by Leslie Wolfe
“Got it!” Donovan announced. “Running face recog now.”
“For someone so forensically astute, he shows no interest in deflecting us for a while longer,” Fradella said. “He’s showing off, completely unafraid.”
“That’s the scary part,” Tess grumbled, playing nervously with her car keys, ready to storm out the door the moment Donovan had a name. “He knows something we don’t.”
They continued watching the unsub, as he started placing a variety of objects on the night table. Several sex toys, a couple of syringes that appeared to be loaded with serums, and several other smaller objects that Tess couldn’t recognize.
“See that? That’s an ammonia vial,” Doc Rizza said, pointing at one of the smaller objects on the night table.
“What, he’s going to wake her up?” Tess asked, cringing inside, remembering what it felt like to wake up and find herself immobilized and vulnerable in the hands of a madman. If what was about to follow couldn’t be stopped, she was better off asleep. “Donovan, tell me you’ve got something. Location, coordinates, a name, anything?”
“Umm, guys?” Donovan said, sounding concerned, tense. “You’re not going to like this. She’s not among our shortlisted names. I’m expanding the search now, to include all Caucasian females under twenty-seven in this state, but it will take a while.”
“How the hell did that happen?” Tess reacted. “Did we exclude too many from that list? Did we apply too many filters?”
“It’s possible,” Donovan replied. “We’ll know more once we ID her.”
She looked at the screen again, then looked away, unable to stand it any longer. Seeing those hands touching the girl’s body, knowing she should be busting through that door instead of watching it powerlessly on TV, all wrenched her gut and cut her breath short.
“You were right,” Bill said, after remaining silent for so long. “He’s thinking how to kill her. He might start killing tonight. You see the sports duffel tucked against the wall? See that gun handle, visible right where the zipper starts? Those are potential murder weapons he brought along, and so are some of the items on the night table.”
“Precisely. The two syringes,” Doc Rizza added, “one is labeled ketamine and the other is labeled propofol. They’re powerful anesthetics in large doses.”
“What kind of effects are we talking about, Doc?”
“Both doses are lethal, I’m afraid.”
28
Two-Time Loser
The romantic, candlelit dinner took forever. From where he was sitting, Michowsky could see in the restaurant’s dimly lit window how the two shared loaded looks and yearning smiles, talking and laughing, touching each other’s hands over the table every now and then. When they eventually stood to leave, it was past midnight and the restaurant had already closed.
The two took their time walking to the car, and from there, Carrillo drove Lily straight home. He was impressively well-mannered; again, he held the door for her and escorted her to the front door of the Pearson residence. The house was completely engulfed in darkness, except for the porch light above the door and the safety lights that came on automatically when the two approached the driveway. They didn’t seem to mind, still holding hands and walking as slowly as possible, further delaying the moment they’d have to say goodbye for the night. It was a little strange; young people these days act immediately on their desires; they don’t delay sleeping with their partners the way they used to, back in the good old days of his youth. Michowsky had expected the evening to end in a motel room or at Carrillo’s place, not back at Lily’s home.
Lily took out her keys from her purse, but before she could unlock the door, Carrillo folded her into his arms and placed a torrid kiss on her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, reaching higher, stretched on her toes, passionately responsive to the man’s touch. Michowsky shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, wishing that part of the stakeout was over already before he had to get out of the car and tell the guy to keep his hands to himself or lose them.
What did he have against Carrillo, anyway? He used to be just as passionate some thirty years ago. In the meantime, he’d grown up, got married, and had children—two boys and a teenage daughter. Good thing that wasn’t his daughter over there on that doorstep, or the evening would’ve ended in a completely different setting, most likely a hospital emergency room. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was definitely something off about Carrillo.
