Face of Fury (A Zoe Prime Mystery--Book 5)

by Blake Pierce

  “This is a very serious investigation,” Flynn confirmed, still not giving anything away. “Do you know where we can find him right now?”

  The daughter bit her lip. Zoe knew that a lot of people didn’t like giving information to the police, especially if it would get someone they loved into trouble. But after a brief moment of internal battle, Pitsis’s daughter relented.

  “He’s at a bar in town,” she said at last. “The Queen of Clubs. It used to be a livelier place, but it got kind of run down, and he says he likes it there. He’s there almost every day now.”

  “Thank you,” Zoe said, whirling around and heading back toward the car immediately. Behind her, she heard the rookie giving some other kind of small-talk niceties to close off the conversation, but Zoe had neither the time nor the patience, nor the inclination, for any of that. By the time Flynn got back into his seat, the engine was running and the GPS set, Zoe having leaned over to his side. They set off without delay, Zoe grasping hold of her seatbelt to keep it away from her neck and looking eagerly ahead, impatient to get to the bar and arrest the murderer of four innocent women.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Zoe checked her gun in its holster, seeing Flynn do the same out of the corner of her eye, as they approached the bar. “With caution,” she said, pausing to make sure he had heard and understood her. He tossed his head her way in a sharp nod and hesitated, straightening the front of his suit with a nervous frown, right in front of the doors.

  The Queen of Clubs was certainly run-down, just like Miss Pitsis had told them. The front of the bar was vandalized with overlapping tags in black spray paint that no one had bothered cleaning up, the sign above the door was peeling, and there were four split-open garbage bags spilling stinking waste into an alley right beside the building. The area in general was not the most affluent, and Zoe found herself glancing around, checking behind their backs. People in these kinds of places didn’t tend to be on the best terms with law enforcement. Justified by social oppression or not, it still had her wary.

  “Inside,” Zoe said brusquely, jerking her head toward the door. Flynn took the hint and surged forward, and together, they burst in through the doors and quickly looked around, seeing hardly anyone in the dim and dusty interior.

  It was an immediate letdown. There were only two old men in one corner of the bar, playing poker with a dog-eared and sticky-looking set that had seen better days and was missing two cards, Zoe could tell, both nursing half-empty drinks. They were white-haired, one of them missing several teeth, and there was a cane resting up against the side of the table. Whoever they were, they definitely were not Ezra Pitsis.

  It was late afternoon, a natural time for the bar to be almost empty. Soon, drinkers would begin clocking off work and make their way over, but it wasn’t yet time for that. And yet, his daughter had believed he would be there. For some reason, Zoe felt like she trusted that statement. Whether it was true or not, the daughter had believed it. Which meant that there was still a chance Pitsis was around—in the bathroom, maybe.

  Zoe approached the bartender, lifting her chin toward him. “Hey,” she called over, lowering her voice more as she got closer to him. “We are looking for someone who might be a regular drinker here. Ezra Pitsis. Do you know him?”

  The bartender wore an ill-fitting leather motorcycle vest over a gray shirt, only just pulled over a large paunch, and his long, curled hair was greasy where it fell on his shoulders. “I know him,” he said. His eyes were flicking constantly between Zoe and Flynn, their faces and hands, their bodies, as if scanning for concealed weapons. “He ain’t here, though.”

  “Was he in earlier today?” Zoe asked, directly, facing him over the bar. He was taller, but she had more fire. She needed to see this case through, and she wasn’t about to let a greasy bartender get in the way.

  “I haven’t seen him.” The bartender shrugged, but his eyes were still darting all over the place. He couldn’t even look at Zoe while he was saying it. He busied himself with picking up a glass that needed drying, rubbing it with a cloth. His eyes darted once toward the back door and then stayed firmly away from it, fixed on the glass. Two wipes across the same spot, three, four, five.

