This is my luggage. My life is inside this case. I don’t have a home to go to or a family member to watch over them. All I have is what’s inside this briefcase. If she thinks she knows who I am and what I’m about, then this case should be the end of any doubt.
“Sorry, Nikolai, but I have to say this.”
I wave my arm through the air, motioning for her to continue.
“Look, I don’t know who you work for or if you work for anyone, but you’ve been in prison twice because of whatever it is you do.”
“And?” I snap, yanking my shirt over my shoulders and quickly fastening the buttons.
My irritation ignites. I can feel the anger accelerate inside as my blood pumps hard and fast through my veins.
“I am worried about you,” she states, her tone getting more clipped, matching mine. “It’s not like we’re fucking kids anymore, Nikolai. Your life is a ticking time bomb, and sooner or later, your time is going to run out.”
She sighs deeply, anger masking her face. “I haven’t heard from you in eight years. Do you know what was going through my mind? I thought you were dead!” She steps closer, no longer afraid of what I could do to her. That is her first mistake. “Eight Years, Nikolai!”
“I was in prison!” I step toward her, closing the gap between us.
“I know that now, only because you showed up at my door last night, asking for a place to stay. You left your things”—she waves in the direction of my briefcase lying on the bed—“eight years ago and never told me why I needed to hold on to them, just to do it. At least you could have more respect for me.
“When you went to prison at twenty, at least you prepared me and told me about it, but this time, so much is different. You are different.” The tears start to well up in her eyes, her heart breaking with every drop. I find it fascinating for a moment. Then she makes her second mistake. “I … I’m in love with you, Nikolai. I’ve loved you since we were kids.”
I turn my back, slightly stunned. I know this is not going to end well for her. I begin to think the blow job wasn’t worth this much trouble. I don’t deal well with emotional drama.
I shake my head and turn to face her. I lean forward and put my face close to hers. She slumps at the truth clearly visible in my eyes.
“Anna, I don’t love you. I don’t love anyone.”
“What about Rom—”
“Don’t even say his name, bitch!” I shout in her face. It’s her final, fatal mistake. She knows never to speak of him, because as of ten years ago, he doesn't exist.
“Why? Why can’t I say his name? I miss them, too, you know!” she snaps.
I lose all composure. I snatch her neck in my hand and let her see who’s really on the inside. I finally let her see the man she thinks she knows as I squeeze. My fingertips press into her fragile skin as I constrict her windpipe. Her eyes expand then instantly water with the pressure I am putting on her throat.
Gripping her neck tightly, I begin to walk as she stumbles back on her heels. I slam her shaking body to the wall, fully transformed into the man I’ve been most of my life, the man who’s been living in a dungeon for the last eight years.
“Is this what you wanted to see, darling? Is this the man you think you love?” I cock my head to the side and study her eyes, beautiful, dark brown orbs which are widened in surprise by my heinous state. The whys are circling her mind as tears pool in the corners of her eyes. They are filled with desperate pleading since she is verbally unable to beg for her life.
The most detailed stories come from a person’s eyes. Right now, hers are telling me I’m not the person she thought she knew.
“This is who I am, love. I’m not a good man or even an average man. I am a killer. I’m an assassin for Vory V Zakone.”
Her body sags slightly, causing my grip to tighten to keep her upright. Her brown eyes start to glaze over and roll back, exposing the whites of her eyes. The look of death is seeping in, and all I can do is stare into them with fascination.
I loosen my grasp, allowing her to catch a slim breath, but I keep her pinned against the wall with my body. The muscles in her body quiver, vibrating against my chest. She stares back into my eyes, life starting to slowly trickle back in. Then I let go of her completely, and her hot breath grazes my face before she falls completely to the floor.
Gagging and gasping passes through my ear drums as Anna takes a moment to collect herself. She remains wilted on the floor, crying in shock from my vicious attack.