Eventually, Lily unlocked the door and disappeared inside the house, and Carrillo drove away, his charming smile gone the moment the girl closed the door behind her. Michowsky followed him from a generous distance, keeping an eye on the GPS tracking app on his phone. Carrillo wasn’t going back to 1105 Mercury; he didn’t take that exit off of I-95. He continued north, not exceeding the posted speed limit, and took the highway 704 exit, heading to the Palm Harbor Marina. Michowsky closed the distance slightly, careful not to lose sight of him.
The white Lexus turned into the parking lot next to the marina, and Michowsky swallowed a curse, seeing how he couldn’t pull too close without drawing attention. Another vehicle, a red Chevy Silverado, was stopped in the middle of the lot, probably waiting for Carrillo. The Silverado’s driver, a tall, scrawny guy, leaned casually against the truck’s hood and smoked, the orange tip of his cigarette visible from a distance every time he inhaled.
Out of options, Michowsky pulled into the City Hall parking lot across the street. He crossed the street on foot, then approached the two men as much as he could, careful not to be seen, hiding behind shrubs and tree trunks. Thankfully, Carrillo didn’t seem to care about his surroundings and spoke loudly.
“My boat better be fuckin’ ready on Monday, you hear me?” Carrillo was saying. “Gas it up, fill the water tank, throw some bait and some rods onboard, and fill the cooler with the good stuff. Champagne, caviar, the works.”
“Got it, boss,” the other man replied. “You want the Hermosa, right?”
“Right,” Carrillo replied and turned to leave. Then he remembered something and stopped. “Lorenzo, I better not find a speck of dust on that boat, comprendes?” He didn’t wait for an answer; he hopped back in his car and disappeared within seconds, leaving Lorenzo behind in a cloud of parking lot dust.
Michowsky crossed the street back to his car and climbed behind the wheel, hesitating with his hand on the ignition. He could always pick up Carrillo’s trail later using the GPS tracker. Maybe Lorenzo would prove a more useful lead.
He followed the red Silverado and, at the first stoplight he caught, read his plate number. He didn’t have police equipment installed on that vehicle; it was a civilian car normally used for stakeouts, completely clean of any police paraphernalia except two flashers buried deep in the front grille. Out of options, he called RTCC and dictated the Silverado’s plate number to the man at the other end of the line. RTCC was Miami-Dade, but they extended favors to their neighbors without complaining.
“The car belongs to one Lorenzo Herrera, 27, currently on parole,” he heard the RTCC rep say.
“What for?”
“Possession, with and without intent. He’s a two-time loser, Detective.”
That’s all Michowsky needed to hear. He turned on the flashers and approached the Silverado, gaining on it. After a few seconds, Lorenzo slowed and came to a stop near the curb.
Michowsky checked his weapon, then took a flashlight from the glove compartment and approached the Chevy.
“License, registration, and proof of insurance,” he asked, and Lorenzo handed the documents without hesitation, but mumbled Spanish curses under his breath. “Step out of the vehicle,” Michowsky ordered, “hands on the hood.”
Lorenzo complied, quietly, without muttering another word. He’d turned pale; he had something to hide.
“Am I going to poke myself with a needle if I search you?” Michowsky asked.
“N—no, sir,” Lorenzo replied. “But I ain’t got nothin�
��, I swear.”
“Uh-huh,” Michowsky replied, and began patting him down.
He felt for weapons first and found a small nine-mil tucked inside Lorenzo’s belt. “That’s a parole violation and another three-to-five,” he said, putting the gun out of Lorenzo’s reach. Then he fished a small packet of white powder out of the man’s jeans pocket, cocaine by the looks of it, and held it in the air with two fingers. “And this is seven-to-ten, right there. Maybe I’ll find more in the car and up the ante from a dime to a quarter.”
“C’mon, man,” Lorenzo pleaded, trying to face the detective. Michowsky slammed him against the car and bent him over the low hood.
“Hands on that hood,” he ordered. He then grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back and turned him around, staring at him hard. “Unless you’re willing to help me out.”
“Anything, man, anything,” Lorenzo said, “just say the word. Want more coke? I’ve got plenty.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Michowsky scoffed. “You’re an unbelievable idiot.”
