By the time Rick realized there was no one there, he turned back to find a gun pressed against his stomach.
He tensed. "You robbin' me?"
"You wish," Dean said. "We're gonna take a little drive."
"Drive where?"
"To the scene of the crime," Dean told him.
"What crime?"
Dean glared at him. "The scene where you raped my wife."
Rick tensed. "Hey, I didn't rape anyone!"
"Tell it to the judge. Only problem is you may never get to see him."
"You've got the wrong guy," Rick said uneasily.
"I don't think so." Actually Dean wasn't sure he had the right guy, but he couldn't afford to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Now let's go. Or I'll kill you right here and be done with it."
"Okay, okay. I'll go with you," Rick said. "But you're making a mistake."
"No, asshole, you made the mistake of raping one woman too many!"
Dean waited till his prisoner was behind the wheel before getting in on the passenger side. "Start driving," he ordered. "I'll tell you where to go. And remember, no sudden moves or this gun will likely go off."
Rick got the message, doing exactly what Dean wanted. Now it was up to him to deliver the ultimate payback.
* * *
The car pulled inside the parking garage and into a space Dean had become well familiar with. It was Karyn's parking spot and where she'd been assaulted.
"Get out!" Dean ordered, narrowing his eyes.
When Rick hesitated, Dean pushed the gun hard into his ribs, making him wince.
"Okay," he stammered.
Dean followed him out of the car. "Does this place look familiar?"
Rick shook his head. "No."
Dean didn't buy it. "This is where you raped my wife, you son of a bitch. And where you're going to die for it!"
"Man, you can't kill me for something I didn't do," Rick insisted. "I've never been to this garage in my life."
Dean removed a photograph of Karyn and stuck it in the man's face. "Remember her? She's my wife. Six months ago you raped her right here."
Rick was perspiring. "I swear it wasn't me. Maybe he looked like me, but I never touched your wife."
Dean almost believed the man. But the pieces seemed to fit, even if Karyn may have been off on her description, minus the ski mask. The bastard had to pay for what he did to her and other women. Jail was not good enough in this case.
"Get down on your knees," he ordered the rapist.
"Please—don't do this." Rick did as he was told, shaking uncontrollably.
"If you want to get out of this alive, tell me what I want to know. Admit that you raped a woman in this garage six months ago."
Rick wavered.
Dean rapped him on the head with the gun. "Do it!"
Rick groaned. "All right, all right, I raped a woman here six months ago. I'm sorry if it was your wife."
"Yeah, just like you're sorry about the last woman you raped," Dean said angrily.
Rick reacted like the guilty man he was.
"How do you think I found you? There was a witness, dickhead!"
Rick's shoulders slumped. "I'll turn myself in to the police."
"You should have thought about that before you made the mistake of raping my wife!"
Rick squeezed his eyes shut and seemed to say a prayer.
Dean said one of his own. He was about to kill a man and needed all the help he could get to deal with the ramifications. All he could think of was that he had to set Karyn free. Even if it cost him his own freedom.
He placed the barrel of the gun to Rick's temple. After sucking in a deep breath, Dean counted to three, knowing there was no going back once he pulled the trigger.
He did so with no regrets, content to know this asshole would never rape again.
* * *
Dean parked in his usual spot in the garage, noting the empty spot where Karyn's car used to be. They had sold it a month after she was attacked. She had quit her job two weeks earlier and now seemed content doing nothing.
Maybe now things could change.
He entered the house through the side door. He could hear music coming from the den. Karyn was a big jazz fan, though not recently, preferring the sounds of silence.
He hoped this was a good sign.
Stepping into the den, Dean envisioned Karyn sitting on the couch, maybe sipping a glass of wine, enjoying the Kenny G tune. The room was empty.
He went to look for her in the kitchen. The kettle was on the stove, a half filled bottle of water sat on the table, and unwashed dishes lay untouched on the counter and in the sink.
But no Karyn.
Dean saw nothing to cause him to worry. But for some reason he was concerned.
"Karyn, where are you?"
No response.
He scaled the stairs. Maybe she fell asleep. She had been spending a lot of time in bed since the attack.
"Karyn, honey, are you up here?"
Still no answer. Dean considered that she could have fallen and hit her head and was now lying unconscious somewhere.
Or maybe she wasn't even in the house. In fact, he seemed to recall that when they were at Phil and Stella's house last night, Stella had invited Karyn to go shopping. Karyn had politely declined, though she had opened up far more than he expected her to.
Perhaps she'd had a change of heart and called Stella.
Dean clung to that thought, wondering why Karyn hadn't phoned him to say she was going out.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar.
"You in there, hon?"
Dean pushed open the door. Karyn was standing at the side of the bed. Her blouse was ripped, partially exposing one breast. She looked almost frozen stiff, as if having come face to face with terror.
"Karyn...?"
She didn't move.
Only now did he look down and notice the gun at her bare feet. He had gotten it for protection soon after the sexual assault. She had been resistant to the idea, unsure if she could use it.