  Zoe knew. In her gut, she knew something was off. Pitsis’s daughter had been quick to tell them the name of the bar, even though she clearly didn’t trust law enforcement or believe that her father needed to be brought to justice for what he did while drunk. Now they were here, and it had taken them time to arrive—a short time, but still time enough.

  And this bartender looked so nervous, Zoe would have suspected that he had a stash of illegal drugs under the counter or an underage drinker hiding in the toilets if she hadn’t been there investigating a case.

  “Head around back through the alley,” Zoe said quickly, turning and pushing Flynn toward the door so that he could cut off any exit path there. She didn’t bother to explain, and for once, thankfully, Flynn didn’t argue. He rushed out, breaking into a run as soon as he was through the front door, and Zoe made her own dash toward the back of the building.

  She could see it all, the numbers laid out in front of her like a path. She could calculate the amount of time it would have taken for the daughter to shut the door behind them, dash to her phone, call her father. The time it might have taken for him to get the idea, especially if he was drunk. There was still a possibility that there was time. He couldn’t have just walked down the road—he knew that they were out there looking for him, and that they probably knew what he looked like.

  No, he would have hesitated. Just long enough to explain everything to the bartender, who was probably loyal given the amount of time and therefore money Pitsis spent there. The bartender would have watched out the grimy window in the front of the bar and seen their car pulling up, and two very obvious FBI agents in their suits emerging, and at the same time Pitsis would have made his getaway.

  And where? Right out the back door, into the alleyway, around the front of the building and away, while Zoe and Flynn were still caught up in talking to the bartender and trying to get information out of him.

  But not this time. Zoe wasn’t going to let him escape. There was too much at stake.

  She hit the emergency exit bar on the back door at full speed, taking the impact to her body without caring or slowing down. She spilled out into a small, enclosed area, storage for bins, with a wooden fence and a gate at one side keeping this part of the property private from the alleyway.

  And a man, halfway over the fence, turning a white and panicked face in her direction at the noise of the door crashing open, before he suddenly dropped down to the other side and was gone.

  Zoe cursed, throwing herself toward the fence. She would have to hope that Flynn was in place, that he was quick enough and strong enough to intercept Pitsis before he could vanish into the side streets and dilapidated buildings of this part of town. It was his stomping ground, his territory. He might be able to lose them easily on foot.

  She could see the right path over the fence clearly, the angles and trajectories as plain to her as line drawings. She needed to climb up onto the top of the nearest bin, a metal skip with a domed lid, tall enough to cut the height of the fence in half. Then she would be able to grasp hold of the top of the fence, use her arm strength, and kick off to hook her feet onto a cross-bar on the gate by swinging sideways. A simple push up there and she would be over the top, and the fall was slight enough that she should be able to use proper form to avoid injury when landing.

  Zoe executed it without pausing, trusting the numbers to keep her safe. A vault onto the bin, grasp, swing, gasp at the weight of her body and how much harder it was to lift herself after two months of poor self-care, hook anyway, push up, check the distance to the ground just in case of unpleasant surprises—and she was down, looking up to see Flynn already apprehending Pitsis about halfway down the alley.

  “You’re under arrest on suspicion of murder,” Flynn shouted, throwing his arms out w
ide so that Pitsis couldn’t get by. Pitsis, wiry as he was, thin and tall and graying but unbowed, didn’t even pause or try to dodge to either side. He carried on moving headlong toward Flynn, and then barreled back a fist to punch him full in the face.

  Fearing the worst, Zoe had already kicked off, launching herself in their direction as quickly as she could. But Flynn, although he had staggered back a pace at the hit, wasn’t going down. He continued to block Pitsis, boxing him to one side as he tried to dodge, and then drew back his own arm to deliver a swift punch in return.

  And Pitsis fell to the ground, stunned, his nose pouring blood.

  Zoe slacked off her pace, almost on top of them now, faltering to a stop. It was over. They had him. But just as she embraced this relief, Pitsis jerked to the side, making a move as if to roll to his feet and stand, trying to run past Flynn into the opening left by his lowered arms.

