The Appointment Killer

by Remington Kane

  “My boss ain’t gonna like this.”

  “It’s been handled, and you can leave the truck here. Someone will come get it later.”

  “It’s payday, and my check is back at the shop.”

  “That will be handled too. Come with us and we’ll give you a ride home.”

  “I’d better call my boss.”

  “Make it fast,” Reid said.

  Hines confirmed things with his boss and joined the agents inside their car. Quinn sat in back with him while Reid drove.

  At his apartment house, he learned that a hidden camera had been rigged up outside his door and that someone would be on watch 24/7. His neighbors on either side of him had been relocated and undercover police officers had taken their places. He was also being moved, and a look-alike agent was being placed in his apartment.

  “This shit is real, huh?” Hines said.

  “That it is,” Reid told him, as he handed Hines off to other agents.

  William “Willie” Davilla, the other suspected target of the killer, had received an envelope the night before. Unlike Hines, he knew what the envelope meant. He didn’t own a computer, but he’d seen the news stories.

  Davilla lived in a cramped apartment above a car wash on Staten Island, where he worked seven days a week, barring inclement weather. The paranoid schizophrenic normally went through life thinking that people were against him.

  When he’d opened his mailbox and found the black envelope, he had proof that someone wanted to hurt him.

  Davilla was thirty-five and had a thin build, long unruly hair, and intense dark eyes. Prison tats ran up both arms and across his chest and back. The face of Jesus had been inked onto his chest, while the likeness of a young Charles Manson was on his back. Both were heroes of Willie Davilla.

  He had gone to a bar after work and left it around midnight as he usually did. The bar had a TV and air-conditioning and he had neither. The envelope was at the top of the stairs and propped up against the door that led to his one-room apartment. The date on the envelope predicting his death was for the day that had just begun.

  After opening the envelope and reading the threat telling him that he had less than twenty-four hours to live, Davilla barricaded himself in and hung a spare blanket over the one window the tiny space had.

  Getting down on his knees with a screwdriver, Davilla pried up floorboards. He had a weapon, and it was one hell of a weapon. It was an AK-47 that could fire on full-auto. Davilla had acquired it after he’d been present when a skirmish occurred near the car wash between two rival street gangs.

  After one of the thugs had been shot in the chest twice, he’d fallen, and his weapon skittered along the ground and went under a parked car. Willie Davilla recovered that weapon before the cops arrived.

  The gun’s magazine was full and there was a chambered round. In the year he’d owned the weapon, Davilla had never fired it. He had gone around getting ammo for it on the black market. There were five loaded magazines of 7.62mm rounds. When the killer came for him, he’d be ready.

  Davilla didn’t remember all the details about how the other targeted men were murdered, but he recalled that one of them died in a police station.

  That man was obviously a fool, Davilla thought. Everybody knows you should never trust the police. The cops probably killed his ass.

  That idea took hold, expanded, and by daybreak Davilla was convinced that the cops were behind the murders. The news was reporting that at least three of the victims had been tied to rapes or molestations of young girls. Davilla, a convicted child rapist, was a prime target. It was no wonder he’d been marked by the police for extermination.

  Willie Davilla spent the night in his room pacing, while talking to himself and growing evermore agitated.

  “They’re coming to kill me, they’re coming to kill me, but I’m going to get them first.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  STATEN ISLAND, NEW YORK, FRIDAY, JULY 19th

  Erica and Owens made it back into the city and learned that Ronald Hines was out working as a landscaper. He would be located and approached by two other agents.

  William Davilla was on Staten Island and Erica and Owens would be the ones to contact him. They would be accompanied by two Staten Island police officers. Since it was raining on the island, the car wash was closed for the day, while the area where it was located was mostly apartment houses and small storefronts. Many of the shops were vacant, victims of the public’s increasing preference for online shopping.

  The cops were parked out in front of the car wash when the agents arrived. They were friendly and reported that they’d only been waiting for a few minutes. Erica and Owens had come from speaking with Dr. McNamara but had stopped on the ride over to grab a bite from a fast food place with a drive-thru.

  They’d both been up since six a.m. and had a long day ahead of them. Once they had Davilla settled somewhere safe, they would oversee the surveillance being placed on the car wash. When that was done, they would travel to Brooklyn to speak with Ronald Hines.

  They also had to interview two members of Dr. McNamara’s therapy group, Donna Davis and Ruth Thomas.

  On the ride back, they had discussed the suspects involved in the case. Erica said that her current guess was that Heather Gray and Ted Marx were working together. Owens believed it might be Jason Warwick and Dr. McNamara. He argued that Jason might have been warped by the doctor at an early age and that she had enlisted him as an ally in a vendetta against sexual offenders.

  Erica had to agree his argument had merit, but she so wanted Marx to be guilty of something. Erica thought the smug former teen idol would look good in an orange jumpsuit.

  Willie Davilla had seen the police car out at the curb.

  They’re getting ready to kill me.

  He had stared at it through eyes red from lack of sleep. Davilla hadn’t sat for a moment since getting the black envelope. His constant pacing had only made him wearier.

