by Lisa Regan
“How does he know the vics live alone?”
That was an excellent question.
“Maybe he doesn’t, or maybe he’s willing to take the chance and kill however many people stand in his way to rape and kill Delilah all over again.”
“I thought of that, you know,” he said. “I thought he might’ve killed his Delilah first. But I couldn’t find any rape-murder victim named Delilah in the past forty years, and I looked nationwide. It’s not a common name.”
“Maybe he hasn’t killed her, his Delilah. Maybe he keeps killing substitutes ever since she betrayed him. A lot of maybes, D, but one thing is for sure. Any moment now, the Word Killer will strike again.”
A moment of silence filled the air, but it was a brief one.
“Okay. I’ll do it,” Donovan replied, excitement bubbling in his voice once he’d agreed with it.
“Good. Let’s think of a sin for you. How would you like greed, like Allan Brehm? The unsub went for that big time.”
“I’m not sure what that entails,” he replied.
“Let me worry about that. You get the tux and the limo ready and meet me in downtown Miami in forty-five minutes. You have a date.”
She ended the call and soon after that she exited the freeway, heading downtown. She pulled in at a ritzy hair salon, where she had to wield her badge like a weapon to get a stylist to do her hair and makeup without an appointment.
Almost thirty minutes later, she sat under a hairdryer, while on the phone with Danielle and Cat. They had the phone on speaker mode so they could both converse with Tess.
Danielle too had eaten dinner at Solstice, and the night of her attack was the first time she or Stephen had dined there. No one had drawn her attention, and she couldn’t recall if any of the employees or the people she met there were her attacker. Her memory was still a blur.
Danielle told Tess she had called her fiancé and told him she was traveling to see her sick grandmother, and he could carry on with his father’s campaign travels instead of rushing back home. As such, she hoped she’d be back on her feet by the time he returned, the house cleaned of bloodstains, and her vitality regained. Although, she cried, the carvings on her back would leave a permanent scar she’d have a difficult time explaining.
Tess urged them both to be careful and not take any risks. Cat promised her they would, the bar would stay closed for the evening. Then Cat had taken the phone from Danielle and went downstairs so he could ask her in private, “What’s your plan, kiddo?”
“I’m going after him tonight, Cat. By ten or eleven, I hope the bastard will be gone. To jail, that is,” she corrected herself, although she didn’t anticipate the unsub would allow himself to be taken alive. Power-assertive sadists almost never do.
“And how do you plan on doing that?”
“I’ll just have dinner, looking pretty and showing off a rich man. I hope that will get him to come after me.”
He went silent for a while. “I know this is what you do for a living, but please take care. How many people are watching your back?”
“I promise I’ll be fine,” she replied, then ended that call and connected to the next one.
Before going shopping for an evening dress and some heels, she wanted to know if SA Patto was still doing his job, guarding Elias Mosley.
Turned out, he was. He barely spoke two words with her, but she didn’t need more.
She sent a text to Donovan giving him the address of where to meet her, conveniently neglecting to mention it was a beauty salon.
11
Donovan looked as if he hated the moment that he’d agreed to take part in Tess’s plans. He sat in a salon chair, surrounded by stylists, feeling totally out of place. It was a women’s salon, and all the other patrons gave him long stares. But Tess’s persuasion skills, paired with another flash of her badge, a reference to “a matter of life and death,” and a couple of well-targeted threats had eventually secured the full cooperation of the staff at Love My ’Do.
Tess held up her phone with a recent photo of the famous Curtis Finch displayed, so the stylist could know what she was aiming for. She’d chosen Finch carefully, thinking of who best to lure the unsub in, someone who’s reputation for insatiable greed preceded him, but also someone around Donovan’s age. The thirty-year-old founder of one of the largest social media networks in the world was absolutely perfect.
“And what did you say this was called?” Donovan asked, turning a couple of shades redder in the face.
Two of the stylists giggled.
“A slick back and quiff,” the one working on him replied.
He shot Tess a long, burning glare via the mirror. “You’re so going to owe me, for, like, ever,” he mumbled.
“As soon as we’re done, we’ll get you back in here or wherever else you want to go and change it back to the way it was. Okay?”
She waited for an answer from him, but none came, only another glare.
“It’s hair, for crying out loud. Whatever it is, it will grow back. In your case, they’re not even cutting much; just styling it over your head like that… like Justin Bieber, really.”
“Winnett!” he snapped, looking more miserable than ever.
She decided to lay off him.
“Remember why we’re here doing this, all right? Do you think I like wearing what I’m wearing?”
Tess had gone to an upscale boutique a few shops away from the hair salon. She’d bought a backless lace dress in navy blue, hemmed well above the knee, and had paired it with 4-inch heeled sandals with thin straps that cut into her toes and made her curse under her breath at every step. She had to give up her service weapon and had tucked the backup Sig in a thigh holster she’d never worn so high.
However uncomfortable, she could pull it off for a couple of hours. If only she could remember she was Delilah, a traitress, a woman who’d sided with the enemy to hurt the man who loved her.
