“The BDSM club feeds his need between kills. There’s a connection between the first and the sixteenth when he leaves his victims to be found in highly visited places.”
“But we haven’t found a connection yet.”
Obviously, she thought, but her entire being wished this was over and Mattie and Greg were making plans for a future instead of the terrifying end Kayla kept envisioning.
“The connection means something to him. Aimee’s body was eviscerated and found under the bridge where Agnes had been mutilated, connecting, although wrongly, a link with Jack the Ripper. By taking Mattie, the woman who reported his case since the beginning, he’s telling us that she is the star in his crown. That he can take any woman, even one as popular as Mattie.”
“It’s more than that,” Montgomery said. “He wants something from her.”
“To dominate her?”
“No, more. He wants her love.”
Kayla blinked. “Her love?”
“I believe so. The union between a Dom and a Sub can go far beyond a club. Many are couples who live as man and wife. Work in the community. Raise their children, but their play is different than most.”
She sat with a plop on the sofa. “Alright, then if he’s looking for a mate, could that mean he lost his? He’s trying to replace her?”
“If he lost his Sub, it could have been the catalyst that pushed him into becoming a killer.”
“But why Victoria? Why only the first and sixteenth? Why the historic kill sites?” She needed a pattern that pointed toward the Ripper.
Montgomery took a moment before answering. “Because as you say, it means something to him. Or maybe he hopes it means something to us.”
She let out a long, shallow breath. “Serial killers don’t show remorse or have empathy. I doubt he intends to leave clues to catch him. Those clues are to play with us in a morbid way. The evidence all dates back to the turn of the century. The link to Agnes Bings’ death, Helmcken Alley, the Cenotaph, Craigdarroch Castle, all have importance, but what the hell does that have to do with the Ripper?”
“We’ve investigated all links to Agnes Bings and the families that have remained in Victoria. Old families, but none have presented a possible suspect.”
“I need to go back through Mattie’s notes.”
“Do that. My suspect pool is void and other than what we’ve surmised of his motivations, they’re flimsy at best.”
Kayla couldn’t agree more. “His motivations are conflicted. Sexual, for certain, but he also shows rage after he kills by tearing out their organs.”
“You’d make a good Behavior Analyst, Mrs. Austen. Often serial killers will create an elaborate justification to link themselves to the victims. We may never know what that is unless we catch him.”
“I’m only theorizing. It’s possible he’s removing the organs not for the gore factor, but for something else once she’s dead.”
Montgomery shuffled some paper in the background and the phone’s speaker amplified not only the sound, but their combined frustration. “It’s my job to answer as many questions as the killer presents, but this guy is clean with his kills. Leaves no trace of himself, other than marks on the women. The condoms he used in his sexual play with the victims can be bought at any pharmacy or Walmart. Crime Scene investigators found particulates, but they’re so minute it’s of no use to the investigation at this point. The Coroner’s Office has revealed all they could about the bodies.”
Kayla sat upright with a jerk. “What kind of particulates?”
“For some reason, I’m sharing more than I should, Mrs. Austen.”
“That’s because one more brain on the case can’t hurt. What type of particulates?”
“Salt water and diesel fuel. Two elements that everyone who walks in downtown Victoria can pick up on their shoe.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. I appreciate you sharing it with me.”
“Thank you for calling, Mrs. Austen. I have to admit that my conduct at the Dark Angel was unbecoming of a police officer. I want to catch him. Believe me.”
“I have to catch him. Before he kills Mattie.”
“If you find anything in her notes. Please, call me.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. But you never answered my initial question. Do you think one of your men is working with the Ripper?”
“I had unfounded suspicions.”
“Just because you didn’t find anything to substantiate your suspicions, doesn’t mean they’re not valid. Is it Sergeant Hellman?”
“The Ripper is not one of my men, nor is his Sub, if indeed he has one.”
A chill coursed through her blood. “You think he was training another killer, don’t you?”