I walk to her closet then pull the rest of my suit off the hanger and finish dressing. I adjust the knot in my tie and cinch it up at my neck. I slip on my suit jacket and slide my leather gloves over my hands. Reaching into my briefcase, I unsheathe my bowie knife from the black leather cover and smile.
The blade catches the light as it glimmers against the wall, and it keeps an eerie smile on my face. The eight-inch steel blade curves slightly up at the end with saw-like teeth on one side. It’s perfect for what I will do once I get my hand on Stravinsky’s men. It’s heavier than I remember, but the black leather handle fits perfectly in my palm as I wrap my fingers around the end.
I turn to her. Anna is still lying on the floor, desperately trying to understand what is going on. This was not my intention when I came to her house last night. I never in my wildest dreams imagined I would be doing this to her, but mistakes are mistakes, and she’s sealed her fate. I have to remain under the radar if my plan is going to work, and if she’s going to pry, then I have no other choice. I cannot risk having loose ends.
I kneel down, showing her my knife and looking over her with a little bit of sadness. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to say good-bye to someone I cared for; however, I can make sure it is the last.
I lean close to her ear and whisper, “I’ve been doing this my entire life, and if I die, then I die. I’m sorry it has to be this way.” I grab her hair in my leather-covered hand and pull her head back. Her eyes, filled with terror, water over and drip down her cheeks. I continue, “But I will not risk being exposed by anyone, and that includes you, my dear. This is my only assurance you won’t talk.” I press my lips to hers, kissing her deeply.
Her lips are soft, warm, and trembling. Before she can even say a word, I plunge the knife into her heart then twist. It connects directly with her pumping organ, and her frame wilts in my arms then slides against the wall. Her eyes roll slightly to the side just as the life vanishes from her body. She’s gone.
Slowly, I pull my knife from her chest and then quickly step back as the blood pours from the wound. I watch it carefully, making sure I am out of the way, and just before it’s about to pool around my shoes, I run my fingers over her eyes, closing her lids, and kiss her on top of her head. “I’m truly sorry, Anna. I will miss you,” I whisper.
My killing ritual commences when I pull a white flower from the vase sitting on her dresser and place it in the palm of her hand. With the tip of my knife, I carve a small V on the inside of her wrist, just below the palm, and then retrieve the rest of my personal items from her closet.
With my briefcase in hand, I head out the door and to the train station. I purchase a ticket, slip into a quiet seat in the back, and ride to Switzerland. With that part of my past behind me, I look out the window as the outside world flashes by and keep my focus on the plan.
Chapter Five
Josslyn
August 6, 2015 9:23 p.m.
I walked off the elevator and into my office twelve hours ago. I was hoping I would have received some kind of report from the medical examiner earlier in the day, something, anything to go off of. However, I have only sat in my chair, staring at a gruesome scene in front of me.
My eyes feel like they are going to explode. I’ve spent the past two days looking over notes, the crime scene pictures, and mentally reviewing the scene. I retraced my steps from the moment I walked under the yellow crime scene tape to the point I arrived back home two days ago. I keep replaying it all in my mind.
I study the clues over and over, frustrated because I don’t have the slightest idea who would murder the Smith family. On top of all that, nothing is coming back in the database for this Ryan Smith guy.
The identification Gabe collected in an upstairs dresser is fake. There is nothing in the system for this man. We’ve run his picture, prints, name, and employment record through every database we have, and it always turns up with nothing. This man is a ghost.
When we ran his wife Monica and children, Ryan II and Leah, they all came back with a positive identification. The children were born at Blythe Harbor Memorial, and Monica was born in Portland thirty years ago. She lived in Russia for a time, but has been in back in the States since her daughter was born. She worked at a local diner as a waitress and was going to community college at night. The kids were enrolled in the local school system. They were all completely legit. So the questions are, who was Ryan Smith, and why doesn’t he exist in any record? Was he an illegal? He had obviously been in the country a long time if he was living here illegally, but where the hell was he from? Or was he a citizen of the United States, but a criminal?