“Yes, Officer, I’m a big idiot. I didn’t mean—”
“Shut your trap already,” Michowsky snapped. “What’s on Monday, huh?”
Lorenzo frowned, visibly confused. “Whaddya mean by that?”
“The boat you have to get ready for Carrillo on Monday, what’s the deal?”
A flicker of fear glinted in his eyes. “I don’t know, man, I swear!”
“All right,” Michowsky replied, feigning indifference and pulling out a pair of zip-tie handcuffs. Lorenzo turned paler and started shaking. “No, man, please, I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
“You’re already a two-time loser, and unless you start spilling something of value, you’re going down hard, you hear me?”
He nodded violently, his greasy hair bouncing around his head as if he were a puppet with a broken neck.
“But if you talk, you walk.”
Lorenzo looked at him with suspicion. “You promise?”
“Start talking,” Michowsky said, and Lorenzo nodded some more. “Again, what’s happening in two days’ time, when Carrillo needs that boat?”
“Memorial Day, I guess,” he replied, and flinched when he saw Michowsky’s reaction.
“You take me for a fool?” Michowsky growled in his face, grabbing his shirt and slamming him against the car.
“No, I swear,” Lorenzo replied. “He’s got this hot date he wants to take out on the water. He’s been talking about it for a week now.”
“Why in two days?” Michowsky insisted, unconvinced. Carrillo didn’t seem like the type to sweat a fishing trip that badly, even if it meant taking his girlfriend out.
“Everyone’s out on the water for Memorial Day,” Lorenzo replied with a shrug. “That’s what he said, word for word.”
“All right, you’re going to jail,” Michowsky replied, sliding the zip-tie on one of his wrists. “You’re not giving me anything.”
“Man, there’s nothing, I swear. He’s not telling me much. I’m just his errand boy, that’s all.”
“And the coke?”
“Sometimes I sell that,” he said, seemingly flustered, and immediately continued, “but not often. Once a year, tops. Only if they make me, otherwise no, never.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Michowsky said, and grabbed his other wrist.
“Wait,” Lorenzo said pleadingly. “I don’t know anything, but I know who knows. He and Carrillo are partners, man.”
“Name,” Michowsky ordered.
“Paco Loco, we call him.”
“Name,” Michowsky repeated in the same tone as before, only a little louder.
Lorenzo threw scared glances left and right and lowered his voice, “Pedro Ramon,” he said, almost whispering. “But you can’t get to him.”
Michowsky chuckled and pulled the zip-tie tight. “Does he even exist?”
Lorenzo nodded again, just as enthusiastically as before. “On my mother’s grave, I swear. You can’t get to him, ’cause he lives out on the water, halfway to Grand Bahama.”
Michowsky pulled the other zip-tie and tightened it against Lorenzo’s wrist.
“But—but his gal comes on dry land every night, to get stuff,” he blurted, panic clearly visible in his dilated pupils. “She’s a two-time loser, just like me, and she’s into heroin.”
“Name,” Michowsky demanded.
“Lucinda, or Luci,” Lorenzo said, without hesitating anymore. Whatever threshold of fear he held inside, he’d already passed that and there was no turning back.
“Where would I find this upstanding citizen?”
“Every night, about midnight or later, she lands at Mojito Frio, that bar near the marina, on the water. She comes in a small, yellow speedboat, real fast. If you hurry up—”
Michowsky nodded once, inviting him to continue. “Keep talking. How will I know her?”
“She’s a tall brunette with wide hips, totally oomph, if you know what I mean,” he said, with a wink and a lascivious grin that showed some missing premolars and a chipped incisor. “She’s got long hair, and a rose tattoo on her neck, right here,” he squirmed, probably trying to point at something with his hands cuffed behind his back. “Can’t miss her. She loves bling, that woman, she’s covered in it. Whatever Carrillo’s been up to, she and Paco Loco know about it, man. Now will you let me go?” he asked, offering his hands and waiting for Michowsky to cut the zip-ties.
