by Leslie Wolfe
She frowned a little when she saw SAC Pearson’s name on the screen.
“Sir,” she said, as soon as she took the call.
“Great job on the profile, Winnett,” he said. “Let’s hope it won’t be a waste of resources and time. I’ve read the file; it’s a long shot at best.”
“Nothing else we can do, sir, but try to catch that son of a bitch,” she replied, a little concerned with his lack of confidence in the outcome of the case. He was an experienced investigator, and his assessment carried weight in her eyes. “We’ll catch him, sir; I made a promise I intend to keep.”
There was a moment of silence in the air.
“Speaking of cases, any news on that file we discussed?”
“You were right to give that one to me,” she replied, keeping all specifics to a minimum while on the phone. She didn’t want to take any risks, especially when anyone could intercept cell phone conversations with ease and a small investment in spyware.
“Do I need to step in?” he asked, and she could hear worry in his voice.
“No, not yet.”
“I can’t stand the thought of her being alone with that man,” he blurted in a low, subdued voice.
Argh… So much for keeping specifics out of the phone conversation, she thought, hoping no one was listening in.
“She’s not, sir, not for a second,” she replied. “Give me another day or two. We need to find out the what and the why.”
He thanked her and hung up in his typical, immediate style. She didn’t get the chance to put the phone back in her pocket before it rang again. This time, she took the call on speaker; it was Donovan.
“Hey, guys,” he said, sounding cheerful for a change. “We caught a break. Christina and Deanna used the same agent.”
36
The Agent
The tactical response team took positions around the small house. Two approached the front door, weapons drawn, while Tess and Fradella followed closely behind them. Another two carried a ram and stood right in front of the door, ready to bust it open. Four others hurried around back, keeping their heads down, so as to not be visible from inside the house.
A short crackle in a radio, then the tactical team’s commander ordered, “Breach. Breach. Breach.”
The two officers slammed the ram against the door, sending wood shards into the air, then rushed to the side, making room for the other two to enter the property. They walked in, carefully checking every corner of every room before moving on to the next one.
“Clear,” one of them announced, after checking the kitchen.
Tess took the dining room, then headed to the back of the house when she heard another officer’s voice.
“Hands where I can see them,” he ordered, and Tess followed the sound of his voice to the master bedroom.
The man held trembling hands up, seemingly shocked by what was going on. He wore off-white boxer shorts and a dirty undershirt, stained primarily in the abdomen area, where he must’ve wiped his hands against it repeatedly. He was forty-two per his file, earning an inconsistent living from a one-man talent agency named after himself, Koester Stars.
Tess looked at him intently, trying to pinpoint what exactly made the man seem so slimy. Was it his oily, unkempt hair, or his splotchy goatee? Or was it the state of his abode, in terrible need of a thorough cleaning, much as his clothing? This man didn’t fit the profile, not one iota.
The photos pasted on the walls told a different story. Above his antiquated, scratched desk, he’d hung professional head and body shots for Christina and Deanna, and several other girls Tess didn’t recognize. On the back wall, printed in full color and high-res format, she recognized the most indecent photos of Christina and Estelle, and a few screenshots extracted from Deanna’s video.
“Haul this piece of trash out of here,” Tess grunted, curling her lip in disgust.
“I didn’t do anything,” Koester said in a pleading, almost whimpering voice. “I swear I didn’t!” Then he turned his head quickly toward the back wall, following Tess’s gaze. “Those are legal, you know. All those women are adults.”
One of the officers finished cuffing him and was about to drag him out of there, when Tess stopped him.
“Did you represent Estelle Kennedy?”
“No,” he blurted right away, “she rejected my contract terms and went with someone else.”
“Smart girl,” Tess said, deep in thought. He didn’t seem to be the right guy. The unsub they were looking for was younger, smart, organized, good-looking, obsessed with projecting an appearance of control, of power and of status. While Koester was nothing but a slimy little parasite.
Tactical found a couple of cameras in the house. She examined them curiously, after sliding on a pair of gloves, but they were the wrong brand; neither camera was the Nikon DSLR used to take Christina’s photos. She sighed with frustration; they were wasting their time, but she signaled one of the officers to pack up Koester’s computer anyway. She wasn’t hoping to find any evidence confirming him as the Taker of Lives, but maybe they’d get lucky and find some child porn on it and put that piece of slime where it belonged. She doubted any of his clients would’ve wanted to have anything to do with him if they knew what he kept for wall décor.
She went outside, grateful for the fresh air she was able to breathe after the filthy staleness of that place. She suddenly felt tired and sat on the cement steps, lowering her head in her hands.
“Are you okay?” she heard Fradella ask.
“Yeah,” she replied, unconvinced. What did okay mean, anyway? Not bone tired and hungry? Or having the real Taker of Lives cuffed and locked in the back of a police car? She would’ve taken the latter any time of day, but they had nothing.
Just another dead end.
37
Me: Planning
I don’t waste time hating people. It’s a meaningless, time-consuming activity that leaves me with zero gratification. It’s true I believe some people should die, slowly and screaming and at my hand preferably, but I still don’t hate them. They simply exist, and I respect that; how very zen of me.
