by Rick Murcer
“The woman is small, blond, but there’s something about her hair that’s not right. It doesn’t bounce when she walks.”
“What does that mean?” asked Manny.
“She’s a high stepper. The kind that men like to see walk. Her hair would bounce with that kind of stride, but it doesn’t.
“Her teal blouse is tucked into her jeans. She’s right handed because I can see that she’s holding something. It has to be her gun. I look back at her face, thinking that this is a problem because of where and how she’s walking. Even though she’s fifty or sixty feet away, I can see she’s pretty. Small nose, big eyes, high cheekbones tapering to her pointed chin.”
Amy felt herself swallow. Damn, this is crazy.
“She sees me staring and realizes I’ve made her and know she’s not there for a social call. She raises that gun as I start to dive. I actually see her lose her balance for a second, then I lose sight of her.”
The moment Amy heard the second shot, her eyes flew open as she reached for her shoulder, praying she wouldn’t feel the heat of the bullet course through her shoulder again.
A strong hand caught hers before it reached her shoulder.
“Whoa. Not so hard, that might hurt a little.”
He was right. It would have.
“Reflex. I could almost feel being shot again.”
“That’s what I suspected.” He guided her hand away from her shoulder and held it. “You did a great job. I could see the woman, after the way you described her.”
“Yeah, well, you led me there. I didn’t really think I could do that.”
“Oh, he excels at that stuff . . . you know, leading where we don’t really want to go,” said Sophie. “At least he’s on our side.”
Amy turned back to Manny and held back the remark that she was ready to voice. The man was frowning, forcing him to look years older than he was. It sent a chill down her spine.
“What? What’s wrong?” Amy asked.
Manny rose from his chair and glanced at Sophie than back to her.
“I want you to get with your departmental artist. A composite sketch should go out to every cop in New Orleans.”
“That’s a given, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“I know that look, Williams. Spill it,” said Sophie, standing and moving to face him.
Manny exhaled, but that act didn’t erase the troubled expression from his handsome face. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think I know who this woman might be.”
CHAPTER-17
“Did you get the background checks I asked for?”
Belle Simmons shifted the cell phone away from her ear, listening to the soft sound of the wings of the jet cutting through the air, all the while rubbing her knee. Her own version of a nervous tic that had haunted her since that incident long ago in the Caribbean.
Why these two?
The question had been haunting her since Josh Corner’s request had sent her to the databases, ones the public could only imagine existed.
She was new at FBI procedure—official procedure, that is—but not to police work. She was intimately familiar with what this kind of information was designed to discover or, in some cases, verify. Belle put the phone back to her ear.
“Yes, Josh, I’ve got them. They’re sealed, just like you asked. I have them in a locked briefcase.”
“Great work. Thank you, Belle.”
She waited for him to continue. He didn’t.
“So?
“So what?”
“Don’t play coy, Josh. You know damn well what I mean. But I’ll state the obvious in the event you might misunderstand my meaning.”
“Belle―”
“Just tell me why you’re digging into their lives. I sort of get why for one of them, but the second one? Really?”
More silence from her friend. The kind that forced her, for one taunting moment, to reevaluate what the word “friend” truly meant. Josh had always been upfront with her, but at this juncture, she wasn’t so sure exactly what that denoted.
“Listen. I know you have questions, and although I’m not a profiler, I’d guess you’re wondering as much about me as you are my actions.”
“I’d say that’s accurate,” answered Belle.
“Would you also agree that there are simply some things that are on a need-to-know basis?”
Belle’s angst rose. “Are you saying there could be secrets in this new unit of yours?”
“I’m saying I’ve probably said too much already. Just know that the nation’s security is more important to me, especially given what we’re running into in New Orleans, than it’s ever been. I’m only scratching the surface of what that entails.”
“You think one or both of them threaten national security? Come on, Josh. You’ve known these people for years.”
“I have. That’s why I need to make sure of a couple things.”
“Tell me―”
Josh interrupted her, irritation in his voice. “Enough, Agent Simmons. Just get me the files when you land, then you need to team up with Manny, Sophie, and Alex. That’s the end of your concern and our conversation regarding this subject. Are we clear?”
Exhaling, Belle shifted the phone to her other hand. “Yeah, it’s clear. And I’ll do my job and keep this to myself. But you’re a fool if you think this is the end of this subject.”
“I’m no fool, Belle.”
The phone went dead, his words echoing through her head.
Belle placed the phone in her lap. “No, you’re not. And just what in the name of God did you get me into?” she whispered.
CHAPTER-18
Rhodes finished wrapping Lucretia’s body in a thin layer of plastic. He stood, wiping the perspiration from his brow, swearing under his breath. He enjoyed the warmth of the sun as much as any man, but the godforsaken humidity in this part of Louisiana still wasn’t to his liking. Not at all.
Yet, in the grand scheme of things, and the vital role that New Orleans would play on that stage, the weather was a minor inconvenience. Certainly not in league with getting rid of poor Lucretia’s body.
