Painted Beauty (2019 Edition)

by J. M. LeDuc

  “Shit,” he yelled, running for the stairs. He glanced back at Victor as he shoved the door open. “Call the number on the back of that card and then call 911,” he yelled.

  Gonzales ran up the stairs and pulled his sidearm while in motion. By the time he reached the landing, the slide on his Glock 23 was rocked and a bullet was chambered. He could smell smoke before he reached the second floor. Cautiously, he opened the door. Near the far end of the hall, he saw the silhouettes of two people dragging a body away from the cloud of billowing, eye-watering smoke.

  “FBI,” he yelled. “Let me see your hands.”

  A woman lifted her hands, but the other did not. “Tiffany’s out cold and she’s been burned,” the man yelled back. “Her apartment’s on fire!”

  Gonzales ran down the hall, gun pointed at the pair just in case it was a hoax. Seeing Tiffany—her hair scorched, and her face fire engine-red—he holstered his gun and helped the man carry her down the stairs to the lobby.

  “Help is on its way. Did either of you see anyone come out of her apartment?”

  “No,” the woman said. “We live across the hall. We heard a scream and came running. Tiffany was the only person we saw.”

  Gonzales ran back upstairs, hugged the wall, and tried to get near her apartment. The smoke was too thick, and he had no choice but to go back downstairs and wait for the fire department.

  By the time Sin, Jack, and the paramedics arrived, Tiffany was conscious.

  “Some first and second degree on your arms and face,” Sin overheard the paramedic tell Tiffany. “You’re a very lucky girl.”

  “You’ll be all right,” Sin said, as the medics were bandaging her head. “You might have short hair for a while, but something tells me you’ll rock the look.”

  Tiffany’s mouth quivered. “Catch this bastard,” she said, squeezing Sin’s hand as the medics lifted her into the back of the ambulance.

  Sin didn’t answer, she just smiled weakly and nodded to the paramedics who raced off, rushing Tiffany to Jackson Memorial Hospital.

  Most of the fire damage in the apartment was superficial. Wall hangings and decorative rugs caused most of the thick black smoke. And by the time Sin made it upstairs, Jack was looking over some sort of odd rifle setup.

  “What the hell is that?” Sin said.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Jack replied.

  Sin pulled her phone from her back pocket and called Evelyn. “Eve, I need you to use your resources and get a weapons specialist here, immediately.”

  “This is quite something,” Lieutenant Smalls said as he went over the rifle and mechanism.

  “What the hell is all this stuff?” Sin said, pointing to the gun.

  “What we have,” the lieutenant said, “is an ingenious homemade remote control firing system. The crazy son of a bitch hooked up a flame thrower to a gaming console.”

  Flame thrower? What the fuck! “Wait, did you say gaming console? You mean like an Xbox?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t even know that was possible.”

  “Possible and easy if you know what you’re doing,” Smalls said. “The directions and parts are online for any wacko to get his hands on. Score another one for the Bill of Rights.”

  Sin walked up to the gun. “Can this thing still shoot?”

  “Nah. Fortunately, the kickback was more than our friend bargained for. When it tipped back, the flames actually fried his own system. Shorted out the entire thing.”

  And saved Tiffany’s life, Sin thought.

  “What I don’t get is the flame thrower,” Jack said. “What the hell did he expect to accomplish with that?”

  It only took Sin a few seconds to figure out the puzzle. “The poem,” she said, staring at the gun. “It refers to the human form being a fiery forge. The bastard was going to burn her alive.

  “Jack, when you and Agent Smalls finish here, I want you both to meet me back at the field office.”

  “Where you headed now?” Jack asked.

  “Downstairs to the property manager. I noticed cameras in the halls. I want to see if they have any footage of anyone entering Tiffany’s apartment.”

  Jack nodded. “Call me when you finish.”

