9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  “Who are you?” he croaked. His throat felt tight and dry.

  “What’s it matter, Moravian?” She answered. “It’s over now.”

  Those words turned Rich’s fear to rage. No, it’s over when Martine’s in the ground, and not until then. He felt a red wave rushing through his body and he rode it, charging her like he’d charged the old man.

  She stumbled and went down on one knee but kept her grip on to the gun.

  As she pushed herself back to standing, he took aim and kicked her wrist. The gun popped out of her hand and clattered to the gravel.

  He reached it first and grabbed it. The woman jumped on his back, clawing at his face with one hand. The other was wrapped around his throat, squeezing. He flailed at her, tried to shake her off, but she hung on.

  He couldn’t breathe. Black dots pricked at the corners of his vision. He started to feel hot and dizzy. He wanted to huddle on the ground and surrender to sleep.

  And then he thought of his dad. Of the boxes and boxes of letters and packages marked “return to sender” that his executor had sent to Rich when he’d finally tracked him down. They’d dated back through the decades, but his father had kept sending them. A letter each month, a gift on Rich’s birthday and Christmas. Year after year. Even though they came back to him each month, Malcolm hadn’t given up.

  How could Rich give up now?

  He shook his head, digging at the woman’s claws around his neck. Then he smacked her knuckles hard with the gun. She loosened her grasp, and he threw her off his back. He kicked her as she fell, then he took off running through the hedgerow down to the sidewalk and the boy, who hadn’t even noticed the struggle taking place in his parents’ bushes; his head was still bent over his game, thumbing away.

  Rich grabbed the boy and started to drag him along the sidewalk. That’s when the boy screamed.

  CHAPTER 56

  Sasha and Martine ran to the front of the house and out onto the porch.

  “Carlton!” Martine wailed.

  “Mom!” he called back, tears streaking his face.

  The boy was being jerked by his backpack straps along the sidewalk, away from the house. A young guy was doing the jerking. There was nothing memorable about the guy. Except for the gun in his free hand. It was a big, evil looking thing.

  Sasha stepped off the porch and crossed the front lawn on a diagonal, heading straight for Rich and the boy.

  A trim woman in her late fifties came limping out of the bushes.

  “Who the hell are you?” Martine demanded.

  Good question, Sasha thought.

  “Sam Davis,” the woman answered, resting her hands on her knees and sucking in air. “Chief Security Officer at Prescott & Talbott. I was sitting on Moravian’s apartment this morning and followed him here. He’s been squatting in your bushes since a little before seven.”

  “Mom!” the kid cried again, his voice high and desperate.

  Martine stepped down from the porch then stopped, hesitating in front of the stairs, unsure what to do to save her son.

  “Stop right there!” Rich said, walking backward, with the boy in tow.

  Sasha kept walking.

  “I said stop!”

  “Make me,” she said.

  “I’ll shoot him,” Rich said, jabbing the gun at Carlton’s head. He whimpered.

  “No you won’t,” Sasha told him. “Your dad wouldn’t like that.”

  His face curled into an angry mask, and he snarled. “Don’t talk about my father. You don’t know anything about him,” Rich said.

  “I know enough. I know he wanted to be with you more than anything in the world and it burned a hole in him that he couldn’t. I know he wouldn’t want you to do that to Carlton’s dad,” Sash said in a soft voice.

  Rich locked eyes with her and swallowed hard.

  Behind her, Sasha heard Samantha explaining what happened to Martine.

  “I jumped him in the bushes, but he got his hands on my weapon. I was choking him out, when he flipped out, knocked me to the ground and took off after the kid,” Samantha said.

  He hadn’t come with a gun, Sasha reasoned. He’d disarmed Samantha. So, he probably hadn’t planned to hurt the boy.

  “Think of how scared he must be,” Sasha said to Rich, nodding at the boy. “Think of how scared you would have been at his age.”

  “Please,” the boy begged, “please, don’t hurt me.”

  Rich dropped the backpack straps abruptly, and the boy stumbled. Then he took off running and didn’t stop until he was in his mother’s arms.

