The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4)

by Suzanne Steele

  “Speaking of eavesdropping, I was just privy to a very interesting conversation.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Dad just finished jumping Anthony Johnson’s ass--” We both laugh as we finish the sentence together—“the governor of the great state of Kentucky.” It’s an ongoing joke between us because a socialite who used to date him -- before he was swept off his feet by a high-dollar escort – was incapable of saying his name without following it with that phrase.

  “Anyway...Dad all but ripped him a new asshole; said he didn’t appreciate him not telling him from the get-go that the case could involve possible police corruption.”

  “Interesting. That could work in our favor.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears, baby.”

  Chapter Forty

  Cop Killer

  I love nights like this, when the elements work in my favor. The slight breeze through the trees gives a sense of peace and tranquility that I’m about to blow sky high. The shadows on the darkened side street, coupled with my dark clothing, help me blend in. It’s as if the stars have aligned perfectly and everything is going my way.

  I’ve come to love what I do. What started out as an act of vengeance has, out of necessity, evolved into a higher form of justice, a deep desire to make Louisville’s corrupt cops atone for their sins. I remain convinced that Bob’s corrupt activities hardened his heart against me and, ultimately, put this sequence of events in motion. Vengeance may be driven by hatred, but justice? Now, that is driven by so much more.

  I loathe those who take advantage of people they view as weak. They never expect a victim to fight back, but fighting the good fight has become a drug for me, and now I’m addicted. My desire to make the lowlifes of the world accountable has become unstoppable.

  Tonight’s ‘man of the hour’ shot his wife to death two years ago and got away with it. Always quick to look after one of their own, his corrupt cop friends made sure he had one of the top defense attorneys and the son of a bitch successfully pled insanity. Homicidal sleepwalking, he said. Needless to say, I call bullshit. He was fucking around on his wife and wanted to avoid the financial ruin of a divorce.

  The doctor cited a history of sleepwalking, job stress and the alcohol consumed earlier that evening as creating the ‘perfect storm’ for the events that followed. In other words, he was not of sound mind at the time of the murder and, therefore, could not be held responsible for said crime. He ended up going to a mental hospital and being released after six months. It’s only a matter of time before they reinstate him. So her life ended violently and he gets his life back? No. I won’t allow it.

  What absolute bullshit. But that’s how dirty cops work; they know the system and they know how to play the game. They’ve forced me to take matters into my own hands—I feel no guilt—only a sense of urgency. I know my time is running out. It’s imperative I take them all down, or they will be rising from the ashes and all my work will have been for nothing. My life as I knew it is over anyway, so if I have to die to bring them down, at least my life will have counted for something.

  From my vantage point in a small patch of woods next to the small, deserted parking lot, I can see the asshole in his car. And he’s not alone. A woman’s head bobs up and down on his cock and it is all I can do not to pull the trigger and take him out. But I force myself to wait, tapping into the self-discipline I’ve cultivated in recent years.

  Bile surges up toward my throat as I watch him climax. I loathe allowing him that one last moment of pleasure. Once again my mercy for another woman keeps me from pulling the trigger before she gets out of the car. He hands her a single bill, probably a ten. Cheap bastard.

  She jumps from his car and hustles to the edge of the parking lot before abruptly slowing her stride. She saunters seductively down the street in a dirty red dress that barely covers her ass cheeks. She looks at every car that slows down as if it might be her next ten or twenty bucks. It doesn’t take long for another man -- who probably has a wife and kids at home -- to pull over and invite her into his car. As the car pulls away from the curb, she is already bent over, hard at work for her next ten dollars. When his taillights disappear from view, I turn my attention back to the matter at hand. This time, there won’t be any witnesses.

  The stingy bastard has his window rolled halfway down and his head laid back against the headrest. He’s leisurely smoking a cigarette, basking in the afterglow of the last orgasm he’ll ever have. I approach the window of the car with my nine-millimeter Glock covered with a plastic bag to ensure no casings are left behind. The bastard hasn’t even bothered to cover his junk, his flaccid dick is clearly visible as I take aim.

