runs, it’ll be all I need for all bets to be off. The only thing running will accomplish is me unleashing judicial wrath on him because I can assure you, he’ll never get away.”

  “So, you’re hoping he runs?”

  “I’m hoping the bastard gets everything he’s got coming to him. Karma’s a bitch, and if it comes in the form of Black Rose, then so be it!”

  Yeah… I guess you could say I’ve bonded with a serial killer.

  Chapter Forty Seven

  The Killer

  I look around at the fabulous vacation home I own, filled will all the expensive furnishings I’ve taken such great care to purchase. I’ve spent my adult life making sure, by all outward appearances, that everything in my world is perfect. A lifetime has been spent polishing my public image while, deep down inside, I’m nothing but a cold-blooded murderer. I’m a man who is addicted to killing. I’m a misogynist at heart. I hate women, and that includes my whore of a mother.

  I was raised watching her bring men into my father’s house so she could fuck them in his bed. It wasn’t enough for her to cheat on him. No, she had to degrade him too. He was a coward who buried his head in the sand while the entire town laughed at him behind his back.

  Logically, I know it’s no excuse for my treatment of women, but the hate is so deeply ingrained within me that I know I will never change. There is no rehabilitation for a man like me. The bitter truth of the matter is that I don’t want to be saved, and I damn sure don’t want any future victims to be saved. I want what I’ve always wanted—control.

  Taking these women and torturing them has nothing to do with sex; it’s all about control. Having the ability to control not only the women, but also my lifelong friends on top of it, was the best high I’ve ever experienced. People who once laughed at me when I was a kid were doing my bidding. Granted, my friends weren’t technically the ones laughing, but I’d heard the whispers of their parents. I saw the way they looked at me with so much pity. I’m nobody’s fucking charity case! I wonder what all those well-meaning adults would think if they found out their kids are just as fucked up as me now. I revel in how I’ve brought them down to my level of depravity; they’re no fucking better than me. The way their parents looked at me with such sorrow in their eyes only made me feel more embarrassed about my circumstances. I always felt like I was walking around with some big spotlight over my head, illuminating to the world just how pathetic my life really was. All of that doesn’t even begin to factor in the way my own father treated me, and the beatings I received from him for being a bastard son—spawn of another man’s seed. It was just one more layer on top of all the other issues I already had, and every single one of those problems could be laid at the feet of my whore of a mother.

  I’d spent my childhood with the shame of my mother’s behavior hanging over my head. Taking these women and tormenting them feeds the hatred I carry inside, sating the need I have to make them suffer. In doing this, I’m able to keep the real me hidden from the public, maintaining my image by using them to take the edge off my disdain for the female population. Now, there will be no way to curb the beast within. The party is officially over. If I can’t kill, how will I ever function normally out in society?

  I toss back the rest of my now tepid beer and get up from where I’m sitting on the couch. I stumble through the pizza boxes and half eaten takeout food cartons littering the floor. I don’t enjoy being forced to order in, but it’s how I’ve managed to stay out of sight. I have the delivery guys leave them on the front porch so no one sees my face. My picture has been plastered all over the local news stations, so there’s no doubt I’d be pretty easily recognized. It must not be all that uncommon for people to request doorstep delivery because it hasn’t been an issue. I’m sure the large tips I leave don’t hurt either. I’m a prisoner in my own vacation home. This is the first time I can remember being out of control since I was a kid, and it isn’t fucking fair. Once again, the female population has ruined my life.

  I stumble to the refrigerator and grab another longneck before making my way toward the basement steps. I fumble for the light switch on the wall, willing myself to not fall down the stairs in my drunken state. Lately, I just stay drunk. It’s the one thing I can control. Since being forced into hiding, my life has been one long series of drunken stupors and regrettable moments until I pass out, only to wake up and repeat the insane process all over again.

  I look around at the unfinished basement. I had so many dreams about fixing it up before all the drama started. I had planned on turning it into the perfect prison—somewhere my ultimate fantasy of control could be fulfilled.

  I don’t know how or when I became so sick I would do anything for control. I just know I’m mentally ill now, and I can’t change. There’s no chance of rehabilitation for me, no amount of talking, therapy, or drugs is going to fix my fucked-up state of mind. That’s a thought… Maybe I can plead insanity. I’ll say I’m a sick son of a bitch who can’t help brutalizing women. It would be easy to feign mental illness because even though I’m well aware of what I’m doing, I can’t stop. It won’t be like I’m lying or anything. Do I really want to spend the rest of my life in a mental institution though? At least if I decide to do so, I will be safe from Black Rose, or will I? I’m beginning to think the killer I fear and have always thought of as omnipotent, is omnipresent as well.

  I take a long pull from my beer and grab a wooden back chair, pushing it over and underneath the noose that has been perfectly set up for me. I successfully stand on the chair after my second attempt and place the noose around my neck, making sure to tighten it well. It’s awfully thoughtful of my fellow serial killer to put so much thought into my death—and an important, well-liked hero no less.

  I raise the beer to make my last toast, “Here’s to control… always being in control.” I tip the bottle to my lips, drink the remaining last half, and then kick the chair out from under me. It will be my last act of control.

  Chapter Forty Eight

  Agent Turner

  I take my time driving to Richard Roundtree’s vacation home. It doesn’t even bother me anymore that I’m kind of hoping Black Rose will get to him before I can.

  The only good thing about me catching them first would be it taking the spotlight off the one killer who deserves to live. I pull up to the river house and eye my partner.

  “This guy’s dangerous.”

  “I know the statistics for death by cop.”

  I place my hand gently on her forearm and speak.

  “Though it’s true that I don’t want to be responsible for this guy’s death, my ultimate concern is for you. I don’t know what I would do without you, Rene. You’re the biggest part of my life
. It’s all about you. The job, my trust fund—none of it matters without you in my life.”

  She answers in true Rene fashion.

  “If that son of a bitch tries to hurt either one of us, he’s going down. I’ll put a bullet right between that fucker’s eyes.”

  “Spoken like a true dominate female. I do love a strong, confident woman.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. Leave it to Rene to be so elegant about how she voices her opinion.

  “That’s the girl I know. Let’s clear this place and take this guy in with no issues.”

  We quietly exit the car, making sure not to slam the doors and alert him to our presence. We creep up to the front door as covertly as possible. The fact that the door has been left ajar immediately sends up red flags. I can feel the familiar rush of adrenalin inherent to my job as it surges through my system like a drug. I don’t care how safe or prestigious a neighborhood is; a wanted man doesn’t leave a door open. My immediate thought is that I hope Black Rose has gotten to him before we could. I have never rooted for the bad guy before, but in this case, Black Rose isn’t the monster in the dark I’ve spent my career pursuing—Richard is.

  We ease our way in and around corners. The place is a mess. There are empty beer bottles, pizza boxes, and takeout food containers everywhere, some with old food still in them starting to mold. Flies and ants are swarming the place, eating what’s left of the rotten food. This is not the same man we profiled as an organized serial killer with strong tendencies to be a complete control freak. One of my favorite parts of my job is the profiling aspect. Usually, those profiles change when the killer starts to escalate. He evolves, becoming bolder and more dangerous. This man has clearly devolved. Of course, profiling isn’t a foolproof system. Years of doing it has taught me that it works, but it’s constantly evolving, and it’s a lifelong learning process. As technology advances, so does our understanding of the criminal mind. The debate of nature versus nurture is an ongoing enigma, and technology is enabling us to delve into both aspects more precisely.