He had insisted she learn how.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean caught sight of something on the floor. He turned and saw a brawny person wearing a bloody ski mask lying there. Three or four bullet holes had seeped blood onto the hardwood.
He wasn't moving.
Dean took no chances. Walking over to the man, he bent over cautiously and felt his neck. Nothing.
Again. Same result.
He removed the ski mask. Dark eyes devoid of life stared back at him from an ashen, puffy face.
Dean went to his wife, picked up the gun, and tucked it in his pants. He put his hands on her shoulders, forcing Karyn to look at him.
"What happened?"
She was unresponsive, as if in a trance.
He nudged her. "Tell me, Karyn."
Her chapped lips began to move. "He came back, just like he promised—"
"Who?" Dean raised a brow. "You're saying this is the man who raped you?"
Karyn stared blankly at him, nodding. "I grabbed the gun and when he came at me, I-I shot him… And I just kept shooting…"
"Are you sure it's him?" Dean studied her, his world frozen in that moment.
She didn't flinch. "I'd never forget his smell and voice; the way he laughed and had his hands all over me before he raped me."
# # #
TARGETED
"I've got your back, man," Javier Whitman said into his cell phone while motoring down the busy freeway in a BMW.
"You'd damn well better have it!" the man shouted back. "If I go down, we all go down. Understand?"
"Yeah, I hear you." Javier tried to hide his uneasiness at the mere prospect. "Don't worry. They don't have a case. It's nothing but hot air. You ask me, the D.A.'s gonna drop it any time now and we can all get back to business."
"I don't think so," the man said. "They won't stop till they nail my ass. Unless I beat them at their own game."
Javier tensed. "Meaning?"
Javier realized it was too late to stop the wheels that were already in motion. "What did you have in mind?"
"Probably better if you don't know."
Javier felt perspiration clinging to his armpits as he took the exit to Lenwood Street. He wondered if his cover had been blown. Impossible. He'd been extra careful as always.
That did little to ease his discomfort. "Well, look, I've gotta take care of some business—our business—so I'll be in touch."
"Yeah, you do that," the man said gruffly.
"Later."
Javier put the phone in his shirt pocket. He was having second thoughts about being an informant. He was doing his part to help get drug dealers off the streets in Portland. Or at least one very big dealer. But was the price too high? If he screwed up, he was a dead man. Just like his kid sister, who OD'd on heroin last year.
Javier convinced himself that everything would be all right. Once the drug kingpin's head was chopped off, his arms and legs would cease functioning too.
That gave Javier hope he could get his life back in order and try an honest and safer way to make a living.
Javier pulled into the underground parking garage. He was fifteen minutes late for his appointment, and they didn't tolerate tardiness. But he couldn't help it if he'd had to make a couple of runs for the boss this morning and then got stuck in rush hour traffic. He nervously ran a hand through his hair, sucked in a deep breath, and was about to get out of the car.
That was when he noticed a shadowy figure creeping swiftly toward his car.
Instinctively Javier went for his .357 Magnum. He'd never used it, but never left home without it, keenly aware of the dangers he faced in the drug business.
* * *
The assassin, dressed in black, stood outside the mark's window aiming a gun directly at Javier's face. Before Javier could get off a shot with his own weapon, the assassin fired three rounds pointblank through the window, shattering it. Each bullet landed in Javier's head, causing blood and brain matter to explode everywhere.
The assassin shot the snitch two more times for good measure and one after that just for the hell of it.
Reaching through what was left of the window, the assassin grabbed the dead man's wallet.
One down, one to go.
* * *
Lydia Muldaur fidgeted in her cold cell. At least she was alone, which was about the only thing she had to smile about. She hated the food, didn't dare drink the water, and felt dirty. For now she was willing to be in jail, considering the price for getting out.
She had refused to reveal the name of her source for the article she'd written for the Rose City Daily about reputed drug kingpin Antonio Escobero. She had also signed with a major publisher to write a book on Escobero and his illicit drug empire in Portland.
But then the man had gotten himself arrested and charged with a host of crimes and Lydia was subpoenaed to testify for the prosecution. Yes, Escobero was the worst kind of scum and she would be happy if they put him away for the rest of his miserable life. Only not as a result of her crossing that principled line as a journalist and disclosing the name of the man who was her pipeline to the inner workings of the city's drug trade. Aside from endangering her source, Lydia would be jeopardizing the career she had worked so hard to achieve.
Was it worth her job and reputation? She didn't think so.
But Judge Barnard Nishida III didn't see it that way. He ordered her to reveal her source or be held in contempt of court. Lydia hoped she might get off with a stern admonition and be given the right to protect her sources like any good journalist.
Didn't happen.
The judge put her in jail and seemed unaffected by his decision. As he put it, "Once you spend a little time in hell, maybe you'll be ready to do your civic and professional duty, Ms. Muldaur."
It was all Lydia could do not to give the judge a piece of her mind. Common sense had prevailed. No reason to anger him even more, only to wind up with additional time in a place she clearly didn't belong.
How long would he keep her locked up like a common criminal? A month? Two months? A year?
She didn't dare hazard a guess.