Montgomery released a deep sigh. “Yes, I do.”
The thought was terrifying, but she couldn’t be drawn off her target. If they found Mattie, they’d find the Ripper. If he’d spawned another serial killer, she couldn’t worry about it now. “I’m sure we’ll talk again.”
“I truly wish Mattie would have taken the Ripper’s message more seriously. Good-bye, Mrs. Austen.”
“Wait! What’re you talking about? What message?”
“He left a message above Marlene’s body last night.”
No one told her that. Greg had said the Ripper killed again and the victim worked with Mattie, but that was all. “What message?”
“It said, Mattie, it was so nice to meet you. Trust we’ll meet again.”
“Meet her?”
“Mattie has interviewed hundreds of people. It isn’t farfetched to believe the Ripper was one of them.”
Even planted on her rear-end, her knees quivered a little remembering her close encounters with the Blood Shark. “I’m sure it’s not. Good-bye.”
She trotted to the coffee pot, sweeping her empty mug from the counter on the way and filled it to the brim, then sat on the cushioned chair at the oak table. The Suspect directory Mattie had created on her laptop didn’t help. Each person of interest had an alibi or didn’t fit the profile.
Kayla surveyed the other sub directories within the main folder called TVR, most likely an acronym for The Victoria Ripper, and opened a sub directory called Witness Reports.
She leaned back in the chair as literally hundreds of folders filled the screen. Mattie had created a written reference for every single call she’d ever received on the Ripper case.
Kayla closed her eyes, shifting through the possibilities of who would give a report with the most valuable information. Any information. When she opened her eyes again, they came to rest on a folder called Old Man in Market Square.
She remembered Mattie telling her how she’d found the homeless guy squatting in the shadows of the square after Diana’s murder. She’d given him money and her business card, but the old man had died not long after.
Kayla clicked on another subfolder titled Interview, and read over the transcript Mattie created of the conversation. Halfway down the page, her eyes came to a screeching halt. Mattie hadn’t mentioned this to her. Gripping both sides of the laptop, she drew it closer and read again.
MB: “Could you hear them? Did they talk?”
OM: “Didn’t say much.”
MB: “What did you hear?”
OM: “Taller one had a voice like sandpaper. Said something like, he had no choice. Said he’d gone for a drink and thought about it. Said something like she’d (Diana) deceived him. For a minute, I think she thought he’d let her go. He was fast. Slit her throat and then laid her down and started cutting her up.”
MB: “What did the other guy do?”
OM: “Watched. Smiled while the big guy hummed to himself while he did the gruesome deed.”
MB: “Did you recognize the song?”
OM: “When I was a lad back in Britain, me father taught us shanties when he was home from sea. Recognized the tune right off.”
MB: “What was it?”
OM: “The Black Ball Line.”
Kayla quickly searc
hed the main directory for any reference to the Black Ball Line that Mattie might have made. She hadn’t. Why not?
A spark of hope, small but very alive, jumpstarted her nerve endings. The Black Ball Line wasn’t just a song, and anyone who lived in Victoria long enough should recognize the name.
She brought up a search engine and typed Black Ball Line shanty.
The search populated the page and she clicked the first link, then carefully read each line. With a pulse double its normal resting rate, she did another search for the Black Ball Line shanty and found a slightly different version.
Another search set her heart racing. On the right column of the page an image of The Black Ball flag was hoisted high on a mast: a black ball on a red background. Kayla’s thoughts flitted to Agnes Bings’ gravestone and the black flowers with the red tips that’d been left there. She kept reading.
The first Black Ball liner dated back to 1817, which took passengers on a routine voyage from New York to Liverpool, England. But it wasn’t the voyage itself, it was the dates. The ships departed New York on the first and sixteenth of every month.
Had she found a tiny fractured piece of the Ripper’s puzzle? Kayla took a steadying breath. Her gaze shot to the clock above the stove. One-twenty p.m.
