Once he’d cleared security, he took the elevator to the thirteenth floor. The secretary, a pretty brunette, assured him someone would come for him momentarily. He was still cooling his heels ten minutes later, waiting for someone—anyone. Patience had never been one of his virtues, and it was quickly becoming a commodity in short supply.
The office door at the end of the hall opened, and he stood and smiled. Elizabeth Bradley, Brad to her friends and co-workers, rushed forward and threw her arms around him, giving him her version of a bear hug. She stepped back, allowing him to get a good look at her when she did.
Brad hadn’t changed much. The woman’s appearance was deceiving. Ex-military, in her mid-forties, she was an ace marksman and had a black belt in at least three different martial arts. More than one guy got his ass kicked trying to hit on her in Chicago when they’d been partners stationed at the bureau’s branch. How her husband, Jacob, survived their first date was anybody’s guess. The man was a sci-fi novelist. Maybe he’d offered to put her in a book.
“Jase, you haven’t changed a bit,” she used his nickname, one of the few allowed to do so. “Still need a haircut, I see. I saw you and Dr. Marion on television last night. Good move to hold the press conference that way. I’ll bet Meredith Sykes owed the doctor a big favor for that exclusive. I saw Thomas Lincoln speaking to the press, too. I take it you’ve posted security to keep the curiosity seekers and anyone else away? The poor woman has been through enough.”
Brad put her arm through his and led him down the hall toward the office she’d just left. No one seemed to pay any attention to them—they either knew who he was, or they didn’t care.
“Yeah. Her father hired Sentinel Security. I’ve read their dossier. Troy McDerban is handling the case himself.”
“Sentinel Security is the best money can buy, but I don’t envy them this. Your files were more detailed than the ones I was able to access in Alaska. I’d heard that was the case—we do have interoffice gossip—but I’m still surprised at what you were able to suppress, especially about the surviving child. How did you manage to do that?”
“It wasn’t easy, but Lincoln money talks loud and clear.” He shook his head and frustration filled him. “Brad, the case has gone cold—amnesia’s been confirmed. I learned last night that two of my suspects are dead. I’m fresh out of ideas. I hope you’ve got something up that sleeve of yours to kick start this investigation.”
Brad winked. “Don’t I always?” She opened the door to her office. The room was large, well decorated, with a bank of windows facing San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. She touched his arm. “I’d like to introduce you to some of my colleagues. They’re among the best in their fields.” She indicated three people sitting at the round table.
Look at these guys—what the hell’s Brad thinking?
Jason stared at the eclectic group of people. They ranged from a thirty-some techno geek in front of a laptop to a man in a three-piece suit who could have posed for Sigmund Freud’s last portrait. How on earth were these people going to help him?
She smiled at what he was sure was the stunned look on his face and turned to the assembled group.
“Here’s the man you’ve all been waiting to meet. This is my good friend and former partner, Special Agent Jason Spark, temporarily seconded to the Larosa Sheriff’s Department. Jason, I’d like you to meet Greg Poirier, our computer guru. He can find anything and everything. The gentleman who looks like he’s come from a funeral is Dr. Alf Lystrom, an expert on execution and revenge killings. He doesn’t always dress so formally. Last but not least, this is Ivan Smirnov. He’s French, believe it or not, and works with Interpol. He contacted us three days ago and asked if he could join the investigation. The director okayed it, and here he is.”
Jason shook hands with the FBI agents and turned to Ivan. The Interpol agent was about six-two, well-muscled, and his hair was thinning. He was clean-shaven, with a slight hook to his nose, and a friendly smile that was deceiving. One look in his brown, almost black, eyes told Jason he was a man of power and danger. Messing with him wouldn’t be healthy.
“Welcome to the United States, Mr. Smirnov, but I have to say, your name doesn’t sound too French to me.”
Ivan shook Jason’s hand. “My family fled Russia before the Bolsheviks stormed the Winter Palace. I was raised among the French aristocracy. It has opened doors for me, doors often closed to others.”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” Jason apologized hoping he hadn’t offended the man. He needed all the help he could get.