  It happened so fast. Zoe blinked once, and then Flynn’s gun was no longer in his holster but in his hands, and he was pointing it right at Pitsis with a breathless yet somehow steady arm.

  “Don’t even try it, asshole,” Flynn spat. Pitsis looked up; behind them, Zoe could not see his facial expression, read whether he was complying. Flynn brought up his second hand to grip the gun, steadying it further, keeping it aimed right at Pitsis’s head. There was a cold fury in his eyes. The safety was off. Zoe felt her breath catch in her throat.

  He was going to shoot.

  “Flynn,” Zoe began, not really sure how she was going to follow that up. She just wanted to try to get his attention. To distract him enough that he wasn’t going to pull the trigger. It wasn’t worth it. She knew from experience that shooting a suspect was never a good idea, unless you absolutely had to in order to save a life. Not only did it lead to disciplinary trouble, but it also left you without the answers that you needed—that victim families would demand.

  And there was the other thing, the kind of ragged fear that gripped at her at the thought of seeing another human die right in front of her. She had seen it happen enough times already. Too many times. Even when it had seemed like it was justified, it was never pretty. Never a good solution. There would be the dreams after, the visions of those last gasps for air, the thought of what you could have done better… And there was Shelley’s face, rising up in her mind, freezing her to the spot, those cold white eyes filmed over in death…

  “Go on, do it,” Pitsis sneered. He had not fallen back or relaxed; he was still wound tight as a spring, tension in every line of his body. Zoe could see how he might push off on one hand and jump to his feet and try to make a run for it. He looked ready. “Go ahead. It’s not like I have anything more to lose. Shoot me.”

  For a long, awful moment, Zoe thought that Flynn would. Her words caught in her throat and stuck there. Nothing that she could say to make him stop—no words that came into her mind that would make him see. There was only a terrifyingly blank space and an infinitesimally small moment of wishing she was more like Shelley, able to make someone listen to reason with words alone, even as the thought of Shelley made her sick to her stomach.

  And then Flynn’s arms relaxed, elbows going down and wrists upward, separating, the gun going back toward its holster. He tucked it away and pulled out a pair of handcuffs in the same gesture, stepping toward Pitsis.

  “Like I was saying,” Flynn said, leaving Zoe’s heart to pound in relief as delayed adrenaline flooded through her, making her feel slightly sick, “you’re under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court…”

  Zoe leaned against the wall of the bar, catching her breath as she clutched at her throat, relieved on two counts: that Flynn had kept control, and that they had a killer trapped between them, cuffs being slapped on his wrists as she watched with the blood pounding in her ears as it returned to her head.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Zoe leaned on the table, the cool metal taking her weight through her knuckles. She was doing her best to strike some kind of balance between being the right mixture of intimidating—so he would want to talk—and friendly, so that he would want to open up. Somewhat predictably, it didn’t seem to be working at all.

  “There are a number of outstanding warrants against your name,” Zoe said, giving Ezra Pitsis a raised eyebrow. “The quicker you talk to us, the better word we are going to put in for you with the judge.”

  “I’m not an idiot,” Pitsis sneered. “I’ve seen cop shows. Heard the podcasts about how you people get into people’s heads and make them confess to things they never even did. I’m not saying another word without my lawyer present.”

  Zoe stared at him a moment longer, trying to read his body language. It would have been easier if she’d had someone else in there with her, someone who was better at talking to people, but there was no way she could invite Flynn in just then. Not after the stunt he pulled in the alley, looking like he was about to shoot Pitsis right in the head.

  She sighed and straightened, feeling one of her vertebrae crack. It had been a long couple of days, following a long couple of months. They weren’t going to get anything out of Pitsis until he was lawyered up, and with the afternoon drawing to a close, there were likely to be complications with that. Lawyers who had left the office and needed to be contacted at home, traffic jams during rush hour, all the rest of it.

  And she had done her part. They both had. Enough to get the case wrapped up. All the evidence was there. There was no shame in handing things over to Sheriff Petrovski for now—especially given that Flynn had wanted her to go home a lot earlier than this.