Yes, they simply exist. They’re as meaningless to hate as it would be to despise the fly that’s buzzing circles around your head, keeping you from reaching that deep state of relaxation your entire body craves. Would hating that fly make it go away? Would it make all flies go away? No… not in the least. Flies, just as superficial, spoiled, and irritating as certain humans, wouldn’t care.
Then how does someone like me get rid of those pesky insects? Not without a good swat, you’ll have to agree. Hit her hard, when she least expects it, leaving her dizzy, unable to pick herself up and fly again, incapable of standing in my way, ever again.
That’s why it’s pointless to hate anyone, especially people, regardless of how completely detestable they are.
That’s what I’ve been telling myself, over and over again, trying to regain the calm I need for tonight’s performance. Only this time, it doesn’t really work. My heated blood is rushing through my veins, I constantly feel the urge to punch yet another hole in the wall, and I can’t stop bellowing, even if there’s no one here to yell at.
I have to admit it… I really hate that FBI agent, Tess Winnett.
I know what you’re about to say; I started it, I prodded her by calling her out by name on my website, and now she’s coming after me with a vengeance. Okay, I’ll give you that. I confess, guilty as sin of the supreme arrogance of telling the world about her. I didn’t think she’d care that much; she must be just like me, tired of being ignored, of working herself to the bone with little or no recognition.
Because otherwise, none of this makes any sense.
You know what she did? Do you have any idea what she had the audacity of perpetrating?
Not only did she strip my video cameras from every place she could find them, leaving me blind and ravenous, but she blatantly lied to everyone, posting on my feed that the FBI is tracking all users who visi
t or vote my streaming site. I lost almost three million users in a matter of minutes. Argh… people are so damn stupid!
It took me hours to post replies, quoting from experts and Dark Web users, even quoting the NSA, believe you me, to calm people’s fears down from boiling hot. No one can trace you on the Dark Web, if you take simple precautions. No one! Just get it into your thick skulls already and come back, join the party that’s about to start. She can’t reach you, people, don’t be so shortsighted. You think I’d be doing this if I were in any real danger?
Yes, I’m willing to put in some effort to show you all how ill-directed your admiration is, but you’re not that important to me to be risking my own freedom. You’re the loser, if you don’t get the message; it’s you who will be wasting the rest of your life, not mine, fawning over inconsequential words and actions spouted by trivial, self-centered people on their social media channels and calling it entertainment.
I found different, more interesting things to do, like experiment on you.
I hope you won’t mind it much, but with every experiment there’s a little blood to be spilled. It’s all in the name of science, you know. Not wasted but studied. Not taken for granted but researched, accepted for what it is, and made worthwhile. Well-documented for the future generations to understand why humankind, who was doing oh-so-well in the age of technology, suddenly decided to take a nosedive and sink into a bottomless abyss of ignorance and complacency so gloomy and hopeless it will make the Dark Ages seem like a Broadway show.
Because I know just who you are. You’re one of those people who gasp at the profanities spray-painted on the public restroom wall and swear they’ll never use that particular stop again, while obsessively reading the filthy words again, and again, and again, while going through the catharsis of relieving yourself. You grew up in a God-fearing household but pored over every page of National Geographic you could find, not because you were drawn to the science, but because, at times, you could gawk at bare breasts depicted in a full-color, high-resolution photo printed on quality paper, something to feed your fantasies for years to come. Now you’re self-righteous by day, taking the kids to soccer practice while your wife’s baking cookies for the church sale, and slaving twelve-hour days all week in your mid-level job from which there can be no escape. But at night, you tiptoe down the basement stairs and turn on the old laptop, the one everyone believes is broken, and visit with me, eager to see what I have got in store for you.
Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. We’re going to explore a new side of you tonight, one you didn’t know existed. I’ll plant such a delicious memory inside your brain that you’ll be forever in my debt, because whenever you think you won’t be able to take another minute of kid talk, of soccer practice, or stupid-as-shit sales meeting, all you have to do is close your eyes and remember tonight’s show. You’ll be free again.
As for Special Agent Tess Winnett, let’s just say I’m allowed to fantasize too. She’s a bit older than what I like, and not really that relevant to you, which makes her inherently uninteresting, but she’s outdone herself and become too relevant for me to ignore any longer. I’ve started spending way too much time planning the seduction and submission of an armed federal agent to not doubt my own sanity, especially since she triggers in me the absurd, yet intense, all-consuming feeling of hate. For now, I’ve just sent her a very personal message. Because, you see, I also know who she really is, behind her tough-cop wrapper accessorized with gun, Kevlar vest, and two spare mags of ammo.
But before we get to have some fun with dear old Tess, let’s focus on tonight’s performance. Let’s focus on you.
It will be unique. You’ll get to choose what happens.
38
Dinner Plans
Tess breathed in the grill smoke in the air outside of Media Luna, and a familiar rumbling resonated in her empty stomach. The smell of Cat’s burgers was mouthwatering, and she hurried toward the entrance, eagerly anticipating the first bite of hot food she’d had in more than a day.