Ivan chuckled. “Sometimes being different from the rest is a good thing. I’m eager to learn more about this case.”
“We all are.” Brad offered Jason the chair beside her.
“The crime file in front of you is the official FBI one, but it’s incomplete. Jason sent me his full file, and it’s the reason I begged the director to let me form the team. The FBI and the CBI have been on this for six weeks now. This team’s going to go over everything with a fine-toothed comb. Fresh eyes might find something missed or bring a new perspective to the case,” Brad began. “I had copies made of the crime scene photos. Let’s start by looking at them.”
She opened the folder in front of her and passed the printed photos around the table. Jason stood, walked over to the whiteboard, and wrote down the names of the victims, including the two killers who’d been identified.
“Merde!” Ivan cursed in French as he examined the photos of the carnage.
Other expletives followed as the pictures circulated, but soon there was no sound at all. Jason glanced at their faces and saw the horror that echoed the dismay he’d felt when he’d walked into the crime scene. His stomach churned at the memory.
When it appeared they’d finished examining the photos, Brad spoke. “Jason, it’s all yours. You were the first responder. Take us through it. Don’t leave anything out.”
He swallowed and reluctantly allowed his mind to go back to that grisly Labor Day night. He began by admitting he’d thought it was a false call and had taken his time to get there. Confessing the truth, even part of it, to these people was a knife wound to his heart. He knew exactly how much could have been prevented if he’d moved his ass.
He described the house and how the crime scene unfolded right up to the moment Mandy had been found alive.
“Why was the kid under the bed? Was she hiding?” Greg asked. “It’s a strange place to sleep. I’d get claustrophobic under there.”
“Apparently she’s afraid of the dark and was practicing for a sleepover at my deputy’s house on the weekend. As I understand it, she’d chosen to sleep under that bed because it was the darkest place in the house.”
“And she didn’t hear anything? That’s odd, isn’t it? I mean, there had to have been some noise.” Greg looked again at the picture of the kitchen floor covered in blood.
“I thought so, too, at first, but Buck—that’s the deputy—said the child is a very sound sleeper. Her room was at the back of the house, on the side opposite the kitchen, where the murders and assault took place. The bedroom door was closed as well. There weren’t any prints on the handle other than Mrs. Hart’s.”
“Tell me about the second scene. Was there any writing at the clinic?”
Alf spoke abruptly, stopping Jason’s answer to Greg and forcing him to answer his question instead.
“No, the walls were bare. We believe the killers gained access to the doctor there. The clinic normally closed at eight, but a camper had taken a gash out of his leg with a hatchet, and the doctor and nurse stayed late to stitch him up. The camper and his wife came forward with the information after they saw the newspaper report when they returned home to San Jose. They left the clinic at eight thirty. They hadn’t seen anyone in the parking lot. According to the woman, they last saw the doctor and his nurse cleaning up the examination room.”
Jason paused, swallowed, and cleared his throat. No one could have done anything for the nurse. She’d
been dead at least half an hour before the call had been made. He ran his hand through his disheveled hair.
“The deputy found Kelly Barbour out by the reception desk. Her throat was cut, like the boy’s. The drug cabinet was empty, and the small cashbox was gone, as was Kelly’s engagement ring and a gold cross necklace. Both items have been recovered. Before you ask, her fiancé has a rock-solid alibi. He was in Afghanistan. He’d talked to her on Skype the previous night.”
Alf nodded. “I see, thanks.”
“Where’d they recover her jewelry?” Greg asked. “Did they find any from the house?”
“I learned last night that the bodies found in Auburn National Park are two of my suspects. According to the autopsy they were drugged and then had their throats cut. Blood found on the victims confirm they were at the crime scene. One of them was the Le Roy mentioned on the nine-one-one tape. Turns out it’s a last name, not a first one, so we spent days working a false trail. All of the stolen jewelry, minus wedding rings, was recovered. I’m told it was worth about a quarter million bucks.”
“And it was left behind? That makes no sense.” Greg shook his head in disgust. “Why go to the bother of stealing it in the first place?”
