by Damaged (v5)
Everything he had built, had strived for, was teetering on the brink of disaster. His partnership in the firm was his final reserve. The last bastion that could hold the wolves at bay. And now Randall Barrett had called him.
It rankled. Deeply.
He strode into Barrett’s office. He’d always hated the stark modernism Barrett surrounded himself with. Harsh angles, hard materials. Barrett had blatantly ignored the design aesthetic John had chosen for the firm.
Barrett swung his chair around, surprise flashing across his face. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind about coming in, Lyons.” Barrett kept his gaze cool, but John could feel the anger emanating from him.
John had rarely seen his partner show emotion. He’d have to tread carefully. He lowered himself into a leather-and-metal chair that was so ingeniously constructed he couldn’t figure out the seams. He kept his features blank. He wasn’t going to give an inch to this upstart bastard.
“You said you had something to discuss.” There was only one way to conduct this meeting: on the offensive.
“I had a phone call this afternoon. From a lending agency called CreditAngels.”
John tried to lean back in the chair but it was almost impossible. “And?”
“They are calling in a loan. One you signed on behalf of the firm. Fraudulently, I might add.” Barrett’s tone was casual. He could have been recounting a golf game.
No point in lying about it. Barrett would have seen the loan document by now. “I’ll repay it. With interest.”
“Of course you will. The question is, are there other loans out there that we don’t know about?”
“No.” He held Barrett’s gaze. “Just that one. I was short on cash. I needed it to invest in a promising new company.” He made his voice earnest. “It was such a good opportunity, I couldn’t walk away from it. The tissue industry is booming. I’ll be able to repay the firm within six months.”
“What I want to know is whether you advised TransTissue to settle because it would further your interest in BioMediSol.”
John recoiled. His back hit the metal frame of the chair. He cursed it silently. “No! Of course not. I would never do such a thing.”
Skepticism radiated from Barrett’s face. “Don’t bullshit me. I want the TransTissue files on my desk tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow was Saturday. John fought to control his reaction to Barrett’s arrogant demand. Ordering him around like a fucking articled clerk. He forced his voice to remain neutral. “Randall, I’ve been practicing for twenty-three years. I have never in my career given legal advice that was contrary to the best interests of my clients.” It pained him to think that all those years of success would be undermined by this son of a bitch. Ever since Barrett had joined the firm, he’d done his best to sabotage his power. To the point that he had been voted managing partner last year. Instead of John. It had wounded him, more than he’d ever let Barrett know.
He felt a perverse pleasure knowing he caused the smooth bastard grief. “I admit I made a mistake regarding the loan. I can pay that back. I’ll draw up the terms tonight.”
“I’ll draw them up,” Barrett said sharply. “But I’m more concerned about the TransTissue case, Lyons. If you’ve exposed the firm to a conflict-of-interest suit it won’t matter whether you repay the money. It’ll cost us a lot more to defend it. The damage to our reputation will be incalculable.”
John forced himself to meet Barrett’s gaze. He didn’t want Barrett to see that he’d found his weak spot. Because if Barrett knew he’d compromised his legal advice—just this once, to keep BioMediSol’s practices away from the magnifying glass of the judicial process—Barrett would start digging around his other clients. And then he’d discover he’d been dipping into their accounts.
If that happened, there was no question that he’d be kicked out of the firm. The bar society would suspend or disbar him. His reputation would be in shreds. He’d lose any chance of earning the kind of income he needed to pay back the debts looming over his head.
Barrett placed his palms on his desk. “I’m calling an emergency meeting with the partners tomorrow afternoon at 2:00 p.m. We expect a full accounting of the situation. Don’t try to cover anything up, Lyons. It’ll just get worse for you.”
Twenty-three years of legal practice had taught him one thing: never show them when they’ve got you by the balls.
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” he said, rising to his feet. He turned on his heel and left the bastard’s office. Sweat beaded his brow. He wiped his hand impatiently across his forehead.
He walked to the reception area and got into an elevator. But instead of punching the button to take him to the parking garage, he went down one floor to the level occupied by associates and junior partners. Taking the stairs two at a time, he slipped back upstairs and hurried down the hallway, going the long way around to his corner office. Never before had he been so grateful that his office was in the opposite corner to Barrett’s.
He grabbed his briefcase, flung open his filing cabinet and began stuffing papers into it. His ears strained for the sound of Barrett’s footsteps.
The hallway was quiet.
Sweat drenched his shirt to his back. He snapped his briefcase closed. He had brought a coat with him, and now he draped it over his arm, covering the hand holding the briefcase. He closed his office door, locking it. He knew that Barrett could probably jimmy the lock but it was more of a delaying tactic than anything else. He’d think that there were files worth protecting inside John’s office. By then, John would have destroyed them in his shredder at home.
He walked lightly on the balls of his feet to the stairwell, taking the same route as before. The pressure in his chest eased. He had the documents. Kate was next on the list.
A plan formulated in his mind. One that killed two birds with one stone.