  A sudden jolt of energy kicked in as adrenalin spiked through his system. What had caused his pulse to race was the arrival of Erica and Owens. The two had left their rental and walked over to join the policemen, then all four of them had started toward the car wash.

  Erica was on the far left with Owens and the two police officers on her right. Both she and Owens slowed their pace as their phones sounded off. Meanwhile, the two cops had been talking and hadn’t noticed their companions’ reduced speed.

  Although Erica and Owens would never know it, by slowing down they had avoided meeting death.

  Erica relaxed her stride as she put a hand inside her purse to grab her phone. At her side, Owens was plucking his own cell phone off his belt. Before either of them could look at their devices the ground in front of them was struck by a flurry of rounds. The shooting continued and one of the cops let out a scream of pain as his right shoulder was blown apart, while the other officer grunted from the two rounds that struck his chest.

  Erica, her hand still inside her purse, released the phone and gripped her weapon. The shots had come from a window above the car wash. Looking up, she saw a man with long hair attempting to reload a rifle. The man was having difficulty and then he dropped the fresh magazine.

  After cursing in frustration, the shooter ducked his head back inside the room and out of sight. In her peripheral vision, Erica had registered that Owens was fine and on his feet. She didn’t need to see the cops to know that at least one of them had been injured, as the man with the ruined shoulder was bent over and howling in pain.

  “Brad?”

  “I’m good, and you?”

  “I wasn’t hit, but we need to get these officers behind cover.”

  There was a van nearby that had the car wash’s name and logo on the side. It was parked halfway between the car wash building and where they had left their vehicles. Erica checked on the cop who’d been hit in the chest. He wasn’t bleeding and she realized he was wearing a vest.

  His eyes were still squinted as
he grimaced from the pain caused by the impacts of the rounds, but he had stopped moaning.

  “Can you move? We need to find cover.”

  The cop nodded, then spoke in a near whisper. “How’s Mikey?”

  Erica knew the cops by their surnames, Vitale and Macmillan, but she assumed Officer Macmillan was asking about his partner. “It’s his right shoulder, it’s bad but he’ll live.”

  As Macmillan rose from the ground, Erica aided Owens in guiding Officer Vitale behind the van. They rested him with his back against a front wheel and settled close to him. Owens removed his tie and jacket. The tie was used to form a sling for the arm attached to the wounded shoulder. The jacket was folded, and Officer Vitale was told to keep it pressed against his wound to slow the bleeding.

  Vitale was over the shock of being wounded and was dealing well with the agony of his injury. He nodded his understanding and thanked Owens with a voice hoarse from pain.

  His partner, Officer Macmillan radioed in for help, and it was likely that one of the residents in the area had already called to report hearing the gunfire.

  “I think that was William Davilla shooting at us,” Owens said.

  Erica had fished out her phone. She held it up so that Owens could read the text she’d received. It was informing her that another email had been sent to Ted Marx, one stating that a man named Willie Davilla was dead.

  “Not yet he’s not,” Owens said, as the faint sound of sirens could be heard off in the distance.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  NEW YORK CITY, FRIDAY, JULY 19th

  Jason was on the FDR Drive headed south, as he ferried Ted Marx to the car wash on Staten Island where Willie Davilla lived.

  Marx was intoxicated, not on booze, but over the anticipation of gathering fresh content for his story. There was a yellow mark on his face, and when Jason pointed it out to him, Marx wet a thumb in his mouth then used it to wipe off the splotch.

  “Was that finger paint?” Jason asked.

  Marx ignored the question and asked one of his own. “How long until we get there?”

  “The GPS says it will be another thirty-eight minutes.”

  “I haven’t left Manhattan so often in years.”

  Jason sent a nervous glance at his boss, then blurted out what he needed to say.

  “I’m giving my notice, Mr. Marx. I’ll give you another two weeks but then I’m going to be done working as your assistant.”

  “Why? You want a raise?”

  “No, it’s just time for a change.”

  Marx smiled. “This is Heather’s idea, isn’t it?”

  “It’s my idea, but yes, she agrees with me, and I’m thankful to you for the job, but I want to take another stab at being a day trader.”

  “That takes money. Where are you going to get the money?”

  “I still have investments, and they’ve done well recently.”

  “I guess I need a new driver then. Do you know anyone that might want to do it? I don’t get my damn license back for another few months.”

  “I don’t know anyone, sorry.”

  “Maybe I’ll hire a woman this time, someone hot. Hey, maybe Heather will drive for me.”

  “Are you trying to start a fight?”

  “No, and I was serious about the raise. If you’ll keep driving for me, I’ll give you another hundred a week. How’s that sound?”

  “I would have jumped at it a month ago, but it’s time I’ve moved on.”

  “Have it your way, but don’t come crawling back when you go bust again trading stocks.”

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence.”

  Marx shrugged. “Facts are facts, most day traders go broke. Why not learn a trade instead? You could be an electrician or a plumber? They’re always in demand.”