  Sin was given access to view the security footage taken over the past twenty-four hours. She watched a man with a ball cap pulled down low walking toward Tiffany’s apartment at twelve minutes after three in the morning. He was looking at the ground and carrying a duffle bag.

  Her heart beat quickened and her brain sparked as she quickly stopped the video. Calling Victor over, she pointed at the monitor. “Do recognize that person?”

  He leaned in. “Can’t say I do. Let me enlarge the picture.”

  It was a little grainy, but Sin was able to see an insignia on the man’s shirt: Beach Plumbing.

  “Does that name ring a bell?” she asked.

  “I wish it did, but it doesn’t.”

  Sin ejected the disc from the computer. “Mind if I take this with me?”

  “Take whatever you need,” he said. “I know Tiffany can seem obnoxious at times, but she’s really a sweet kid. I want to help in any way I can.”

  Sin placed the disc in her backpack, thanked him, and stepped out into the early afternoon sun. So in her head with what she had just witnessed, Sin didn’t take notice of her surroundings, including the white van parked across the street from the apartment building.

  31

  Lieutenant Smalls put on a demonstration of exactly how the killer had set up the remote control gun. From the height of the stand and the angle of the mounting plate, he was able to show that the flamethrower was set to shoot its deadliest fire at a height of five feet, four inches.

  “Tiffany is about five-four,” Jack said. “Why wasn’t she burned worse than she was?”

  Sin hopped off the table, moved to the whiteboard, and drew a stick figure on the empty slate. “He was aiming for her face. The bastard wanted to kill her but if that failed, he was hoping to take away her beauty.”

  Smalls agreed. “The kickback on the weapon caused the flames to shoot high. Lucky girl.”

  Sin picked up the wall phone and called Evelyn’s desk. “Evelyn, find out if Tiffany’s condition has been released. I want guards posted at her room and at the entrances and exits. No press.”

  No one had to state the obvious that Tiffany would most likely be safer if the killer thought she was dead.

  Sin could feel Jack’s eyes on her. “What?” she said.

  “There is more going on in that brain of yours than you’re saying. What are you thinking about? I don’t like that look in your eye. The last time I saw that look you went to Nicaragua and almost blew your career.”

  “I went to Nicaragua to stop a madman, Jack. That’s the part you seem to be forgetting.”

  “This time I’m not going to let you do it alone. Whatever it is you’re thinking about doing, I’m with you.”

  Sin squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek. “That means a lot; it really does. But right now the only place I’m going is home.”

  “Home?”

  “Something has been bugging me since I was down in the Keys, and I think I just figured it out. I need to go check on some information. I’ll let you know if I was right. In the meantime, I need you to check on Gonzales. He was petty shaken up, and then I want you to head over to the hospital. Make sure everyone’s in place and nobody can get near Tiffany.”

  32

  Something clicked when Sin mentioned playing games. She wasn’t sure exactly what, but she knew she needed to dig deeper into Miranda Stokler’s background.

  She or her art is at the center of these killings. I just feel it, she thought as she rode. Let’s see if I’m as intuitive as everyone keeps saying.

  Her mind was swirling and the trip was a blur. Before she knew it, she was back at the houseboat. She unpacked the laptop Charlie had left her and was soon pecking away at the keyboard.<
br />
  She brought up a picture of Miranda Stokler and studied it. “Let’s see what hidden gems you placed on this baby, Charlie.”

  Sin scanned the programs until she found what she hoped to find: the NSA’s Facial Recognition program. She dragged Miranda’s picture into the program and clicked, “Find.”

  Lighting a cigarette, she sat back and closed her eyes.

  Two cigarettes and three cups of coffee later, she heard the computer beep. Her pulse quickened as she studied the screen. A picture of a much younger Miranda filled the screen and under it was a date: June 9, 1971. Her vital information followed.

  Name: Joanna Ash

  Age: 19

  Height: 5’6”

  Sin leaned in, shocked at the name under the photo. She quickly opened another window and searched Joanna Ash.