  A branch snaps when I take my final step toward the car window. The surprised look on his face is de-fucking-licious.

  Some people never find their true calling. I feel fortunate to have found mine. The thought steadies my hand. One bullet between the eyes takes him out. I quickly swipe a gloved fingertip down the side of his bloody face and leave the usual message on the window.

  Cop Killer

  I put my head down and dash into the woods. My bloodlust is sated…for now.

  Chapter Forty One

  Nikita

  When my phone rings at five a.m., I know somebody was killed last night. I’m used to getting up early -- my partner in crime, not so much. Natasha stretches like a feline and groans, the sensual sound sending a heated rush of blood straight to my cock. The sheet slips, exposing her naked curves as she settles back against the pillows, a lazy smile on her face. In an effort to ward off the sexy distraction she presents, and to help her shift gears and wake up in earnest, I put the call on speaker.

  “Agent Turner, as touched as I am that you would see fit to call me, hearing from you this early is never a good sign.”

  “There’s been another murder.”

  “Fuck.” The killer’s just digging the hole deeper and deeper.

  “Yeah, last night an ex-cop was shot to death in his car. A single bullet between the eyes. I need you two to meet me at Second and Ormsby— the parking lot behind that bar and grill.”

  “That area is known for working girls, Agent. What the hell was an ex-cop doing in that area of Old Louisville?” Like I even have to ask. It’s not exactly a place cops frequent for coffee and doughnuts, so I doubt he was just meeting an old buddy for a beer.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that information.”

  “What the fuck? If you’re dragging us out of bed at o-dark-thirty then I expect to be fully informed.”

  “And you will be. What I can tell you is that he was in a parked car in an old deserted parking lot that, yes, is frequented by the local working girls. Looks like he may have been interrupted while having a smoke. And, based on the state of his clothing, he may very well have availed himself of the services of one of the local working girls.”

  “Fucking unbelievable. Well, let’s hope the bastard enjoyed it. Hell of a way to go.”

  Chapter Forty Two

  Natasha

  It appears our latest dead cop was up to no good last night. There are only two reasons a cop would spend any time in that run-down part of town: surveillance or a blowjob. Since he was an ex-cop, surveillance isn’t an option so – blowjob – we have a winner!

  I wait until we’re showered and on our way to the crime scene before I bring anything up.

  “Nikita, I’m trying to be professional here and give this guy the benefit of the doubt, but I better not have to put on gloves and pull his dick out of his pants to find out if he was with a hooker last night. I’m so sick of these guys being made to look like victims.”

  “Maybe dying’s no more than they deserve,” he mutters grimly.

  “Nikita…I think you know I don’t share your sympathy or respect or whatever for our killer. But, whatever direction you decide to go in this situation, I’m with you.”

  He takes his eyes off the road long enough to look me in the eye and I know he understa
nds exactly what I’m saying—if he decides to go against his father, I’m on board. In some fucked up way he’s beginning to sympathize with this woman. I may not share those sentiments but we both know there’s more to her story than what the authorities are telling us. They’ve done something that gives us the upper hand though -- they’ve underestimated us.

  Flashing blue lights pulse and glow from a block away as we park a short distance from the crime scene tape. The FBI agents head straight for our SUV. Agent Turner nods at me in silent greeting before he speaks to Nikita, ostensibly to clear the air after their terse phone call from earlier this morning.

  “Nikita, the governor has emphasized the need for full disclosure on this case and I’m doing my best to honor that.” His caustic tone makes it clear how he feels about the governor’s directive. He takes a deep breath before continuing in a neutral voice, “However, you understand that this is a very unique set of circumstances. Due to the potential for this case to involve corrupt members of local law enforcement, I may not always be able to share specifics right away. You know that old adage, ‘Trust no one’? But--” He holds up his hand as a very frustrated Nikita attempts to interrupt him, “just know that you’ll get the information you need. The governor has made it clear that we are all expected to walk a tight line to ensure that specifics about these cases are kept under tight control. I don’t like it either, but it is what it is.”