The memory of her face pinned itself on his mind. He could see the conviction of the mission they shared in the sharp recesses of her eyes. The expression drawn over her face in intimate detail as they discussed what would come next in perfect harmony and accordance with the grand scheme. How the law enforcement fish had swallowed the bait—hook, line, and sinker, as the saying went.
Looking toward the end of the dirt road that ended at this secluded section of North Shore Beach, making sure he had no company, Rhodes turned back toward Lake Pontchartrain, then glanced down at Lucretia, blood spatter still visible on her distorted neck and face.
Squatting on one knee, he put his hand on her forehead one final time. “You were clueless, were you not, my love? You thought you were into something noble, but you never realized just how far I can be from that concept.”
He stood. “In the end, all roads lead to the same destination; they are forever self-serving. Mine is no different. Perhaps you’ve figured that out, if there is a life after this one and you can still think. If not, you’ll not be concerned with the depth of my deception and your role as a loose end. Goodbye, my love.”
Five minutes later, after dumping her body into the lake, a fitting feast for the gator contingency, he drove the old Chevy back to McLane City and entered I-10, in the direction of New Orleans proper.
He’d have to finally get rid of his dependable ride, despite feeling a measure of affection for the old girl. But nothing could be excluded as a potential complication. The bloodstain on the seat was just one more example.
A fire on an abandoned street after dark should handle both problems. He’d already removed the vehicle’s VIN numbers, so tracing the car back to him through the previous owners would be next to impossible, especially since he really had nothing on this planet in his real name. Almost nothing. Besides, by the time any investigation occurred rega
rding the car, his plan would be completed.
Reaching into his pocket as he passed Irish Bayou Lagoon, he fingered the old photograph without looking. He didn’t need to. It had been etched in his mind years ago. For an unnumbered time, he fought the storm accompanying that simple action. Again, his controlled rage swallowed another miniscule piece of his heart. He wondered how much of that heart remained.
Not much, I suspect.
He brought the faded photo to his lips and kissed it gently.
“In another day, everything will be made right. Everything. I promise,” he whispered.
CHAPTER-19
“What the hell does that mean? You might know her?” asked Sophie.
“Just that. I’ve seen pieces of this physical profile before, and her psychopathic actions would verify the twisted mental profile as well,” said Manny.
He turned to Detective Brooks. “I’m not sure what your department wants you to do next, but we’ll be in touch with your captain soon. Right now, we have to go. Thank you for your help. Let’s go, Sophie.”
“Wait. You aren’t going to tell me what’s going on?” asked the detective.
“Not yet. Like I said, we’ll be in touch. Take care of yourself.”
Manny spun on his heel and rushed out the door, Sophie right behind him. They reached the front entrance of the hospital, and he began to jog toward the SUV, his mind running a different race now. One that required Alex’s help searching the Feds’s databases and, he suspected, another source.
Sophie reached out and grabbed his arm halfway before they made it to the SUV.
“Whoa, big boy. You might be in great shape, but I’ve been slacking in the exercise department for the last few weeks. That, and I want to hear what you’re thinking.”
He patted her hand and nodded toward the vehicle. “I’ll tell you on the way. We have to get to Alex. We’ve been jumbled up with lack of real leads and only conjecture so far. I think this could be important.”
“If you say so, then let’s get our asses in motion.”
Two minutes later they entered I-10 and were speeding toward the local FBI building near the southern shore of Lake Pontchartrain.
Sophie stepped on the gas then gave him a curious side glance, complemented with a momentary narrowing of her pretty eyes.
“Ask. You’ve never been shy before,” he said, smiling.
“I need to ask?”
“No, you don’t. There are two things going on here. First, whatever we have, at this point, I’m reluctant to share with any of the locals. I have a feeling that that’s not wise.”
“You think Brooks knows something about these killings and what’s coming next?”
“Maybe not Brooks. I get the sense that she’s being upfront. But whatever we would have discussed with her is going to get around the department.”
“Dude. You don’t trust the cops? You think someone on the force could be a terrorist? Really?”
Manny thought about what Sophie had said out loud. The very nature of the statement seemed absurd. Yet . . .
“I’m not saying that, exactly. I’m saying information has a way of getting around. We need to control that.”
“I understand. But NOPD, really?” She flipped the blinker to exit the Interstate.
“Being cautious. Wait. Go straight.” He then handed her his phone, his GPS flashing a large red dot. “We’re not going to the FBI’s office. We’ve got another location that’s more private and secure.”
“Damn. When were you going to tell me about this change?”
“It slipped my mind.”
“What? Nothing slips your mind.”
“Okay, I just wanted to make sure we weren’t being followed.”
Sophie glanced out her side mirror then the rearview. “I don’t see anything strange.”
“Nope, me either. Just making sure. And no smartass comments about being paranoid.”
“I’ll control myself.”
Sophie glanced at Manny’s phone sitting on the seat, the sun hitting her face, then she pulled back into the middle lane.