Lydia wanted to laugh to keep from crying. She had already shed enough tears to turn her blue eyes permanently scarlet.
Maybe this had gone far enough. Was she supposed to stick to her guns for a lifetime?
Stubbornly, Lydia decided she would do just that. Otherwise how could she possibly expect to gain the trust of future sources for investigations if her word was not solid?
Still, a part of Lydia would give almost anything right now to be relaxing in her Jacuzzi tub, sipping a glass of red wine.
Almost.
* * *
DEA Special Agent Devlin Carter wasn't surprised to learn that a member of Antonio Escobero's inner circle, Javier Whitman, had been murdered. After all, with the drug lord in custody on a number of serious charges that would likely put him away for life, it wasn't unexpected that some turmoil would occur within his organization. It had obviously been a professional hit.
Carter had been surprised to find Lydia Muldaur's business card in Whitman's pocket. She was the journalist in jail for refusing to name her source. He had scrolled through Whitman's cell phone and saw her number on his speed dial.
It didn't take much for Carter to put the pieces together. Whitman had been Lydia's informant, supplying her with insider knowledge of the drug world. And she'd been willing to go to jail just to protect her source.
Commendable, yes. Smart, no.
Carter doubted Whitman had given her much information that was credible, knowing he had to walk the line carefully so he wouldn't tip his hand to those who would rather see him dead than bring the cartel down.
Unfortunately he hadn't been careful enough and paid the ultimate price.
Since Carter believed that Lydia Muldaur might have just enough information to bolster the strong case they already had against Escobero, he'd gotten the judge to release her. Now that her source was dead, there was no need to keep her in jail.
But Carter wanted to make sure his new ace in the hole stayed alive. At least long enough to testify against Escobero.
* * *
"You're free to go," the guard said tonelessly.
"Me?" Lydia's eyes widened.
"Yes, you." The guard sneered. "It's your lucky day."
Lydia didn't feel lucky, but was thankful for the judge's apparent change of heart. She stood up and practically skipped out of the cell before she was locked in again.
After collecting her belongings, Lydia took a cab home.
She never wanted to see the inside of a jail cell again, unless she was interviewing an inmate.
She brushed aside the thought, happy to be free.
Lydia wondered how Javier Whitman was holding up. They had spoken yesterday and he sounded nervous, as if she would betray his trust. She had guaranteed him that would never happen.
Now she wasn't sure if it was worth getting anything more from him. She had plenty to work with to write her book. Maybe it was best to leave well enough alone.
Lydia called her good friend, Suzanne Pratt. Suzanne had told her several times that she'd gotten way over her head on this one and that she probably should think about dropping the whole book idea and give up her source. But Lydia had assured her it was worth it and she knew what she was doing. In the end, Suzanne had stood by Lydia's decision to continue to pursue inside info on Escobero.
"Lydia! It's good to hear your voice," Suzanne said.
"Same here," Lydia said. "I'm in a cab on my way home. I've been released."
"Really? So...you revealed your source then?"
"Nope. I didn't say a thing. They just told me I was free to go, and they didn't have to tell me twice."
"Thank goodness for small favors," Suzanne said. "Maybe sticking to your guns was the best way to
handle this."
"Maybe," Lydia agreed. "Guess I'll just have to play it by ear and see what happens next."
"Do you want me to come over?" Suzanne asked.
"Sure, that would be great."
"I'll pick up some sandwiches from the deli and a bottle of wine to celebrate your freedom."
"Sounds good," Lydia said. "Just give me about an hour to shower away the jail stench."
Lydia disconnected. She tried Javier's number, but got his voicemail. They agreed it was best if she never left a message. She would call him later.
* * *
Antonio Escobero sat in the visitor cubicle of the correctional facility where he was being held. It was only a matter of time before he was out of that hellhole and back on the street where he belonged.
In the meantime, he would plot his revenge against everyone who double-crossed him.
Escobero ran a hand through his slicked back hair and studied the person through the glass before grabbing the phone. "What you got for me?"
"It's done. That snitch Whitman will never utter another word to anyone!"
Escobero smiled. "That's good to hear."
It was important for his organization to make examples out of snitches like Javier Whitman, a man he'd trusted who betrayed him by ratting out to a journalist. Javier had to die and Escobero hoped he'd suffered.
With Javier out of the way, it would make things easier for Escobero to beat the rap they were trying to pin on him. Minus one key witness, the State's case was that much weaker.
But not weak enough.
His brows stitched. "What about the journalist?"
"Soon, Antonio. Trust me when I tell you that her days are numbered."
Escobero grinned, but was impatient. "Good. The sooner the better."
"I understand."
"I'm counting on that."
"I'll be in touch."
Escobero hung up the phone, satisfied for now. He stood up and approached the guard so he could go back to his cell. He was already anticipating his freedom and being back in full command of his drug empire.
* * *
The cab pulled up to the converted warehouse turned condo. The developer had done a wonderful job turning an old furniture warehouse into modern condos in the heart of downtown. Lydia paid the driver and headed to the entrance. Out of her periphery, she noticed movement coming toward her.
EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder Page 2