“No, his prints came back clean,” I answer aloud to myself. “He has to be an illegal alien.”
My cell phone rings, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Finally,” I say when I recognize Jim’s number on the screen. I slide my thumb to the right and answer. “It’s about damn time, Jim.”
“Well, I’ve had four bodies to process. It takes time, Josslyn.” I roll my eyes and cringe when Jim blows his nose over the phone. “There isn’t much to tell that you don’t already know. Tests have confirmed the two females were sexually assaulted prior to their death. DNA was collected and sent to the crime lab yesterday. I told them to let you know immediately when the results are in.”
I write the findings in my notebook, anger boiling under the surface. I’ve never had a personal reaction to any case before; however, the terror that little girl experienced right before she died hits way too close to home. I don’t know how I survived mine.
“Do you know the time of death?” I ask, trying to keep myself from tossing a chair across the room. I need to put together a timeline and get my head back in the game.
“Their bodies were pretty fresh when we arrived on scene, only dead a few hours. Decomposition barely started to set in on their organs. My assistant confirmed with Detective O’Connor that Mrs. Smith attended class until ten p.m. on the evening of the third. Police were called on scene at two forty-seven a.m. the morning of the fourth, so I am confirming time of death at twelve a.m. on Tuesday, August fourth.”
This means the man I saw in the crowd that night more than likely was the killer, and he was hanging around to see his handiwork revealed to the world. I expel an irritated sigh.
I thank Jim for his call, and he informs me that he will be sending the official report to my email later today.
I finally look away from the photos and notes to look at an empty office. My desk is in the back corner of the room, as far away as I can be without being locked away in the maintenance closet.
I stand from my desk, rolling my head from side to side and twisting my shoulders. My back is sore from sitting in that damn chair, and my muscles feel exhausted. I turn to the left and head down the small hallway to the kitchenette area.
Our department isn’t anything fancy. You walk off the elevator, take a few steps, then swipe your badge to enter the steel door, and you’re in the homicide department. During business hours, Cathy, our receptionist, is there to greet you and is usually way too chipper for eight o’clock in the morning. Then again, she does make some excellent muffins. My lieutenant’s office is in the corner opposite of mine, and the interrogation rooms are just past the kitchen area.
I round the corner and head right for the coffee maker, making a fresh batch. As the smell of rich coffee fills the air, I dig through the cupboards for something to eat. Finally, tucked in the back of the fridge, I find a candy bar I know Gabe was hiding from everyone. I smile as I pull it from the fridge. Then I lean against the counter, savoring my sweet find as I continue to run through the scene.
This is my problem. Once I get fixated on the details of a crime scene, it’s impossible to get my mind switched to something else. It is all I see, hear, and smell. I have the unyielding determination that keeps my eyes open and my mind solely focused on catching the killer.
The coffee maker gurgles, alerting me to get my mug. Seconds later, I am sipping the piping hot brew as I make my way back to my desk.
When I round the corner, Gabe comes from the other side, almost crashing into me. I jump back, sloshing the hot coffee on my hand and onto the floor. Idiot! I shout in my head and snap a lethal glare in his direction.
“Don’t give me that look, Stowe. You could watch where you’re going, too.” His all-American-boy smile radiates from his face, and it’s clear he’s not here on official police business. He’s here for another reason altogether. It’s been a week since I hit the gym, refining my kickboxing skills, so maybe I could do that with Gabe right now. Lord knows I need to work off some of this frustration, though I’m sure he has another idea in mind.
“Well, if you weren’t walking like a fucking gorilla hopped up on meth, then maybe you would have seen me.” I wipe my coffee covered hand on my jeans and shake the sting out of the burn. Then I put my mug to my lips and sip. Ah … perfection. I connect my eyes back with Gabe’s. “What are you doing here, anyway? It’s, like, nine in the evening.”
