by Rick Murcer
Slamming the muscle car into gear, he left burning rubber, and the acrid smell accompanying it, tattooed on the asphalt of the grocery store parking lot and hit Biscayne Boulevard at fifty miles per hour, never looking for traffic, and caring even less. The squeal of brakes coming from his right caused him to throw back his head and laugh. He hit the next gear and the Mustang launched into his favorite mode: Bat out of Hell. The palm trees running along the street were blurry green sentinels as he reached ninety. The engine growled like a restless lion and begged for more.
He throttled down and felt the exhilaration leave his body in direct correlation with the reduction in speed of his chariot. It was a great reminder that nothing lasts forever, except maybe his wicked wife. Were they not invincible? Clever? Almost rich? And at the very top of a short list of people who did what they did, causing them to be more in demand than one could imagine. Some people would do almost anything to get out of a marriage or to remove their prime competitor, the one person that stood between them and that all-important promotion. Wasn’t it the American way? Offer a service and get the word out. Capitalism at its very finest.
Arriving back at their home, he parked in the driveway and toted the two bags of groceries into the kitchen. Once he was finished preparing what he’d bought, the meal would propel his wife, and him, into an evening that would satisfy the pallet and whatever else their bodies craved. Who knew what that might mean? She was so full of surprises, especially the kinky ones. He loved those.
The cell phone in his pocket began to play an old Edison Lighthouse tune. He paused. The only reason that phone ever rang was for a job request.
Sliding the phone out of the front pocket of his shorts, he gazed at the number. He recognized it. The missus and he had their very own cash cow, and this client was at it again. He, for one, was grateful. This client wasn’t afraid to spend money—his favorite kind of client.
The smartphone stopped ringing, and he waited for the text signal to tell him the client’s communication was finished.
After a few seconds, the phone came to life again, and then stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He felt his pulse rise to the next level and reached for the cell.
The message was in bold, and different than the other four.
THIS WILL BE THE LAST REQUEST FOR SERVICE OF THIS KIND. AFTER THAT, I HAVE ONE MORE FOR YOU, WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT. IF YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT, I WILL TRIPLE YOUR FEE. BUT FIRST THINGS FIRST. I HOPE YOU HAVE NO AVERSION TO TAKING YOUR GAME UP A NOTCH. THIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT WON’T BE EASY. TREATING AN FBI SPECIAL AGENT TO YOUR SERVICES COULD BE DANGEROUS, BUT UNLESS I’VE MISSED MY GUESS, YOU WILL RELISH THE CHALLENGE. I WANT THE JOB COMPLETED BY MIDNIGHT TOMORROW. PLEASE ADVISE, AND THE MONEY WILL BE WIRED AS BEFORE.
The next line listed the name and location of the target. He raised his eyebrows and felt a tinge of nervousness for only the second time in his career as a gun-for-hire. But the one in Orlando didn’t count; it had been their first.
He ran his finger over the name and began to smile. The client was right. What a rush this would be, and once it was completed, all they had to do was wait for the next assignment. At triple the fee, they would be ready to retire to their favorite island in the Caribbean. Sand, sun, and sex—what could be better?
The keys of the phone felt cool to his touch as he typed in the acceptance code: WOULD LOVE TO DANCE THIS DANCE.
As he put his supplies for the evening’s dinner into the fridge, he whistled. The good life was within their reach. Hey, popping a Fed was something they could do. What a country.
Chapter-14
“Unsolved?” asked Manny, taking just a microsecond to realize how large of a break this could be. More information meant more clues.
“Yes. The Orlando Police report said that the victim, an up-and-coming executive for a local tech company, was killed in his home, shot between the eyes, and no witnesses,” said Max.
“The MO seems right. What else stood out about the info in the file?” asked Alex.
“Forensically, nothing much. No fibers, no prints, no shell casings, no DNA that was useable, nada.”
“How about a message, a symbol, anything else?” asked Manny, tapping his pen on his notepad.