Instead, the detective took out his cell and called for a backup car at their location.
“What the hell, man? You promised,” Lorenzo said bitterly, tears choking him. “I can’t go back inside.”
“I’ll put you in a forty-eight-hour protective hold, not a minute more,” Michowsky said, almost smiling. “So you won’t get any crazy ideas and start calling people.”
“Then, you’ll let me go?” Lorenzo asked, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.
“Yeah, yeah, sure.”
29
Fame
Tess held her breath while she watched the unsub pick up the ketamine syringe. He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand against the girl’s cheek, then arranged one of her rebel hair strands, tucking it gently behind her ear. She was still asleep or maybe unconscious, her eyes closed and her naked body completely immobile, vulnerable and powerless. Not once had she’d pulled against the restraints or opened her eyes since it all began.
Then the screen went dark all of a sudden and Tess gasped.
“What? No,” she shouted at the TV, wielding her fist in the air. “We need to know… How will we know?” she asked, turning toward Fradella and Doc Rizza.
“We’ll know,” she heard Bill’s voice, as he replied calmly. His words came across in high definition, as if he were sitting right there in the conference room, staring at the same dark TV screen.
As always, Bill was right. If the unsub went forward with his intention to kill the girl, they’d soon find out. She groaned, frustrated with herself; she’d become emotional, hot-headed, and she’d started hating the unsub, having contempt for him instead of trying to understand him. Nothing good ever comes from loathing an unsub, no matter how repulsive or despicable; it was basic. To understand him, to be able to figure out what drove him to do the things he did, how he chose his victims, she had to let all that contempt go and summon her cold, clinical judgment to take over. Easier said than done.
This case upset her on a deep, personal level; she breathed slowly a few times, willing herself to clear her mind of racing thoughts and emotions and try to understand why it meant so much to her. She’d dealt with many prolific serial killers in her twelve years with the bureau and she’d seen much worse, like The Family Man, credited for over 100 killings. She’d stayed cold and rational in front of murderers who rose to the top among the most abhorrent creatures of this earth.
Yet the Taker of Lives was different.
He stood on the edge of an abyss staring down, f
eeling more and more compelled to take a dive and explore the darkest side of himself. Tess remembered his hands, covered in black, shiny latex, picking up that ketamine syringe. His fingers didn’t tremble, didn’t hesitate. He was ready to kill, and she was desperate to stop him, to restore whatever was left intact of that girl’s life before he could finish the methodical devastation he’d already begun.
She hoped it wasn’t already too late. Soon enough they’d know.
The screen shifted to a black background with white text, a new message from the unsub.
It read, “Want more? Sure, you do. Stay tuned for news. The show is just beginning.”
The message was displayed for about a minute, then vanished, replaced by an animation of theater curtains closing. Despite her self-imposed calm and coolheadedness, Tess felt a wave of rage surging through her veins.
“We should be busting through that door right now,” she said, her voice elevated and teeming with angst, enough to draw attention in the squad room, on the other side of the glass wall. “Donovan, where the hell are we with that facial recognition?”
“At three percent,” he replied.
“We need results faster than this,” she said, painfully aware she’d been stating the obvious for a while now, and that wasn’t helping, only irritating people even more. “Let’s start a new database instance with all filters applied and the three hundred forty-seven potentials lined up, then let’s remove filters, one by one, and run facial recognition again and again after each filter is removed.” She blurted all that on one long breath of air. “Make sense?”
“Perfect sense,” Donovan replied, after a split-moment hesitation.
“I’m looking at Donovan’s filters,” Bill said, “and the biggest opportunity lies with defining fame. I also believe you skipped a few steps, Agent Winnett. Your profile is incomplete; you failed to define the unsub. Is he a lust rapist? Is he a mission offender? Is he motivated by power, by the need to control his victims?”