“Slow down,” she shouted at the second’s hand, ticking without empathy around the dial.
She vaulted out of the chair and stared out the window over the kitchen sink. “Thinnnk, Kayla!” The Ripper has a disjointed fascination with Jack the Ripper. The Black Ball Line was the first passenger ferry dating back to the eighteen hundreds. The first and the sixteenth of each month connects the victims to the original passenger liner schedule. Black Ball. Sea Shanties. He’s tall. Dark hair. Green eyes. Particulates of salt water and diesel fuel found on the women. The Dark Angel BDSM club.
Without noticing, she’d strode halfway to the living room when her feet stalled.
“Oh my God. You did meet Mattie, and I know who you are!”
Chapter Twenty-nine
The heavy front door to the Dark Angel smashed against the building’s exterior wall when Greg entered with the admiral on his heels. They marched past the negligee clad girl at the front desk who chased after them and into the club.
Greg surveyed the sparsely populated room and put his sights on the bartender. The guy poured a shot of whiskey for a customer at the copper plated bar. Ten long strides brought Greg within striking distance. “Where’s the owner?”
The bartender, a guy with a bald head and gold hooped earring, announcing his preference for men, shrugged his bulky shoulder, but watched them warily.
Greg leaned over the scarred wooden top just enough to show the guy when he jumped over the counter and had him by the throat, there’d be no more asking nicely. “Find her now, or I go to the media and spill the connection between the Victoria Ripper and this club.”
It wasn’t such a longshot. There was a connection. The Ripper had taken Greg’s knife and set him up for Diana’s murder. The killer had probably seen Mattie here the night Montgomery threatened them.
The Victoria Ripper had Mattie, and the warrior in Greg woke up, primed to annihilate the fucker. There was no ‘if’ he found him, left in Greg’s mind. And he wouldn’t leave much for the justice system to prosecute.
A tall blonde dressed in a skin-tight red leather outfit approached from the right side of the bar. “Gentlemen, I’m Anna. If you’d follow me.” She turned, leaving the few gaping guests in the club’s lounge as she walked back the way she’d come.
Thane kept himself strategically positioned between Greg and the lanky owner. A tactic Greg recognized. His wingman thought he might lose his edge and overcompensate with his hands around Anna’s throat.
They followed her down a short, wood panelled hallway and into a sizeable room with décor unlike the Victorian muse slathered over the rest of the club, but instead a brightly painted room with a modern frosted metal desk and glass top. Silver filing cabinets lined the back wall, and a black and white portrait of a man and woman in a naked embrace hung above as the focal point. Windows spilled the waning afternoon sun through the panes, chasing the shadows from the corners.
She motioned to the two guest chairs as she wove around her desk to put a substantial piece of furniture between them.
Her gaze fell to Greg. “You’re a member of this club. Yet, the way you rampaged into my business says you have some of your own.” Thane didn’t take a seat, instead he positioned himself by the door. A move Anna didn’t miss. “Do I need to call in my security?”
“Not if you’ll tell us what we need to know,” Greg said gruffly.
“If this has to do with The Ripper case, I have nothing more to tell you than I did the police. I’ve allowed them to conduct a quiet investigation while my guests remain undisturbed.”
Greg wasn’t playing a longwinded game of words with this woman. “You also don’t want the media to know this club is connected with the Ripper and drive away customers. Regardless of lifestyle, no one wants to be part of a murder investigation.”
She swung one long leg over the other and leaned back in her bright red high-backed swivel chair. “Quite right. And I don’t want you disturbing them either. The BDSM way of life exists on the blade of a shaky sword. Potential customers would steer clear. I don’t know who the Ripper is.”
He leaned forward, wanting to tear the truth from her lying lips. He could see subterfuge in the narrowing of her eyes. “You know the Ripper has been keeping his urges wet by spending time in this club.”
When she reached for the phone, he slammed his hand down on her fingers. Behind him, the lock on the door slid with a snick.