Max shook his head. “Nothing noted in the investigation. The detectives concluded that it was some kind of revenge thing and had to close it because there were no leads.”
“We also did an extensive search through ViCAP and didn’t find anything that fit this pattern, here or in Orlando. There were some similarities with a couple of unsolved cases in Ohio and Illinois, but just not enough to link them,” said Josh.
“The case in Orlando is related; I can feel it, but what’s the motivation for this killer? Execution-style murders are nothing new. Killing for money is a long-time indictment against the human race, but the normal practice of death-for-hire is not like this. Kill and get out usually works for them. This feels different; it’s like this killer is enjoying the process,” said Manny. “In fact, I’d bet on it.”
“Damn. I hate it when you make those leaps,” frowned Sophie.
“Except it’s not a leap, is it?” asked Destina.
“It fits the progression,” said Chloe.
“What the hell do you mean ‘progression’?” asked Marie Swifton. The Miami detective was wearing a look that would’ve curdled fresh milk.
Manny glanced at Chloe with a “shall I?” look. Her quick grin played crazy with his thoughts—and she knew it and reveled in it.
He cleared his throat. “There are rare examples of hit men, contract killers, whatever term you want to use, evolving—or maybe devolving is the right term—into serial killers. They’re already classified as ‘comfort’ killers, doing what they do to make a buck or some other material gain. Richard Kuklinski supported his family back in the 1990s taking on hit jobs. And killers-for-hire are almost always super organized, so they’ve already got one foot on the slippery slope. Some start getting into the whole thing, the power, the lust, the sense that they are gods, and become process murderers who really enjoy their work.”
“So you think these murders are by someone like that?” asked Destina.
“Maybe. I need to look at all of the info we have and then see what it says to me.”
“Is this where you do that trance thing?” asked Josh.
“Funny. I don’t do trances, I—”
“Whoa, wait. I think I saw you do it in St. Thomas,” said Chloe.
“It’s in your profile paperwork,” said Josh.
The Miami detectives got up from the table. “Cute. But we’ve got work to do,” said Swifton. “We’ll see what else the lab can add to this mess and bring back whatever they have.” Then she and Parkroy headed for the door.
“Fair enough,” said Josh. “Let’s meet back here at 3:00, that’s four hours, and we should have a better idea of what we’re looking at. I also need time to see if I can get the rest of the case files from Orlando.”
“Get the ones from Ohio and Illinois too,” said Manny.
“What do you want those for?” asked Josh.
“Just playing a hunch. Could be nothing.”
“Care to elaborate?” asked Josh.
“Not yet, I want to run through them. Like I said, probably nothing.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” said Sophie. “Just get him the files, and if you want, Josh, I can come to your room to explain.”
“You’re so kind, but that won’t be necessary.”
Chloe turned to Manny. “You obviously think there might be a link, but why?”
“You know how this works. Sometimes these guys do a dry run. I mean, they have to practice. It’s not unusual for them to leave an area and act out their first kill in another state or town.”
“Good point,” said Josh.
Destina left with her staff, citing other business that needed attending.
Alex stood and retucked his shirt into the front of his pants, sucking in the paunch that had
been his for years. “Okay, Max. Let’s get to the forensics data, and we’ll meet you guys back here.”
“You two going to talk about latex?” demanded Sophie.
“Hell, no. Mass spectrometers,” said Alex.
Manny watched as Max’s face lit like a Christmas tree. “Oh, man. I just ordered a new APS 5200, portable . . . unbelievable.”
“Really? I’d give up sex for a month to get one of those,” said Alex.
“Okay. Enough. You squints go to it. Just no more details . . . and rumor has it that you only get laid once every two months anyway,” said Sophie.
Alex gave Sophie the finger and headed to the door with Max, whispering like an excited school kid.
“I’m going back to the hotel room to check on Jen, and then I’ll be back,” said Manny.