“To lay a false trail, perhaps?” Ivan spoke softly, but his attention was still focused on the photograph he held.
Jason waited for more questions. There weren’t any, so he continued. “My brother, Rick, his detective, Buck, and I have gone over every shred of evidence from the clinic, and we can’t find anything there to help us. The doctor’s empty medical bag was in the back of the car. They tortured the doctor for the combination to the safe—probably figured he’d have more drugs in there and maybe some money. We can’t figure out the purpose of the writing on the wall. We’ve toyed with a few different theories. Maybe you’ll have some new ideas for me to pursue.”
Alf dropped the photograph he’d been holding onto the table and shook his head. His lips were compressed. “It’s possible the doctor thought they’d spare his wife and children if he gave them the information they wanted. Whatever they were after had to be in that safe. A man will believe anything if he’s in enough pain.”
Ivan stood and tossed his photo on the table. Jason noted it was the one of the doctor’s mutilated hands.
“I agree, doctor.” Ivan’s words were clipped, as if he were angry. “I also believe no one was supposed to leave that house alive. This was an execution, but there was something they wanted in addition to the deaths of those involved. I doubt it was drugs—those would have been a bonus. The doctor must have been convinced cooperating would spare his family. If he hadn’t, why give them the information they wanted?”
Jason frowned and clenched his fists. “We know they wanted the jewelry—well, the wedding rings at least—because they cut her finger off to get hers, and that’s probably how they got his, too. But you think there was something else in the safe they wanted? Money? Just how much money do you think the doctor had in a home safe?” He stared at Alf and Ivan. What else could have been in that safe worth the lives of four people?
Ivan steepled his fingers in front of him and pursed his lips. He was obviously a man who didn’t like being questioned. The look on his face spoke volumes. “I came to San Francisco to see and hear for myself that this was the same man I’ve been searching for these last fifteen years. I’m quite sure he was hired to execute the family and retrieve whatever was stolen. Hélas, Agent Spark, it’s highly unlikely you’ll ever catch this man. He’s called The Butcher. He works as an assassin for the highest bidder.”
“You mean he’s a contract killer, an ordinary hit man? But why the mutilations?”
“Believe me, there’s nothing ordinary about The Butcher. Cutting off the fingers could be part of his current employer’s signature. The Butcher has done work in the past for Vincent Scarletti, the capo of the Sicilian mob. Scarletti wears a mechanical arm because he has phocomelia—he was born with only a stub where his left arm should be, a thalidomide baby I believe you call them in America. Removing the fingers of the left hand is his signature—we see it when he orders an execution. The fact both hands were taken leads me to believe there’s more to this than any of us suspect. The writing is a warning to others. If you wrong the man, your family will pay for your sins. It’s a typical Sicilian vendetta.”
Jason sucked in a quick breath. If it were indeed a vendetta, then Nikki and her daughter were still in danger. Those things didn’t end until every last family member of a bloodline was gone. His blood ran cold.
Jason stared at the Frenchman. “You think this was a hit by the Sicilian mob? What could the mob want with an American doctor?”
“That’s the question we need to answer. The Butcher comes and goes at will. No one knows his name or his nationality. Apparently he’s hired through an agent in Switzerland, but we can’t figure out how it’s done. We’ve tried infiltrating Scarletti’s group, hoping to get a lead. All we got were two dead agents and nothing to bring us any closer to this psychopath. We believe he uses local men to assist him in his duties, but he’s a ghost. No one who’s seen him lives to tell of it.”
“That fits,” Jason interrupted excitedly, his heart racing. Could this be the lead he needed? “He may have killed off his partners but we know something else about him. We have his voice on tape. Mrs. Hart made a nine-one-one call, as I said. She had the phone hidden in the pocket of her top, and it picked up the background sounds. The FBI technicians in Sacramento were able to enhance the tape, and we have his voice, clear as a bell. According to the linguistics expert, he’s from New Zealand.”
“Maudit! We knew he wasn’t European, but New Zealand? I wouldn’t have guessed that. We have an extensive file on him. May I hear this tape?”