  “That makes perfect sense, of course. But if I even suspect you’re keeping shit from me, I won’t be able to trust you or your partner.”

  I deliberately study the body language of the beautiful red head standing next to Agent Turner. Even wearing the standard black suit with a white button down shirt, Rene Murphy stands out from the crowd. I’ll say one thing for her—she’s got a poker face.

  My eyes are abruptly drawn to the sight of Agent Turner extending his hand out to Nikita. In true Glazov fashion, he takes a moment to study his opponent before giving a brief nod and firmly shaking the agent’s hand. Judging by the pinched look on Rene’s face, we won’t be braiding each other’s hair and trading make-up tips any time soon. That works for me. I don’t give a shit about making nice with her or anyone else—not in my line of work.

  I occupy myself with getting settled in to work on the body. After greeting Herb and confirming that the crime scene photographer has finished with the initial shots, I pull on a pair of gloves and finish unzipping the victim’s jeans. The red lipstick on his cock is a dead giveaway -- pun intended -- of what this ex-cop was doing last night. The only question is, did she leave another witness? If so, she’s getting sloppy—an organized killer with a heart is unpredictable. It adds a degree of volatility to the case and can mean the difference between freedom and incarceration.

  I’m beginning to think she doesn’t care about any of that anymore, that she’s come to terms with the likelihood that she’s going to die. It isn’t her I’m concerned about, though; it’s Nikita and the dangerous path he seems to be embracing because of her. If she becomes a threat to the Glazov family in any way, I’ll take her out myself, regardless of how noble her motives may be. I push down the rage that is distracting me from finding out all I can about this elusive woman. Knowledge is power, after all.

  Herb’s chuckle pulls me from my thoughts and back to the task at hand. He glances down at the lipstick smears I’ve uncovered on the guy’s junk and says, “Very intuitive, right out of the gate. Nice work.”

  “Tell me about this guy, Herb.”

  He speaks just above a hushed whisper filling me in on the details of the dead man’s life. “About a year ago, this guy killed his wife. He ended up pleading insanity. He opted for a judge to decide the case and hired some cut-throat lawyer to convince the judge that he was prone to sleepwalking.”

  “So, he convinced a judge that he shot her in his sleep?”

  “You got it. None of us ever believed that, but what can you do? You know the rules: you can’t try a man for murder again once he’s been acquitted—double jeopardy.”

  “Well, Herb, as they say, karma’s a bitch.”

  “Off the record, there’s no love lost for me on this one. Any man who would kill his wife isn’t worth the fire to cremate his body.”

  “You’ve got that right,” I concur as he takes a photo of the evidence I found. “You should swab that lipstick and run it. I doubt it’ll reveal who he was with last night, but we can identify the brand. It could come in handy later on.”

  He shoots me a side glance as he makes his next statement. “You do know, you don’t have to worry about the feds covering up evidence, don’t you?”

  I look him dead in the eye as I reply, “The only thing I know is to expect the unexpected. Assume nothing.”

  “Well, I’ll be the first to say, you wear it well—the suspicious nature you have. I like you, Natasha.”

  “I like you, too, Herb.”

  Chapter Forty Three

  The Killer

  I’m taking a chance by standing just out of sight so I can observe the woman with the short blonde hair and the guy in the suit who is always at her side. It seems I’m doing that a lot more lately—taking chances. I can only conclude that knowing my days are numbered is pushing me to the edge of sound judgement.

  I lift my phone and zoom in to get a clear shot of the woman, and then I repeat the process for the man. Being married to a cop taught me a lot about researching identities. Of course the facial recognition software I stole from the man I was married to won’t hurt. Most people don’t realize how easy it is to discover someone’s identity. Any photo can be searched on Google. If either of them have ever been in the newspaper or have a professional website, I’ll have their identity in a matter of seconds.