“I think we’ll tag along,” said Josh. “We’re staying at the same place. I’ll get those files sent by courier, so we might have them in a couple of hours.”
“I love how you can get that stuff so fast,” said Manny.
“Hey, your tax dollars at work.”
Sophie looped her arm through Josh’s and followed the CSIs to the door. “So let me tell you about my surgery . . .”
Chloe and Manny laughed. He reached for his notepad, scanned the room, and realized they were alone.
Shit.
He bundled up his files and turned to go, but Chloe lingered between him and the door. Her eyes met his, and he thought he might melt on the spot.
“Manny, are you doing okay?”
“Yeah. I’m hanging in there. Jen has been a rock, and it’s good to get back in the saddle.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She touched Manny’s arm and saw they both felt the jolt. He stepped away from her and picked up the files.
Could she make this any harder?
“I’m . . . well . . . if you need to talk or anything else . . . if you need me, I’m here.”
He moved away, pretending to rearrange the files on the table. “Chloe, I . . . thanks. That’s good to know.”
She was making it harder intentionally.
“I’ve got to take care of Jen, and it’s not about me right now.”
“But when it is . . .”
Glancing at her, he was once again struck with Chloe’s beauty. Maybe she was right. But that ever-present companion—pure guilt—washed over him unmercifully like a tidal wave. He desperately tossed thoughts of what he wanted, even needed, to a place that went deep.
Picking up the files, he hesitated, began to speak, then walked after Josh and Sophie, not daring to look back.
Chapter-15
“Excuse me, but are you Mary Wiggins?”
She was parked, blue jeans and green tee shirt comprising her off-hour’s uniform in the half-opened front door of her modest cottage on the south side of Oranmore. Her leery gaze measured him from head to toe and saw the wry smile come and go as fast as a wink.
Gotcha.
She swung the door open a little wider. “Yes. And who might you be, other than an American, and a tall one at that.”
“Yes. I had tall parents,” he grinned.”Very tall parents. My name is Detective Fredrick Argyle. I’m sorry to impose on you, but I have to make sure.”
She opened the door a little farther. “Make sure of what?”
He gave her that smile, the one that could charm the pants off an old maid. “That you work for the Gardaí as a crime scene investigator.”
Mary returned his irresistible grin.
She cocked her head. “That’d be me, but why do you ask?”
“Well, Sergeant Detective Shannon sent me to collect you. I just left the Bayside Bed and Breakfast where he’s interviewing Haley Rose Franson about the Kathryn O’Malley murder. He thinks you could help answer some questions.”
“He did now, did he? I told him this was going to be a hellish one, I did. Odd. I wonder why he didn’t send—”
Comprehension dawned on the CSI’s face, and even though she tried to hide it, she failed. Miserably.
“Could you wait a moment, I’ve got something on the burner.”
“No. I don’t think I can wait.”
She tried desperately to close the door, but that wasn’t Mary’s fate.
He hammered the door open, sending her to the floor. Moving like a man possessed, with one hand he jerked her from the floor, her shoulder dislocating. With his huge hand over her mouth, he never afforded her the chance to scream. He held her tight. Mary’s attempts at getting away from him were of no consequence to a man with his determination.
Argyle peered into her large, blue eyes, and she stopped struggling. He’d seen this paralyzed reaction before—in the Caribbean, in Lansing, and now in Ireland. It seemed the response was universal. As a psychologist, it was fascinating to see that fear would overrun even the most basic instinct of survival. Yet, here it was again. Mary Wiggins was like a trembling bird caught in the hypnotic stare of a cobra.
He reached for the chloroformed cloth in his jacket pocket and pressed it against her face. He felt her body relax, then go totally limp. After removing the rag, he swept the hair from her eyes and slowly ran his finger along the left side of her face, slid his hand to the top of her breasts, then lower.
“I wonder what Sergeant Detective Steve Shannon will think when he sees you waiting for him . . . in your own special way,” he whispered.