  Rich pointed the gun at Sasha and started walking toward her.

  “C’mon,” he said, “we’re going back to the house.”

  She walked backward, keeping her eyes on the gun and watching for an opening to disarm him.

  When she was halfway up the driveway, he told her to stop.

  He glanced over to Martine and her son, who was still clinging to his mother, sobs wracking his thin frame.

  “Send the boy inside,” he said in a low growl.

  “Go ahead, honey. Go in the house,” Martine said in a too bright, cheerful voice.

  “Mom, no,” he cried, his arms around her waist.

  She smoothed his hair. “Honey, please do as I say.”

  The boy didn’t move.

  Rich kept the gun trained on Sasha with one shaky hand and pointed at Sam with the other. “You, get him out of here.”

  Sam hurried over and peeled Carlton’s hands off Martine, gently but quickly. Martine whispered to him and kissed his head.

  Sam led him to the door and pushed him inside. Sasha watched him disappear down the hall.

  “Get on your knees!” Rich shouted, shaking Sam’s gun at Sasha. His face was red and his arms were trembling.

  Sasha heard Daniel’s voice in her head telling her to stay on her feet at all costs. But her gut told her to comply, so she slowly lowered herself and knelt on the driveway. She faced Rich and the front of the house. Rich had his back to the house. He stepped close and pointed the gun between Sasha’s eyes. Too close. His first mistake.

  “Listen, you don’t want to do this,” Sasha said. She kept her voice low and slow. Her brain seemed to have divided in half: the trained part clicked in and took over, calculating and talking; the other part was panicking, thinking about Connelly, thinking about bleeding out on a driveway on a beautiful October morning.

  “Shut up!” Rich said, his eyes bulging. He waved the gun, bobbling it, then righted it and aimed it at her head again.

  Surely the boy was old enough to know to call 911. If the neighbors hadn’t already. Point Breeze was not the sort of neighborhood where a woman kneeling on the pavement with a gun to her head at seven-thirty in the morning would go unnoticed. She hoped.

  Her other hope was that the gun wasn’t loaded. Ordinarily, she had to assume it would be. Asking the assailant wouldn’t be productive. But here she could ask Sam. She suspected it was. If Sam had been concerned enough to carry it, she probably had been concerned enough to render it useful.

  She could tell by the way Rich handled the gun, clumsy and unsure, that he wasn’t familiar with firearms. That wasn’t to her advantage, though. He didn’t need to be a proficient marksman to hit her at point-blank range. And, he was likely to shoot her by accident, just fumbling around with the thing.

  Sasha locked eyes with Sam over his shoulder.

  “Is it loaded?” she asked.

  Sam nodded a quick yes, then she said, “As a matter of fact, it’s not. But this one is.”

  Rich twisted his neck to see if Sam had a second gun.

  Sasha knew his movements were at normal speed, but everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. She reached forward and grabbed the barrel of the gun with her left hand. She wrapped her right hand around the butt. At the same time she jerked the gun to the right, redirecting it from her forehead to the space over her right shoulder. She tensed her biceps and gripped it hard.

  Rich
’s eyes registered surprise, then panic. When he pulled back on the gun, trying to get it away from her, she was ready for the movement and leaned into it, allowing the force to pull her forward. She used the upward momentum to get her feet under her.

  She drove her right knee forward and snapped her foot out, smashing her lower shin into his groin. He shuffled backward and she wrenched the gun from his hands.

  She recoiled and drove again with her right shin, pulling from her hip and remembering to breathe out on impact with his groin. She hit him with a satisfying crack.

  Rich yelped and collapsed in heap on the driveway, curled in the fetal position. Sasha pulled her foot back a final time and kicked him square in his exposed right shoulder blade. For Larry.

  Rich jerked his arm and cried out. Curled up, rocking and mewling, with his eyes closed, he looked like a defenseless child. She turned away.

  Sam hurried down the driveway.

  “Good work,” she said, clasping Sasha on the shoulder. “Martine’s inside calling the police.”

  Sasha handed the gun to her gingerly. “Thanks. Here.”