A cruel twist settled on her lips. “You think you’re going to beat the answer out of me?”
“Even if you’re unsure, you have suspicions. You know as well as me, he could come after you. He’s precise in covering his tracks. You’re a track.” Greg released his grip on her hand and settled in the chair. “Tell us what you know, and we’ll leave you out of this.”
For a moment she glared at him, and then wound her slim forearm across her stomach. “Aimee, the first victim, was my friend, we went to UVIC together. Her parents are pillars in this community. Church going, tax paying, straight-laced folks. Aimee played the part, but she had a wild streak. I talked her into coming here to indulge in some of her fantasies.”
“Although some would disagree, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Greg said to show he was listening and not a threat.
“Aimee visited the club in early February. When she disappeared, no one knew she’d been here. After they found her body, I didn’t want her image sullied by those who don’t understand our lifestyle.” Anna sat forward and clasped her hands on the desk. “Sergeant Montgomery was a regular here. I went to him. Told him this was the last place she’d been seen.”
Greg’s stomach churned in anger. “So you both had something to lose if the hours leading up to Aimee’s death became common knowledge.”
“Montgomery said he’d protect the club once we realized Aimee was the first victim in the Ripper’s wave of terror. After another victim was murdered, he brought his men to the club, certain the Ripper was one of my clients.”
A bang at the office door startled the owner.
“It’s alright, Kevin,” she shouted.
“I’ll call Montgomery.” A deep voice seeped through the wood.
She blinked and surveyed both him and Austen. “Not necessary.”
Heavy footsteps receded down the hallway.
The dominatrix’s gaze eclipsed with worry, showing a slice of concern. “I want Aimee’s killer found. If I knew who he was, I’d have told Montgomery.”
Thane took the few steps to sit in the other guest chair. “Did you investigate new customers who’d joined the club before Aimee disappeared?”
She nodded, her bright blue gaze dropping to her laced fingers. “We did that, but we don’t ask for ID at the door. Ofte
n, people give another name to protect their identity when they join.”
“That in itself can be a clue,” Greg said.
Austen’s stone-cold features tightened even more. “LaPierre, we need to trust that Montgomery crossed-checked the names with actual people, and if they didn’t jive, he’d have investigated them.”
Worry ate a hole in Greg’s silver thread of hope. Every second that passed, Mattie slid closer to death. “The Ripper could be using his real name.”
“Does anyone have unlimited access to the club? Even when it’s closed?” Austen asked.
“Myself. Kevin, who’s the head of my security. A cleaning company comes in after the club closes. They work from four a.m. until eleven in the morning when we open again. The owner of that company has a key. That’s it.” The pointed toe of her boot tapped on the carpet anxiously. “I’ve been through all of this with Montgomery.”
“Doesn’t mean the Ripper didn’t get to an underpaid cleaner and a copy of the key.” Greg’s internal clock ticked closer to his wits’ end. His gut told him to hurry, unsure whether they were barking up the wrong proverbial tree. “Did Montgomery find any evidence leading to a suspect on the premises?”
“Evidence?” She laughed. “As in DNA? This is a sex club, it’s layered with excretion on a nightly basis.”
Images of Mattie at the mercy of the Ripper streaked through his thoughts. He’d seen too much death in his service. Bodies tortured by ruthless enemy insurgents and left to rot in a vacant building simmering in hundred degree heat. Where would he take Mattie? The Dark Angel was his best guess and he was going to search the place inch by inch.
Greg clenched the armrests of the chair. The uptick in his pulse warned him he’d reached the edge of control. “Listen, the Ripper took someone I care about. I don’t give a shit about your business or Montgomery’s. I care about her. If there’s something you’ve held back, I need to know now.”
Anna stared into his eyes, her brow tightening. She nibbled on the corner of her bottom lip a moment before speaking. “Aimee, professional as she was, had a thing for swashbuckling bodice rippers.”
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