The bar was not that busy for a weekend; probably most patrons were out on the water somewhere, fishing, drinking, or just hanging out. Others chose to travel on Memorial Day weekend and visited family or friends or locked themselves in the house with a pet project to tinker on.
She smiled widely when she caught Cat’s glance, and he returned the smile with a quick nod and two fingers raised at his temple in a sketched salute. He finished wiping a glass with a white napkin, then set it in front of a pot-bellied customer and poured whiskey, double on the rocks. He put the bottle back on the shelf, wiped his hands on his apron, and started her way, his grin widening with every step he took. Then he froze in place, hands firmly on his hips, while his grin was quickly replaced by a grimace complemented by a frown.
Fradella had walked through the door.
Oblivious to the reaction his arrival had caused, or maybe just choosing to ignore it, Fradella approached Cat with an extended hand and a polite demeanor. Cat hesitated and gave him a long, loaded glare, then shook his hand. By the time he let go of his hand, Fradella wasn’t smiling anymore. Cat crossed his arms at his chest and pursed his lips, while Fradella thrust his chin forward with a gesture that said, “I ain’t going anywhere.”
Tess barely refrained from chuckling and continued watching the two in their intricate and lengthy alpha male posturing game.
“Isn’t it funny how those two are almost identical?” Michowsky whispered, appearing out of nowhere while she’d been watching the interaction. “They could be father and son, if you didn’t know any different.”
She snickered quietly but studied the two men from Michowsky’s perspective. He was right, yet she’d never noticed it before. Both men had the same bony structure, tall, with long hair that would’ve looked awful on anyone else but looked just fine on the two of them. Cat’s was more salt-and-pepper, with a distinctive prevalence for salt, but he had an ageless, timeless air about him, reminding her of Willie Nelson. If any man could sport long, gray hair and still look distinguished and charming, that was Willie. And Cat.
The two men were saying something to each other, each leaning toward the other as they spoke, then pulling away and straightening their backs. Cat eventually unfolded his arms from his chest, and the familiar tattoo that had earned him his name became visible; a tiger inked in tribal pattern, its hypnotizing eyes showing where his Hawaiian shirt’s top buttons were undone. Fradella plunged his hands into his pockets and started moving away from Cat, conceding defeat in that apparent confrontation, but reluctant to turn his back to the older man.
She had to agree; they could’ve been family. Maybe they were and didn’t know about it. She knew Cat had some indigenous blood coursing through his veins, Seminole, if she remembered correctly; she made a mental note to ask Fradella if he had any Native American ancestry.
Fradella approached them and took a seat next to Tess at the bar, but Cat returned to the serving station and shot her an apologetic glance. She stood and walked to him, smiling, then she went behind the counter and gave him a hug.
“Hey, kid,” he said, looking at her. “Good to see you.”
“Maybe,” she quipped, “but you’re not that thrilled to see those two.”
“Them?” he gestured with his chin, not bothering to look their way. “They’re cops, and you know how I feel about cops.”
She bit her lip, unwilling to remind him she was a cop too. “Fradella and I, well, we’ve been hanging out,” she said.
“You’re not getting enough of him at work?” he said, then laughed. “I’m yapping like a teenager’s dad,” he added. “It’s great you’re going out a little, even if it’s with a cop.”
She looked up and he placed a kiss on her forehead; the gesture warmed her inside, awakening feelings of family and belonging she hadn’t felt in ages.
“Thanks,” she said, then hugged him again. Moments like those were so precious, and she couldn’t understand why she didn’t visit
more often. Cat was pushing seventy; soon she wouldn’t find him behind that bar counter, no matter how hard she looked.
She breathed, forcing down the knot in her throat and clearing her eyes of the unexpected mist, while promising herself she’d come at least once every few days. Then she pulled back and tilted her head a little. “Are you willing to feed us cops, or not?”
“Coming right up,” he said. “Now get out of my way, or it’ll take twice the time.”
Michowsky and Fradella had moved from the bar to take seats at a table in the corner, away from unwanted ears. They both looked grim as Tess joined them.
“What’s up?” she asked, looking first at Michowsky, then at Fradella.
Michowsky started sharing what he’d found, what Carrillo was up to, and his confirmed suspicion that Lily Pearson was to be used as insurance, in case the Coast Guard or the DEA stumbled across the drug shipment.
“Where is he now?” Tess asked, concern ruffling her brow.
“I have GPS on his car,” Michowsky replied.
“We should seize this shipment,” Fradella said.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Tess replied. “All right, we have enough for warrants, phone surveillance, the works. I’ll bring Donovan in on this and have him set the wheels in motion.”
Cat brought burgers and fries, laid out expertly with all the trimmings on heated plates. He set them on the table, then came back with a club soda pitcher and a mint lemonade for Tess. The two men thanked him, and he mumbled something in response, the friendliest he’d ever been with the two cops. Tess swallowed a chuckle and bit into the burger with a healthy appetite.
“Oh, this is good,” Michowsky said, taking another huge bite. “Your friend will have to deal with the fact I’m about to become a regular in this place,” he added, chewing with his mouth open.