  I pull the hoodie over my head, adjust my ridiculously large sunglasses, and stroll down the street unnoticed. It’s a short walk to my apartment, the place I hide away during the day while I research my next victim. Nowadays I only leave when it’s absolutely necessary.

  A gathering sense of foreboding, perhaps of my own mortality, has sharpened my instincts to an almost feral degree. With each step I take, the shadows of my past fall away like dry, brittle leaves that tumble across an ancient and cracked sidewalk. I sometimes wonder if my humanity will be the next to go. Maybe it’s already gone. The season of my life is changing; the bitter chill of winter beckons the warning winds of my soon-to-be demise. My time is running out.

  I jog up the steps and into the dim lighting of my apartment building in old Louisville. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust as I unlock the heavy gate that covers the flimsy plywood front door. I speak to my elderly neighbor as she struggles with the small cart on wheels that she uses for her groceries.

  “Mrs. Harris?” I ask tentatively when her hand shakes as she tries to unlock her door. “Here, let me help you.” I grab the keys, not giving her a chance to say no.

  I open the door and gesture for her to precede me. The cart’s wheels creak and whine as I pull the cart in after me. Mrs. Harris wheezes and coughs as she struggles to catch her breath. The brief walk from the corner mart takes more out of her than it used to. I efficiently put her groceries away and turn to see her hanging up the coat and scarf she wears every day of the year, whether it’s cold outside or not. Today, it’s not.

  “Enjoy your youth,” she wheezes. “Everything becomes a monumental effort when you get old.”

  “That’s why you have me here to help you.”

  “You shouldn’t be helping old women. You should be out having fun with young people, but you stay holed up in that apartment working all the time. It’s not good for you.”

  She continues talking, her voice becoming little more than a distant hum in my ear as my thoughts turn to the identities of the well-dressed man and the blonde woman.

  After checking to make sure her windows are locked and replacing a lightbulb over the sink, I put away a few dishes and wipe down her kitchen counters. When everything is spic and span,
I return to the front room to kiss Mrs. Harris goodbye. She pats my cheek with a soft hand that’s riddled with age spots, her stiff fingers bent at unnatural angles by arthritis — but it’s her eyes that haunt me, they’re so sincere. So kind.

  “Enjoy life while you’re young, dear. None of us is promised tomorrow, you know.”

  Truer words have never been spoken.

  Chapter Forty Four

  Nikita

  There’s a part of me that’s glad I stood up to Agent Turner. I take that back; every cell in my being affirms that I was right to look out for the real victim in this sordid tale of corruption. The more I know, the easier it will be to figure out what to do.

  This is the first time I’ve ever felt like I needed to rescue a client. I don’t see this woman as a cold blooded killer. As far as I’m concerned, she was backed into a corner and forced to kill. I have a problem with how the police are portraying her as the big, bad, Cop Killer, when they’re the ones who are corrupt. The way I see it, if you’re going to be corrupt then fucking own it—my family sure does.

  I give Natasha time to gather the evidence she’s after before I tell her it’s time to go. If Agent Turner thinks she’s taking orders from him, he’s sorely mistaken.

  Evidently she feels the same way because she wastes no time striding briskly toward the SUV. As I turn to join her, the cutthroat lawyer in me rears his ugly head. I say in a low voice intended for Agent Turner’s ears only, “I expect a phone call filling me in on any details that may come up at the morgue. I consider that handshake to be our verbal agreement. You would do well to honor it.”

  I know I’m pushing the envelope by the way he bristles and cuts his eyes at me, acknowledging my words without seeming intimidated by them. I just don’t give a shit anymore.

  Agent Turner is nobody’s pansy, even if he does let his woman have the upper hand in the bedroom. My father’s very good at researching people and he knows all of the agent’s kinky little secrets. Glazov is a man who is not just adept at physical torture, he enjoys a good mind fuck too. Either way, such information can come in handy when put to the right use.