She would be the Body Butcher’s next victim.
After Craig took care of her, they’d kill Craig and dispose of him in the crematorium. Anna wouldn’t be pleased with this change of plans; she wanted to kill Craig right away. But they could wait a few hours until he’d disarticulated Kate’s body and inscribed his signature.
Then they’d inject him, and slide him into the crematorium. There’d be one less serial killer to prey on the world.
John would drive Craig’s car to a spot in the south end and dump Kate’s body.
When Kate’s body was found the next day, the firm would be in an uproar and the meeting would be postponed. The wind would be taken out of Barrett’s sails. The partners would be reacting to losing one of their own; they’d be in a more charitable mood. He’d been a role model and a mentor to many of them. He’d plead stress and his wife’s spending habits. They wouldn’t want to believe he’d been living a lie for the past five years. They’d give him a chance.
But only one. There’d be no forgiveness if they knew he’d compromised TransTissue, or that he’d borrowed clients’ money.
He took the elevator down to the parkade and hurried to his car. It was parked along a back wall, a lone silver symbol of status and wealth that had never failed to give John satisfaction. It was sleek, fast and played hard. He was always careful to leave his car parked away from the high-density areas where it could get scratched or bumped. He opened the trunk, placing the briefcase inside.
A car rumbled up the ramp.
He froze.
The car slid into a parking space opposite the elevator.
He glanced at it from the corner of his eye.
His heart leaped with adrenaline.
It was Kate.
Why had she suddenly shown up here?
Had Barrett called her in to question her about TransTissue—and sent her straight into his arms instead? What perfect justice.
She got out of her car.
He picked up the tire iron in the trunk and pressed it against his trouser leg.
“Kate!”
49
Friday, May 18,
6:20 p.m.
At the sound of John’s voice, Kate started. She couldn’t see him at first. It was dim in the parkade. Then she saw his form silhouetted against his car.
“Oh. Hi, John.” She gave a nonchalant wave and turned toward the elevator. Her heart pounded furiously. He was the last person, the very last person, she wanted to see right now. She hadn’t figured out his connection to BioMediSol but she was sure there was one. And if he was connected to them, then he was involved in some very dirty deeds.
“Wait, Kate!” He walked hurriedly toward her.
She stopped and turned. “I have a meeting, John. I have to go.” She forced a smile.
“I need to talk to you before you speak to Randall.” He stood stiffly, his arms rigid at his sides, next to the trunk of a very nice car. Randall’s, in fact.
“I don’t think so.”
“Kate.” Disappointment, pain, concern were all wrapped up in that one syllable. “Don’t be like that. I want to help you be successful.”
“Help me?” Anger at John’s betrayal—of her faith in him, of his callous disregard for people’s health, of his criminal use of the dead—flooded through her, capturing in its torrent her grief and pain. “I think you’d better help yourself.”
She knew it was the wrong thing to say the minute it came out of her mouth.
He stared at her.
Finally, he said, “What do you mean?” His voice was dangerously soft.
She felt the hair on her arms rise. “Nothing.”
“Oh, I think you do know, Kate,” he said. His eyes hardened. “If you are as smart as you think you are, you’ll keep your mouth shut with Randall.”
It was the first time Kate had ever heard him speak without his usual courtliness.
She tensed. She wanted to run. But his next words pinned her to the spot.
“You do have a secret, don’t you, Kate? One you wouldn’t want him—or the bar society—to know.”
She felt her skin go clammy. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” She wanted him to keep talking, to confirm her darkest doubts about him, but her body wanted to flee. She took a step back. “Look, I’ve got to go—”
He smiled. “I won’t tell anyone that you broke into Keane’s Funeral Home and stole confidential records—”
She felt her insides turn icy. She had heard all she needed to hear. He could only know about her theft if he was in collusion with Anna Keane. And if he was in collusion with Anna Keane, it meant he knew she was onto him. It meant he had every reason to keep her quiet.
“John, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
He smiled. “Don’t bother bluffing, Kate. We know what you did. So here’s the deal—you keep our secret safe, and we’ll keep yours. Otherwise, you can kiss your legal career goodbye.”
What he didn’t realize was that she’d already said goodbye to it.
He leaned against Randall’s car. He began to tap something against the bumper.
She glanced down. And froze.
It was a tire iron.
Slowly, but very surely, it was hammering a long dent into the gleaming chrome of Randall’s Jag.
“I don’t mean to rush you, Kate, but I believe Randall is waiting for you.”
She swallowed. “No deal.”
Then she gathered every ounce of energy she had and spun around. She bolted down the parkade ramp to the stairwell. John lunged after her.
Something clattered out of her pocket. She could hear John’s footsteps, surprisingly light and frighteningly fast.
She reached the door to the stairwell. Ragged breathing filled her ears. Was it hers? Or was it John’s?
It was John’s.
He was closing in on her. She wrenched the door handle, pulling it with all her strength. It opened and she threw herself forward. Her body moved faster than her feet. She pitched headfirst down the damp concrete steps. John grabbed her arm. Righting her.