Manny realized that his partner was looking better, more alive.
After Dean was killed, she appeared to have aged twenty years, inside and out. He remembered wondering if he had looked the same way after Louise’s death. He was sure he had. Maybe older.
“What?”
“Have I told you lately that there’s no one on the planet that I’d rather work with?”
The sudden onset of emotion seemed to take her by surprise. She bit her lip, then took a deep breath. “Thank you, Manny. You’ll always be my favorite man and cop. Always.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, smiling.
“Don’t get too full of yourself. The market for a big-boobed Asian partner is pretty strong right now.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Good. Okay, we have Brooks’s situation handled for now. Tell me about this woman you think you might know.”
Manny rolled down the window a few inches, allowing the warm, fresh air into the vehicle. “You know how much I read, right?”
“Yeah, makes me kind of sick to think about how much real fun you’ve missed.”
“Thanks for your condolences. At any rate, three years ago, I was researching tendencies regarding different types of serial killers. Mission oriented, sexual, visionary, and control. We were knee deep into Argyle’s game, so I was desperate to recognize more of his motivation.”
“And?”
“And I ran into a series of cases, from Florida to Louisiana, over a four-year span. Five murders, to be exact. Each victim was male. Each one was overweight, and they were all shot in the back of the head within millimeters of the exact same location on their skulls. Not true execution-style either because there was no GSR indicating close-range shots on any of the victims’ noggins. The estimated distance for each shot was between twenty-five and thirty-five feet away.”
“That would suggest someone who considered themselves weaker than their victims. Maybe a women or someone with a physical issue, right?”
“Exactly. In this situation, given the victims, chances are high that the killer was female. To fuel that possibility—surprise—ballistics matched the rounds for all of the murders as coming from a modified Beretta 92.”
“Like the one that was pulled from the warehouse victims?” asked Sophie.
“Almost, according to Alex. I sent him the old ballistics reports I had in my email from one of the investigators. They are different to a degree, but if she had re-bored the barrel, then that would explain the subtle differences.”
“So she’s a clever wench, sort of.”
“I suppose she thinks so, and she must have been extremely careful because none of the local or federal investigators could find any other links to the victims in those five killings.”
Wheeling down a tree-studded side street off of Saint Charles Avenue, Sophie looked at the GPS again, slowed down, then glanced at Manny. “Damn, this is getting into an old neighborhood.”
“Old, but beautiful. Nothing like a well-cared-for Southern Victorian home. And Braxton did say it was out of the way.”
“He wasn’t lying. Back to your shooter case, that’s not unusual . . . to not be able to find leads on cases like that.”
“True, but with a pattern like the one the killer embraced, there had to be more facts than that they were white and needed a good diet. That’s just too general, at least for my taste.”
“Let me guess; you ordered the case files.”
“Yep. The rest of them. Like I said, I had ballistics but wanted all the files. Just told the FBI’s records department I was a big shot with the ACTU, and that was all it took. Alex will have them sometime today.”
Sophie rolled to a stop in front of a smallish, two-story Victorian home framed with two huge, ancient oaks draped with Spanish moss.
Behind the impeccable wrought-iron fence running the length of the well-landscaped sidewalk rested
a wraparound porch that extended toward an unseen area on the west side of the home.
On the second level of the house was a pillared veranda, accented with lace-design metalwork between each white pillar. The white accented the quiet seafoam-green that made up the color for the rest of the exterior of the home. The home was so immaculate that Manny felt like he’d gone back a century and a half in time.
“Well, shut my mouth,” said Sophie in her best Southern drawl. “You sure this is it, big boy? This place is gorgeous.”
“I’m sure, and you’re right, it is,” said Manny, still taking in the details of the FBI’s safe house. “The thing is . . . every house on this side street is in the same condition, so it doesn’t stand out as unusual. Good thinking.”
“If you say so.”
Scanning the residence, he turned to Sophie. “Tell me what you see.”
She leaned forward and studied it with the concentration he’d seen her develop over the years. A minute later she leaned back, unbuckled her seatbelt and opened her door, allowing more Louisiana heat into the vehicle.
“Hang on to your ass, Williams. I’ve got this.”
“Yeah? Stop talking and start walking.”
“Oh real funny. Just stick with being a hot profiler. You’ll starve as a comedian. Okay. I see nine domed, long-range, maybe three hundred feet, HD night-vision security cameras on the corners and roof of the house, two each in the big trees, each angled to detect horizontal as well as vertical movement. Spared no expense on those puppies.
“Since there’s no garage, I have to assume parking is hidden from the street by the back of the house, which backs up to the dead end between this and the next neighborhood. That’s smart because it makes it difficult to get to the back of the house, which I assume has the same type of cameras situated on the rear perimeter, so that every foot of the exterior of this house is under surveillance.”
“Great. What else?”
His partner frowned. “Do you mean movement on the street? I did see a couple of sedans that blended in but were probably our people . . . well, the FBI’s.”