  “We will let you know when your lawyer has arrived,” Zoe said, turning and sweeping out of the room. She had nothing against leaving Pitsis to be uncomfortable in the meantime. He could stall for time as much as he liked; it was only him who would have to put up with the stiff metal chair and desk, the bare room, and the lack of food and drink within the close four walls. It would be a nice rehearsal for him, given where he would be going next.

  Zoe found Flynn outside, lingering near a video monitor that showed a livestream of the interior of the interrogation room. “He’s not talking?” he asked, looking up as soon as Zoe came over.

  She shook her head. “He wants a lawyer. I suppose it should be expected. With the other warrants for vandalism, disturbance of the peace, and theft alone, I would want a lawyer. Let alone for the murder charges.”

  Flynn nodded. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, whether he talks now or later. We’ve got him. A jury isn’t going to look at that evidence and let him walk away. And we can get the rest out of him anyway.”

  “You can,” Zoe corrected, giving him a half-smile. A mechanical movement of the lips and cheeks which she had attempted to perfect over the years, but which on this occasion—as on many others—was not something she really felt. “I am going home, remember? I will stay at the motel tonight and arrange a flight home tomorrow. We both need some rest.”

  “It doesn’t sound like too bad an idea,” Flynn said, reaching for the jacket he had slung over a nearby chair. “I guess Sheriff Petrovski can have him for tonight, once his lawyer comes. Talk to him about the other warrants. Then I’ll pile on him in the morning.”

  Pile on him—the imagery was unnecessarily violent. It brought Zoe’s thoughts back to that moment in the alley, when she really thought for a moment that Flynn was going to pull the trigger.

  “What happened back there?” she asked. “With the gun?”

  Flynn swallowed, holding his coat awkwardly in his hands as he hesitated, refusing for a moment to meet her eyes. Then he clenched his jaw and looked up, nodding. “I… lost control, just for a moment. Let my guard down, I guess. I didn’t expect him to punch me.”

  “And after you pulled the gun?” Zoe asked. “It looked like you really were going to shoot him.”

  “I was.” Flynn turned, starting a slow step toward the back of the room and the hall, the path that would take th
em to the exit. “Just for a moment. I really wanted to.”

  “Why?” Zoe shook her head, falling into step beside him. “Just because he punched you?”

  “No, not because of that.” Flynn took a tense breath. Zoe saw his nostrils flaring out by a couple of millimeters when she looked sideways, and decided not to rush him. “Because of the killing. I just wanted it to stop. I looked at him and I knew he was a killer, and that I could end it right then by taking his life. But I didn’t want to stop justice from being done. I know how important it is for the victims’ families to get full closure. To understand the why and the how.”

  Zoe looked straight ahead, pushing open the door to the hallway and stepping through first as he followed. “You have a particular reason for that strong kind of reaction?” she asked. She’d come up against many killers in her time as an FBI agent. She’d never wanted to shoot someone just to make them stop killing, not when they were already cornered and down. She’d never had another partner attempt it. There had to be something more to it than that.

  “No one gets into this line of work without a little trauma in their lives,” Flynn said.

  Zoe had to agree. And by the way that he said it, flatly and matter-of-fact without inflection, she didn’t feel like there was an invitation to ask further questions. Which was fair—because she sure as hell didn’t want to tell him anything about her own trauma, either.

  They got into the car and drove back to the motel in silence, Zoe in her own world with the numbers, Flynn beside her carrying whatever trauma it was that had gotten him here in the first place.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Zoe sat on the bed, hearing the springs creak in protest as she did so. Leaving this run-down, uncomfortable motel couldn’t come quickly enough, though she was getting tired enough that it still sounded like a better option for the night than sitting upright on a plane. Zoe knew she needed to take it easy. She could practically hear Dr. Monk saying it in her head, and now that she was back to practicing the techniques that allowed her to keep it together, she didn’t want to risk losing it again so soon.