Relief rushed through her. Followed by sick realization.
He raised his arm.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it. The tire iron.
Fear made her legs weak. She yanked herself free of his grip.
She felt the whoosh of air being displaced by motion. A sob broke free of her throat. “No—”
The tire iron cracked down on her head.
The stairwell engulfed her in black.
50
Friday, May 18, 6:47 p.m.
Pain. Throbbing, taunting, exploding in waves. She had never felt pain like that before. It consumed her. Made her long for unconsciousness.
She tried to open her eyes. The lids were weighted with lead. Dizziness overwhelmed her. She let her lids fall. It was easier to succumb than to fight it.
“She’s coming to.” It was John’s voice.
Panic welled in her. Where was she? What was wrong with her?
She tried to open her eyes again. Dizziness slammed into her.
She breathed deeply. A smell taunted her consciousness. Strong, unmistakable. Imogen.
It made her nausea worse.
“Quick, is it ready?” That was a woman’s voice.
“Here,” John said. “You do it. I’m no good with these things.”
“I’ll bet,” the woman replied, disgust in her voice.
The woman’s name was right on the tip of her tongue. Which was dry, so dry. She needed a drink of water.
Someone grabbed her arm, pushing her sleeve quickly up to her bicep. It was the woman. Her fingers were businesslike, practiced.
“Look, while she’s out, I’ve got to check in with my wife. So she doesn’t get suspicious.”
The woman’s fingers tightened. “No. You need to stay, John. I can’t face him alone.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back in plenty of time.”
“John!” The woman’s panic was evident in her voice. “Wait. Please, don’t go.”
There was a pause. Then John said in his most soothing voice, the voice Kate knew even in her groggy state was his most dangerous, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
The door thudded before the woman could respond.
Cool air rushed over Kate’s skin. A piece of tubing pinched her above the elbow as it was tightened.
Sweaty fingers tapped the skin over her vein. She wanted to pull her arm away but couldn’t. She turned her head. The white spots tilted sickeningly.
Jab. Despite the woman’s palpable anxiety, the needle slid into her vein smoothly. Anna was good at this. Anna. That’s who the voice belonged to.
Nausea surged through her. She moaned. Then came the undertow of sleep. A heavy, rolling sleep.
Don’t. Don’t.
Fight it.
The heaviness rolled over the pain in her head. It rolled through her muscles, holding down her limbs.
She let it take over.
Blackness floated through her.
Friday, May 18, 7:16 p.m.
He couldn’t believe it.
She’d stood him up.
Randall glanced at his watch again: 7:16 p.m. He’d called her more than an hour ago.
Damn it. He needed her to cooperate. He ran a hand over his face. He’d let his anger override his professionalism and now this was the price he was going to pay. He’d thrown her an ultimatum and she’d stamped on it. Out of anger? He wasn’t sure. She’d sounded on the verge of tears. Maybe she was taking a few minutes to collect herself. Because he knew she wouldn’t appear in his office teary-eyed and vulnerable. No, she would stride in and give him a curt excuse for her tardiness, her gaze defiant in her red-rimmed eyes.
At least he hoped so. Otherwise, there was only one conclusion to draw from her failure to appear.
She was on John’s side, after all.
Friday, May 18, 7:20 p.m.
“Ethan. Come to the war room pronto.” Ferguson’s voice was tight with excitement. “The lab just called.”
“I’ll be there in five.” He threw his cell phone onto Lamond’s lap, c
hecked his rearview mirror and did a quick U-turn. “They’ve got the results from the last victim,” he told Lamond.
“Finally,” Lamond muttered. They were both frustrated. It’d been a fruitless day. Ethan had been interviewing surgeons, Lamond had been going through morgue records. So far, everyone was above reproach.
They made it to the station in three minutes. Ethan and Lamond jumped out of the car and ran into the building. The war room was buzzing when they arrived. Ethan felt adrenaline surge through him. Something had finally broken on the case.
Ferguson stood at the head of the board table. The other detectives crowded around her. As soon as Ethan and Lamond reached the table, Ferguson cleared her throat.
They fell silent at once. Their usual banter had been worn out from the strain of too many days with too many disappointments.
“Our killer has finally slipped,” she said. Her eyes gleamed with anticipation. “The lab found trace evidence on victim number three’s body.”
“Semen?” Lamond asked.
Ferguson shook her head. “Embalming fluid.”
51
Friday, May 18, 7:24 p.m.
He walked into the embalming room. The familiar smell embraced him, tantalizing his senses. It was like coming home. It was home.
He strode across the room. The elevator door was sitting open, waiting for him.
This was a good sign. He punched the button and waited, glancing at his watch: 7:24 p.m. He was early.
But he couldn’t wait any longer.
Adrenaline pumped through his body.
Anna had called him in tonight for an “extra case.”
There had been something in her voice—fear, desperation, anxiety—that he had never heard from her before. But he wanted to hear it again. When he was tightening his grip on her.
He was happy to come in, he said.