  Sam checked the clip, then tucked it in her jacket pocket.

  “What do you want to do with him until the cops get here?” Sam asked.

  They both watched Rich whimper and squirm on the ground.

  “I might have crushed his pelvic bone,” Sasha said. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere. Why were you at his place this morning?”

  Sam brushed her bangs back before she answered. “I’m former FBI. When Mr. Prescott asked me to run down Malcolm Vickers, I found this clown. I told Prescott where he lived and noted the extreme coincidence that Ellen Mortenson and Clarissa Costopolous had both worked his mother’s divorce and had both been brutally murdered. Prescott’s reaction was, I don’t know ... off? Hinky? Whatever, I figured I’d check this guy out. He came over here, skulking in the bushes. So, I had a friend run the address. When it came back as the Landry residence, I knew our boy had something naughty planned.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?” Sasha asked.

  “Why didn’t you?” Sam countered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Am I supposed to think you just happened to drop by Martine Landry’s out of the blue? I’m sure you turned something up while you were preparing your case. Or cases.”

  Sasha shrugged. She wasn’t going to tell Sam Davis that Caroline had helped her.

  “Look, I haven’t been at Prescott long enough to know who’s clean and who’s dirty. If you know something, tell me. Please,” Sam said.

  “All I’ll say is you need to take a long look at Cinco. And his cabal.”

  “The Management Committee?” Sam pressed.

  Sasha nodded.

  “Can you tell me who I can trust?”

  “Volmer. And Caroline Masters,” Sasha told her. “Can you deal with the police? I have to be in court in an hour.”

  She left Sam standing over Rich and walked up the driveway to Martine’s front door. She rapped softly, but no one answered. So, she eased the door open.

  Martine and Carlton sat in the front room, which looked to be used as a family room. Martine cradled the boy on the couch. She looked up at Sasha over his head.

  “Is he okay?” Sasha asked.

  “Scared. But he’s fine. Thank you for what you did,” Martine said, tears shining in her eyes.

  Sasha nodded. “Listen, I have to go. When the police get here, give them my contact information and send them my way, okay?”

  “Okay, sure,” Martine said. Her voice got soft and she added, “I can’t believe he wanted to kill us. Because of a sixteen-year-old divorce?”

  Sasha told herself to leave it alone, but she heard her voice ask, “Why did you terminate his father’s rights, Martine?”

  “It’s what the client wanted,” Martine answered. “And we didn’t know any better. We were gung-ho: we thought we should win at any cost. We didn’t understand parent-child dynamics. Hell, we didn’t understand anything.”

  “And nobody guided you?”

  Martine shook her head slowly. “No. It was the strangest thing. You know how Prescott is, every case has layer upon layer of supervision, but it was just the three of us, without a net. At the time, we were terrified of all the responsibility, but we didn’t want to complain. We figured we had to prove we had what it took. And, until now, I would have said we did an outstanding job, all things considered.”

  Sasha let herself out. Martine sat, staring blankly at her fireplace and stroking her son’s hair.

  CHAPTER 57

  Sasha walked back to her apartment, her blood still buzzing in her ears from the adrenaline rush of the attack. She showered, changed, and raced to the Municipal Court Building with still-damp hair.

  Naya and Larry were waiting for her on a bench outside Magistrate Judge Foster’s courtroom. They both popped up when they saw her coming.

  “Where the dickens have you been?” Larry asked. “They’re bringing Nick up now.”

  “I went to see Martine. Vickers was there. He grabbed her boy. He’s in custody now. I’ll fill you in later.” She looked around. “Where’s the district attorney?”

  Naya and Lara stared at her. Finally, Naya jerked her thumb toward the courtroom. “She’s inside already. And, yes, it’s her again.”

  “That’s okay. She’ll need to approve the dismissals anyway, I imagine.” Sasha said.

  She headed into the courtroom and walked straight over to Diana Jeffries, who was laughing with her assistants.

  “Excuse me,” Sasha said.

  Diana turned. “Oh, there you are. Good morning, Sasha.”