Chapter-16
Manny pulled open the first victim’s file and read through the reports, such as they were. The lack of crime scene information led to small, insignificant reports, but these were more sparse than he would’ve expected from Miami PD. Then again, they had almost a hundred more homicides to investigate per year than Lansing. Still, in his mind, that was no reason to cut corners.
There were a couple dozen pictures of the rooms of the victim’s house and another ten or so of the victim, but nothing else. He frowned. This couldn’t be all of it. He glanced at the other three files from Miami and saw they were about the same size, except for the last one. Chief Craig Richardson’s file was three times as thick. He wouldn’t delve inside the Richardson file just yet; he had to get some kind of feel from the first two murders, if he could, looking for inconsistencies from murder to murder.
He leaned back in the black, leather chair and stared at the ceiling. Sophie had come by to get Jen and take her to the hotel’s Olympic-size pool, and the two of them would get some lunch afterward. Good girl. She’d been his partner a long time and knew the routine. He needed time alone with the files, and then he’d bounce what he’d found off her. She was an amazingly perceptive detective when she put her mind to it, but today, they both knew he needed the first crack. The Feds seemed to understand this too. Josh and Chloe were busy getting the other files from Ohio and Illinois, and whatever else they could muster from Carousel’s security staff.
Chloe. For the second time in two days, he couldn’t quite put her out of his mind. She had spoken about the murder of Kathryn O’Malley, her cousin’s best friend, and her trip back to Ireland in a few days. He felt for her. More than felt. Being this far from home had to have more drawbacks than not. But that wasn’t the only thing, was it? He wanted to help her get through this thing, on almost every level.
So do it.
He took a swig from the large glass of icy sweet tea and then sat it down.
“Enough about my world, let’s see what’s going on here,” he whispered.
After searching through the first two files, he made a couple of notes, but there were no real surprises. The dead hadn’t spoken to him—yet.
Staring at the file that told the story of Richardson’s last hour on earth, he suspected that would change shortly. The thing is, did he want to hear what that file had to say? He knew this one was brutal; he’d only seen a couple of cases where the killer had skinned his victim. He was in no hurry to see it again, especially involving someone he knew. He got up, paced around the room, got more tea, then plopped back into the ch
air.
Manny finally pulled the red folder in front of him, took a deep breath, and flipped it open. The setup for this file had been different, and the pictures were fastened to one side and the reports to the other. The shock effect couldn’t have been more intense, yet it was mesmerizing at the same time. He was struck with the thought of how people seemed to find new, horrific ways to inflict pain and suffering on another human being.
Each picture was a chapter in this story from hell. Chief Richardson’s thighs and chest had been stripped of skin, displaying faint striations of muscle tissues. The killer had done the same to the right side of his face and neck, leaving the scarred brand of the ouroboros on the left cheek. Both ankles and the bottom of his feet had suffered a similar fate. The killer had selected several other extremely sensitive areas. Oddly, the groin area was intact while other areas were turned into ribbons of red. Richardson must have been in agony beyond human description. Just like something Argyle would do. He liked up close and personal.
Damn. I can’t pin every murder in the free world on the Good Doctor.
His heart hurt for the chief. They hadn’t gotten off to a great start, but they’d parted on good enough terms. Regardless, the man hadn’t done anything to deserve this, not many had.
He’d heard other detectives say that it was difficult to equate photos like this with a real, live human. Manny had never understood that because he always felt the pain of the victim; he seemed to have no choice.
Flipping back to the first picture, he went through them again, studying each line, each cut, the expression on Craig Richardson’s unshaven face. After the fifth picture, he noticed something. Minute, but there nonetheless.
Just then, Jen and Sophie burst through the door. His daughter ran up to him and gave him a big hug, wet bathing suit and all. He barely had time to close the file before he was semi-soaked.
“Jen!”
“Sorry, Dad, couldn’t resist. Sophie said it would be a good idea too.”