Another stylist took care of her makeup, surprised when asked to make Tess look on the obvious side of cheap, but she obliged. She delivered what Tess happily admitted was a classy kind of trashy look in under ten minutes. By the time she was ready, so was Donovan.
In the back of the limo, she had exactly seven minutes to get him prepped and ready with his backstory before they reached the restaurant.
“You’re a social media mega-tech gazillionaire, the Curtis Finch,” she said, “as you might already know from your matching hairstyle.”
“You had to choose that piece of—”
“He’s an excellent choice if we want to bait the Word Killer. Finch is famously greedy; Forbes puts his fortune at seventy billion dollars, while half his employees sleep in the car because he won’t pay them enough to make rent in Silicon Valley. He’s also a notorious ass, so please behave as such. Here,” she reached into the pants abandoned on the limo seat in front of her and searched the pocket. She pulled out a wad of crispy cash folded in half and clipped in place, all hundred-dollar bills, twenty-two in all. “I drained my bank account, and I was lucky to find a banker who was willing to give me new bills. Flash that cash, but please don’t spend it all. I need to pay my mortgage this month.”
He took it and put it in his jacket pocket. “What else?”
“Wear these shades at all times,” she said, offering him a pair she’d bought, chosen to resemble one of Finch’s favorite sunglasses. “Your eyes are different than his; warmer, kinder.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, putting them on.
“Remember the part you’re playing. You’ve seen Finch many times on TV. Be just as obnoxious, loud, and blatantly arrogant, and you’ll do fine. I had someone make a call as if from a newspaper, asking when Finch was coming for dinner, so everyone in there is already primed and ready.”
“Great,” he muttered, visibly tense and a little pale.
Once he climbed out of the limo, his entire attitude changed. He seamlessly entered the part, playing Finch to perfection. Tess didn’t have to fake the beami
ng smile she threw him when he held out his hand for her.
They were greeted by a host and hostess duo, fussing over them as expected. The hostess hugged Donovan with her eyes and would’ve readily fainted if he’d shown her the slightest sign of attention.
Donovan continued playing his part well, including slipping the host a one-hundred dollar bill and asking, “Put us somewhere peaceful, willya? I’m so damn tired of people yapping around me.”
The host nodded and took them to a table with a “Reserved” card on it. The restaurant was full, almost all the tables occupied. There wasn’t much of a seating choice, but the host still asked if the table was good enough. As he seated them, he gave Tess a long, appreciative look that brought a smile to her lips. That was how Delilah would most likely react; she’d thrive on male attention.
She was getting plenty of that; every passing waiter and customer plunging their eyes in her deep cleavage, then wrapping their lustful glances around her body where the dress ran backless, lower than she cared for.
If I ever want to start dating again, this is where I’ll come, and this is what I’ll wear, Tess found herself thinking with amusement while flipping through the luxurious pages of the menu.
She tried not to stare at every staff member who walked through the dining room. Any of them could’ve been the unsub, and he wasn’t going to wear a sign stating that fact. If she stared too much, she risked spooking him. She focused on her partner instead and touched his hand with her fingers.
He flinched.
“Winnett, what the hell,” he reacted.
“Just go with it, Curtis,” she invited with an inviting smile, running her fingers up and down Donovan’s hand, then in seductive little circles.
Donovan repressed a grin and raised his hand, then snapped his fingers. A waiter appeared by his side in under three seconds.
He pulled out the stack of money and took his time extracting a hundred-dollar bill.
“You see that couple over there? The fat redhead and the lame, bald guy? Move them somewhere else, willya? That woman’s voice is driving me crazy. I can’t eat like this.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter bowed and then disappeared. Moments later, someone dressed in a black jacket, probably the manager, approached the couple and asked them to move. From what Tess could overhear, the manager had to foot their bill in exchange for their cooperation.
Donovan ordered for Tess, the typical behavior of a power freak, and she complied with a radiant smile. A line of waiters took turns filling their glasses with vintage champagne and delivering an impressive choice of appetizers. Everything was delicious.
When they brought his steak au poivre with thin, hand-cut fries, Donovan immediately sliced through it and pushed it back toward the waiter.
“Does this look like medium to you? This cow’s about to start screaming. Are you trying to make me sick or something?”
“My apologies, sir. I’ll take it right back—”
“And bring me reheated steak? Are you kidding me? Is this how you treat people here, in this joint? What are you, a fast food chain?”
The manager appeared out of thin air. “We’ll take everything away, and redo both your orders, from scratch. In the meantime, please accept another selection of appetizers, on me.”
Donovan stared at the man for a long moment. “Yeah… whatever.”
The waitstaff cleaned the table and started over, bringing appetizers, and later, a steak grilled to perfection for Donovan and glazed salmon for Tess. This time, he accepted it with a grunt.
They ate, and nothing happened. They romanced as if they were on a first date; they laughed, sometimes loudly like people do when they don’t care about anything in the world.
And nothing happened.
After having spent a little over two hours in the place, they left, hand in hand, giggling and leaning into each other, and then climbed into the limo that waited at the curb.