  An aspiring young artist, Joanna was married at the age of seventeen to Vincent Ash, a college poetry professor.

  The name Vincent Ash was familiar to Sin, so she again began a new search.

  As Sin continued to read, her skin began to crawl. Soon after Joanna and Vincent married, the murders of young coeds began to occur on the campuses of small colleges throughout Iowa and Illinois—schools where Vincent just happened to be an adjunct professor. For three years the FBI tracked the killer with little or no progress, until finally, in the spring of 1971, they caught a break.

  Prints left on the scene of the last victim had led the FBI to a home in Davenport, Iowa. It was there they found Vincent Ash dead, and his young wife cut and beaten. Joanna had shot and killed her husband in self-defense.

  Sin was elated to have found the information, but something still didn’t sit right.

  Trying to follow a few rules, she hit the speed dial on her cell.

  “Frank, I need a favor.”

  “I’m not throwing anyone else off the case, so don’t ask.”

  “It’s not that. I need you to send me everything the Bureau has on the Vincent Ash case. He was a—”

  “I know who Vincent Ash was, Sin. There isn’t anyone who was with the feds back in the sixties and seventies who doesn’t remember the ‘Midwest Mauler.’ But what does he have to do with anything?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Please.”

  Frank groaned. “Have you spoken to Charlie about the Vincent Ash case?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You’ll understand when I send the information. I swear, you’re going to send me to an early grave, you know that?” Sin remained silent and waited. “Give me a half hour and I’ll send the files to your personal email.”

  “Thanks, you’re the best.”

  “Keep me informed, Sin.”

  “I will. Gotta go.”

  While she waited, she dug through the facts she’d found. Joanna had certainly seen tragedy in her life. When she was only fifteen her parents were killed in a car accident.

  She met Vincent Ash in December of 1968 and married him three months later.

  This is all bullshit, Sin thought. Stuff I could find in a Lifetime movie.

  As she was thinking, her email chimed. Sin glanced at the sender, saw it was Frank, and opened the PDF file he’d sent.

  Sin began to read, surprised to learn that the person who wrote the file was Charlie.

  Sin remembered Charlie telling her that he had joined the FBI in 1968. He had been assigned to the Des Moines office. This case began in 1969, so it made sense that he would be a part of it. Still, she didn’t expect to find his name.

  As she read, she remembered Charlie talking about a case that always left him wondering. He had said that he worked a case that never sat well with him. One where he questioned the outcome.

  Sin read the file multiple times, attempting to read between the lines. It was all very neat, but something was missing. Sin began to understand why Charlie never felt comfortable with how the case ended.

  The case stated that on May 25, 1971, another coed was found dead from asphyxiation, the Mauler’s signature. He killed all nine of his victims by choking.

  Sin printed the pages as she read them for what seemed the hundredth time. This is where the story seemed to get squirrely.

  Charlie worked the case with a senior agent and another relatively new one, Raul Sanchez—Sin stopped and smiled when she read the name. “Raul Sanchez? Well that explains how the mayor obtained my information. Raul, you and I are gonna have a little conversation.”

  She shook off the thought and continued to read.

  Charlie and Raul tracked Vincent Ash back to an address in Davenport, Iowa. By the time they broke into the home, Vincent lay dead with gunshot wounds to the chest and head. Joanna lay close by—her face lacerated with deep bruising on her neck. Next to her lay the murder weapon.

  Sin pulled up a second file on Vincent Ash. He was a slightly built man—five-foot, seven inches—and had a wiry frame. At twenty-nine, he worked in three different schools as an adjunct. He taught American Literature and Introduction to Poetry. And his thesis had been written on the work of William Blake, with an emphasis on his Songs of Innocence and Experience.

  Sin searched the information and found that, A Divine Image, was among the Songs of Experience.

  “This case is starting to make sense,” she mumbled.

  She read the rest of the file and then switched back to the data on Joanna Ash.