Brad cut in. “We can all hear it. There’s a digital copy in the file Jason sent. Greg, you have it in your inbox.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The young technician connected his computer to the speakers, and the sounds branded in Jason’s mind filled the room. Once more he relived Nikki’s agony, but he wasn’t alone. He hoped Ivan could help him stop this monster once and for all.
When the tape ended, Ivan walked over to the board and picked up the marker Jason had put down. He drew a question mark in the center of the board and circled it. “Twice The Butcher mentions that what they want is in the safe. You assumed it was drugs, money, and jewelry.”
“What else could there be?” asked Greg.
“Documents, information. At the end, the man said they’d recovered money, drugs, and papers. I don’t think he was referring to the deed to the doctor’s house. He was sent to recover the ring Mrs. Hart wore. The doctor must have taken something else that was equally valuable. Four lives is a steep price to pay for a ring.”
Jason picked up the insurance photograph and stared at it, his other fist clenched impotently at his side. Ivan walked over to put his hand on Jason’s shoulder
“I know you feel powerless, mon ami, but I’ve felt that way much longer. We have a real chance to catch him this time. I’ll do everything I can to help you find him. Let me share with you all a little of what I know about The Butcher.”
He wrote the name on the board under the question mark.
“The man is a perfectionist who fulfills his contracts to the letter, and this contract stipulated no survivors. He also enjoys inflicting pain. I don’t believe for one moment he intended to allow the little girl to live. Most likely, he’ll still be in the United States. Madame Hart and the child are in danger. They’ll need extra security.”
“We’re already on it,” Jason said with more conviction than he felt. If Interpol couldn’t stop this guy, would a team of hired bodyguards, no matter how well trained they were, be enough to protect Nikki and Mandy?
Ivan wrote the name Scarletti under Sam Hart and drew a line from The Butcher to Scarletti and then to Sam.
“Dr. Hart did something to upset Scarletti. He took something other than Madam
e Hart’s wedding ring, and whatever he took must have had great personal value for him. Scarletti doesn’t normally punish the innocent. For a criminal, he has a strong sense of honor. A blood oath isn’t something lightly sworn. The Butcher took the fingers from both hands. Why? Perhaps the doctor isn’t who you think he is—no fingers, no fingerprints. How deeply did you look into the victim’s past?”
“No deeper than we had to. The man was well-known, well-respected. He’d had some cosmetic work done, but we assumed it was vanity. He was twenty years older than his wife. Plastic surgery is a common practice among the rich and famous in California,” Jason said.
“I’m on it.” Greg’s fingers moved rapidly across the computer’s keyboard.
Maybe Brad’s band of misfits would be the answer after all.
Chapter Seven
Nikki yawned and pushed away the tray. She’d managed to eat the gruel and rubbery, green gelatin and sip the cranberry juice Cassie had brought her.
They’d given her apple juice, and it had taken her only one mouthful to know she didn’t like it. She finished her replacement drink, put the cup on the tray, and picked up the remote that would lower the head of the bed. She was tired, and before the doctor came back for round three, she wanted to rest her eyes.
Who was she kidding? If she closed her eyes, maybe the angel would come back. If only he was real, not a product of her jumbled mind. She could use a hug right about now.
So far, the morning had been hectic. Dr. Marion had started by sending her for a series of x-rays and other tests. She’d been poked, prodded, and photographed. Then, the physiotherapist had put her through a series of muscle strengthening exercises.
She’d returned to her room seated in a wheelchair for round two. Dr. James, the hospital psychiatrist, conducted a battery of tests. Most of them had been the standard IQ tests one would expect, given her situation: Raven's Progressive Matrices that evaluated pattern completion and the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale to test her verbal comprehension, perceptual reasoning, working memory, and processing speed. He’d also given her the Rorschach Inkblot Test. It was considered a personality test. Maybe once he’d tabulated the scores he could tell her a bit about herself. Anything would be helpful.
On His Watch (Vengeance Is Mine Book 1) Page 8