After it set in motion, they let their smiles wane.
“What the hell just happened?” Donovan asked. “I did everything—”
“You were perfect,” Tess replied. “We didn’t come here expecting him to attack me in the middle of the restaurant, right? Let’s take our time driving home and see if anyone follows.”
“Yeah,” he replied, taking his shades off and unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket. “Anything?” he asked the driver.
“I can’t see anyone trailing us,” replied the driver, a special agent by the name of Osborne. He was one of the FBI regional bureau drivers, a former field agent, someone they could trust. Tess had rarely worked with him. After taking a bullet in the line of duty, he opted for a safer assignment; he was the single parent of a four-year-old son.
“So, where the hell is he?” Tess asked, frustrated. “I can’t think of a better target than Finch and his new girl.”
“Well, he isn’t following us, that’s for sure,” SA Osborne replied.
Tess turned her head and looked behind. The street was entirely dark, not a single car was visible behind them.
She took out her phone and dialed Patto.
“Do you have him?” he asked, not even saying hello.
“No, we don’t have the bastard,” she replied, not bothering to hide her frustration. “What’s going on with Mosley? Is he still okay?”
“All is fine here, Winnett. Nothing’s happened.”
“Then let’s keep rolling,” she decided after giving it a moment’s thought. She had hoped the unsub would’ve stood out somehow at the restaurant, and she wouldn’t have to lure him to her own place. “Maybe we get lucky later on. Who’s my backup?”
“We have SSA Walz standing by at the rendezvous point, barely three blocks away from your house, and there’s the two of us,” SA Osborne replied. “We drop you off, turn the car around as if we’re leaving, then come back within minutes in our tactical units, but approach carefully on foot. That was the original plan.”
“Yeah, good, let’s stick to it.”
Tess looked behind again, hoping to see another car’s headlights. The street was eerily dark.
12
Donovan held her hand all the way to the front door where they exchanged one more loaded smile. She reached up to kiss him and he mumbled under his breath, still smiling, “Don’t even think about it, Winnett.”
She brought his lips close to his and whispered back, “Wouldn’t cross my mind.”
Then she pulled herself from the embrace, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
She took a deep breath and pulled out her weapon, listening attentively for any sound that didn’t belong. It was perfectly quiet, except for the limo door slamming shut and its engine purring as it drove away.
She turned on the hallway light, then kicked off her painful sandals with a satisfied groan, hand still firm on the handle of her Sig. She cleared the house carefully, one room after another, taking her time. She checked the back door and found it locked. When she finished her search, she headed into the dark living room and stared at the deserted street, gun still in hand.
She made sure no one could see her from outside if they looked. She kept the lights off, and the curtains closed.
No one was there. The unsub hadn’t taken the bait.
He might’ve already been gone by the time Donovan and she arrived for dinner. He might’ve been circling Mosley’s house like a vulture, trying to find his way in, aware his five weeks were about to run out.
What was more important for an unsub with his profile? Keeping true to his commitment to kill Mosley tonight? Or impulsively taking the bait of a new target and coming to finish her off?
The Word Killer hadn’t proven patient or organized; he’d attacked without preparation, without studying or stalking the victims, leaving the crime scenes littered with DNA and fingerprints. His targets were ambitious though; he didn’t go for high-risk victims like prostitutes or drug addicts; he went for low-risk targets from affluent circles, women and men surrounded by family,
friends, colleagues, and, in some cases, staff.
Impulsive. Disorganized. Extremely violent.
Then, where the heck was he?
She sighed and decided to head into the bedroom and change into something more comfortable. There was no point in trying to wait for him in a backless dress that rode up her legs at every step. Gun still in hand, she headed into the kitchen first, pining for a glass of cold water.
She didn’t hear him coming.
When he hit the back of her knees, she fell forward, her arms flailing, her knees hitting the floor hard, her gun flying out of her hand, across the room and under the dining room table. She saw stars and couldn’t draw breath enough to scream. The second blow was aimed for the back of her head, but she’d wriggled and turned to face him. His boot found her shoulder, and she heard the bone crack.
Unwanted memories flooded her mind, seeding panic in her brain and illogical, disorganized responses in her behavior. She whimpered and begged, trying to erase the memory of the assault that had happened twelve years ago.
It couldn’t happen again. Please, no.
The man laughed hysterically while undoing his belt buckle, and in that split second, she focused on his face enough to recognize him.
The restaurant host.
She recalled the long, admirative stare he’d given her, although he wasn’t the only one. But his glance had felt different somehow, loaded with anticipation.
Because he knew he’d come for her.
And she’d missed it.
A sob escaped her throat as she pushed herself away from him, weak, dizzy, desperately expecting Donovan and the rest of the agents to kick the door down and end her pain.
He grabbed her ankle and pulled her toward him, and she screamed. She kicked him with both feet, and that got him laughing loudly, a raspy, insane laugh.
“Tell me about Delilah,” she said, her eyes riveted on the hand lowering his zipper.
Stunned, he stopped and searched her eyes with a drilling stare. “You know about Delilah?”