  Sasha stared. Could she really not know?

  “You did hear that Richard Moravian was picked up this morning, right?” Sasha said, cocking her head in confusion.

  “The name sounds familiar,” Diana said with a smile that revealed a berry smudge of lipstick on one front tooth.

  She’d reapplied in a hurry, with a not-too-steady hand, Sasha thought. Her casual lack of concern was a bluff.

  “Good,” Sasha said. She turned to walk over to the table where Naya and Larry waited.

  “Wait,” Diana said, “don’t you want to talk about a deal?”

  “Nope,” Sasha said over her shoulder without turning around.

  The bailiff stood and announced the judge, as everyone in the room hurried to their feet.

  “Take a seat, ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Foster said. She looked down at Sasha and then the district attorney. “Are you ladies ready for me to bring in Mr. Costopolous?”

  Sasha stood back up. “Your honor, if I may?”

  “By all means,” the judge said.

  “Counsel for Mr. Costopolous wants to ensure that the Court is aware of a very recent development. Earlier this morning, an individual by the name of Rich Moravian, also known as Richard John Vickers, was taken into custody at the home of Martine Landry, a third female attorney who had previously worked at Prescott & Talbott. It appears that when Mr. Moravian was a child, Ms. Mortensen, Ms. Costopolous, and Ms. Landry represented his mother on a pro bono basis in a very contentious divorce and custody matter. So contentious, in fact, that Mr. Moravian’s biological father’s paternal rights were terminated, which has not sat well with Mr. Moravian. He apparently devised a scheme to drive wedges between the three women and their respective husbands and then, once divorce proceedings had been instituted, murder the women and frame their estranged spouses.” Sasha finished her spiel and then looked up at the judge, expectant and preternaturally calm.

  The judge’s eyebrows shot skyward. “My, my. That’s what I call a dissatisfied client.” She paused to let the audience sitting in the gallery titter, then she turned to the district attorney. “Do you have anything to say, Ms. Jeffries?”

  Diana took her time standing, then shuffled her papers and smoothed her hair before responding. “Yes, thank you, your honor. I was told by the homicide detectives that, ear
lier this morning, Mr. Moravian did, in fact, confess to the murder of Ellen Mortenson. Accordingly, I have prepared a motion to dismiss the charges against Mr. Lang.”

  The judge squinted at her and said, “Do I hear a but coming, Counselor?”

  The district attorney gave her a small smile and continued, “However, Mr. Moravian has denied any connection to Ms. Costopolous’s murder. He claims he did hire a model to flirt with Mr. Costopolous and sent photographic evidence to Ms. Costopolous. And he did, in fact, accost Ms. Costopolous in her car in the parking garage on the morning of her death with the intent to kill her.” She paused and cleared her throat. “But upon being informed by Ms. Costopolous that she was with child, he realized he could not go through with it, and he fled the scene.”

  Sasha shot to her feet. “Your honor!”

  Judge Foster put up a hand and said, “You’ll get your turn.”

  “The People are investigating that story, your honor, but, at this time, intend to proceed with its case against Mr. Costopolous,” Diana explained.

  The judge shook her head. “Are you sure about that?” she asked.

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Well, then, bring in the defendant,” Judge Foster said to the bailiff.

  He picked up the phone.

  Sasha leaned over to Naya and whispered, “Give me the pictures.”

  Naya passed her a manila folder.

  “Your honor? May we approach while we’re waiting?”

  The judge shrugged and then waved them up with her hand. Sasha, followed by Larry, approached from one side; Diana and her lackey from the other. The judge flipped a switch and turned on a white noise machine. Its whooshing sound filled the small courtroom.

  She leaned forward over the bench. “What’s up?”

  “Your honor, I came into possession of these photographs after court on Friday. I don’t know if the District Attorney has seen these yet, but I think they’d help inform her decision,” Sasha said, holding up the folder.

  The judge reached down and took it. She flipped it open and grimaced at the first picture. She turned it over and looked at the second one, with two Xs, one obliterating Ellen’s face, the other Clarissa’s.