  After her parents were killed in a car accident, she was placed in the system, and was transferred twice due to her attitude. At the age of sixteen, she quit high school. At seventeen, she met and married Vincent Ash.

  Joanna was pregnant at the time of Vincent’s death but miscarried in the hospital. The file ended when Joanna was only nineteen.

  Typing like a mad woman, Sin brought up the information on Miranda Stokler. Seven years later, Miranda’s bio began in Miami, Florida. The more she studied the files, the more frustrated Sin became. “There are so many pieces to the puzzle, but how do they fit, or are they even pieces to the same puzzle?”

  As Sin continued to think out loud, she dialed Frank’s number.

  “Did you get the files?” he asked.

  “I did. Thanks.”

  Sin let Frank know what she found and what she felt. She held nothing back. Finished, she waited for Frank to respond.

  “That’s a lot of hearsay, even coming from you, Sin.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “But if I’m right, and my instinct tells me I am, I’m going to need help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I want my unit back together on this case.”

  “Sin, you know my thoughts on that. It was the main stipulation on bringing them into the Bureau. Alone, each of you is a loose cannon; together, you’re—”

  “Listen to me before you say no,” Sin interrupted. “The people I’m working with are great. Gonzalez is a quick learner, but he’s young. Evelyn is a gift from above. She is a wealth of information and has all sorts of contacts. And Jack, well, you were right. People can change. But,” she continued, “if this case connects to Ash in some way, I’d feel a lot better working with people who I know like the back of my hand.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Sin, but even if I was to agree, I don’t even know where your friends are. They are all split up and deep in the field.”

  “I happen to know that Fletcher and Garcia are in Orlando and in between assignments. Even those two could make a big difference.” Sin gathered her papers and placed the laptop in her backpack while she waited for a response.

  “I don’t know how you continually get me to change my mind, but I swear, Sin, if I allow this, you are not”—Frank’s voice got louder to accentuate his command—“to go shoot up the streets of Miami.”

  “Thanks, Frank. I’ll make the calls.”

  “Sin, don’t make me regre—”

  Sin hung up before Frank could finish his sentence.

  33

  “Come in.”

  “Sorry to bother you, Captain, but I have
some information I thought you might be interested in.”

  Rand pointed to a chair in front of his desk and Sergeant Monroe took a seat.

  “What’s up, Bert?”

  “I was at Scully’s Bar up in Surfside last night with my wife, and two of the local feds, Jackson and Luce, were sitting near us.”

  “Yeah, so what?” Rand’s head stayed down. He was wading through a ton of paperwork.

  “They were talking about the drug cartel, and—”

  That got Rand’s attention. “You heard them say that? The drug cartel?”

  “No, but I know they’re both working on the drug case.”

  Rand waved his hand at Monroe, asking him to speed it up. “I’ve got stacks of bullshit to plow through,” he stabbed the files with his pen, “so stop beating around the bush and tell me what you came in here for.”

  “They mentioned some place in Key Biscayne. Some old school that was left abandoned. They were talking about a raid on the place happening tomorrow tonight.” Monroe leaned forward in the chair. “I was thinking. Let’s say, for the sake of legality, that I received this information from one of my informants. We might be able to get a warrant and head down there tonight. If we crack this case, it would get you—us—off the bench and back in the game.”

  Rand’s expression changed from stone-faced disinterest to teeth-baring joy. “Round up Clark and Monahan. I’ll call in some markers and get the warrant. And I’ll see what I can drum up on this school. We’ll meet back here at eleven p.m.”

  “There are two schools in Key Biscayne that are not in use,” Rand said, pointing at an image he’d downloaded off the internet. “One is a small elementary school that the county closed in 2011 when they built the newer one. It’s in the process of being gutted and refurbished to become the National Bridge Tournament Center. Bordering that property is a much bigger school. A whole damn campus, in fact. It’s the old Water’s Edge Academy.”