  “I like working with my hands but wouldn’t want to do it full-time. That’s why I went to college and got a degree in finance.”

  “Okay, so be a stockbroker.”

  “I was, but I hated dealing with the customers. I’ll make money day trading. My mistake last time was in getting too greedy. This time I’ll take things nice and slow.”

  “It sounds like you have it all thought out.”

  Jason smiled. “Believe me, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

  Marx took out his phone and read the email about Willie Davilla again.

  “This makes five, and that hot FBI agent and her partner are no closer to catching the killer.”

  “How do you think this one died?”

  Marx laughed. “Given how this killer thinks, maybe he gave the guy the bubonic plague.”

  Out on Staten Island, Willie Davilla didn’t have the plague; however, he was suffering from a severe mental disorder. Twenty-six minutes after Davilla had fired on Erica and the others, the car wash was the scene of a tense standoff. A veteran police negotiator had been called to the site and was trying to calm Davilla down and explain why they were there. He was using a bullhorn to talk to him since Davilla didn’t own a phone.

  The scene shimmered from the rain that had ended only minutes earlier, and the blue and red lights of the police and emergency vehicles were reflected in millions of droplets.

  There had been nothing from Davilla since the shooting, and the police were wondering if he was out of ammo. He had emptied one magazine and dropped another, perhaps that was all the ammunition he’d had on hand.

  A SWAT team was ready to go in as soon as the signal was given, and one team member was already on a nearby roof with a scoped rifle trained on Davilla’s window.

  Davilla was no longer inside the apartment. He had pushed aside the dresser he’d used to block the door and traveled down the stairway. By the time Erica and the others were huddling behind the van, Davilla had made his way inside the car wash’s office. The door had opened after three hard kicks, and Davilla was looking at the scene outside through a picture window with deeply tinted glass.

  Cops, so many cops, Davilla thought.

  He had reloaded the gun and was ready to go again. If he waited any longer, there would just be more cops to deal with.

  Davilla climbed onto the desk, took aim at the police cars outside, and opened fire.

  Erica and Owens had been covered by police as they and the wounded officers were moved to a safe location. When the SWAT team arrived, the two agents joined the team’s leader and asked him how he planned to handle the situation.

  “That depends on him,” the man said, while referring to Davilla. “If he fires on us again, we’ll need to fire back. That said, I’m hoping to drive him out with gas.”

  “Do what you have to do,” Owens said. “He’s already come close to killing an officer.”

  The man looked at both of them. “I hear you almost bought it too?”

  “We were lucky,” Erica said.

  They were preparing to fire the tear gas when the front window of the car wash exploded outward from the rounds being fired by Davilla. One round grazed the arm of the negotiator with the bullhorn. He had been in the middle of offering Davilla his last chance to come out with his hands up.

  The SWAT sniper on the roof reacted quickly and fired at the muzzle flashes visible inside the darkened office. The shooting stopped and the sudden silence was jarring.

  The SWAT team leader led his men toward the car wash moments later. The sniper confirmed that there was one man down inside the building.

  William Davilla was sprawled atop the desk with wounds to his head and chest. The two wounds to his chest had pierced the eyes on the tattoo of Jesus he wore. It gave the impression that Jesus was weeping blood.

  Willie Davilla was dead, the date of his death occurred as predicted. The Appointment Killer had gained another victim.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  STATEN ISLAND, NEW YORK, FRIDAY, JULY 19th

  By the time Ted Marx and Jason arrived at the scene, Davilla’s body had already been loaded inside an ambulance. Crime scene technicians were arriving as well, w
hile Erica and Owens were inside Davilla’s room and looking at the black letter he had received. They were both wearing blue plastic booties, gloves, and hairnets.

  Marx made a sound of disgust as he realized he was a late arrival. He told Jason that he’d hoped to be the first on the scene.

  When a talkative resident of a nearby house relayed the events of the shooting incidents to him, he asked the man to describe the two people who were with the cops that had been shot.

  “The woman was a looker, and kind of blonde, you know, that sort of reddish-blonde, and the guy was tall and wearing a suit. I guess they were detectives or something.”

  “It sounds like our friends are here,” Marx said to Jason.

  Jason wore a grim expression as he looked at the room above the car wash. “They had a close call.”

  “And again, they didn’t phone me or text. Would it hurt them to throw me a bone once in a while? Hell, if not for me, they wouldn’t even know that there was a killer. We were three victims deep before they caught on.”

  Jason took out his phone. “I’m going to call Agent Novac and tell her we’re here. Maybe they’ll come talk to us.”

  “Yeah, give her a call. If she knows I’m here, she’ll rush out to see me. She’s got a thing for me.”

  Jason looked at Marx sideways. “Seriously, you think she likes you?”

  “Yeah, but she plays hard to get. I know her type.”

  Jason bit his tongue and called Erica’s cell phone.

  Erica felt her phone vibrate in her pocket and let it go to voice mail. She and Owens were staring down at the hole in the floor where Davilla had kept his gun.

  “I don’t get this,” she said to Owens.