He lifts his eyebrows—the look he gives when he wants to have sex. I only roll mine in return, not in the mood for that right now.
“How about it, Stowe? You wanna get freaky with some handcuffs?”
“Fuck off, O’Connor.” I only use his last name when I’m annoyed with him. It usually works for the most part. “Unlike you, I’ve been working our case, trying to capture the bastard responsible for killing an entire family. You forget about that?”
“Not fair, Stowe. You know I want to catch that asshole as much as you.” Gabe leans against the wall in the hallway and tucks his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. “But unlike you, I need sleep to recharge my brain to actually do my job effectively.”
I shrug my shoulders and take another sip of coffee as I walk past Gabe and to my desk. I look down at the photos of the little girl, and feel sadness seep in. I know exactly what she was feeling in that very moment. She was terrified, probably crying for her mom and dad to help her, yet no one came. She was left alone while the killer stripped away her innocence and, soon after, her life.
Gabe sits down in the chair next to my desk. I can feel his eyes on me, and I know what he’s thinking. He knows this is a personal mission for me, because in a moment of weakness six months ago, I enlightened Gabe of that tragic night twenty years ago.
“We’ve worked hard cases like this before”—he motions to the picture of the mother, tied up to the bed—“ones that have deceased children, too. What’s so different about this case? I’ve never seen you so affected by a victim before. I’m glad to see you have a human emotion still left inside of you, though.” He smirks at his stupid joke, and I want to punch it right off his face.
I snag the picture of the girl and hold it to his face. Before I can compose myself, I snap angrily, “Because this was me, Gabe!”
I jerk myself out of my chair and begin to pace. It’s impossible for me to sit still. I need to move. I need to punch something until my hands break off. I am completely wound up as my emotions over this case rapidly consume my body. I want to beat the shit out of this man. I want to punch him in the face until he is no longer recognizable. I have never wanted revenge so much in my life, not even when I was raped. I want justice for this little girl more than I want to breathe right now.
Gabe’s large hands slam into my shoulders, stopping me from moving. I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see the look of pity etched on his face. I will probably lose it on him if I
do.
I hold my frame still and tight as I stand there, letting the rage consume me.
“Sorry,” he whispers as he pulls me in, wrapping his meaty arms around my body. I keep my body motionless. I don’t want to be touched right now. All I want to do is pulverize something.
I put my hands on his chest and push out of his arms. Gabe doesn’t fight, dropping his embrace immediately. I gather up the crime scene photos and my notes and tuck them back in my bag. Then I pull my pistol from my desk drawer and attach it to my body.
As I walk by Gabe, he pulls on my arm, stopping me from leaving. “Sorry, Josslyn. I wasn’t thinking. Are you—”
“I’m fine!” I shout, yanking my arm from his hand and walking toward the exit.
I’m rounding the abandoned receptionist desk when my phone vibrates. I snatch it out of my pocket and look to the side, seeing Gabe standing beside me.
“It’s dispatch,” I say.
He nods as he passes by me to fetch the elevator. “Your car or mine?”
“Mine,” I answer.
We ride down the elevator in silence, making our way to another crime scene and ultimately another case. Regardless, nothing can distract me from catching the Smith killer. Nothing.
August 6, 2015 10:47 p.m.
We’ve been led a mile outside the harbor to the bellows of the ports. The ground is wet from the rain earlier in the day, and the only light comes from the street lamp located ten feet down. As the forensic team makes their way on scene, they set up their makeshift tent and processing area off to the side then pull a small generator on wheels and three large flood lights from the back of the van.
Gabe doesn’t fill me in on the details of the crime scene, knowing I like to discover them myself. All he’s said so far is the victim is located on a desolate road, though not secluded enough to be unseen. It appears he was dumped. I pull my car next to the forensic van, and Gabe and I exit the vehicle. Slowly, we walk to the tent and peer inside where the smell of death pollutes the air. A chill runs down my spine when I finally get fully inside the tent, standing over a deceased, white male.
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