Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5)

by Erec Stebbins

  “My what?”

  “Bloodshot eyes, dehydration evident in your skin and lips, squinting at lights—you have a hangover, detective. You were drunk last night and made a considerable effort to hide it, but all the signs are there. The timing is interesting. Right when you fall off the smoking wagon you also get drunk, yet keep enough control to function as a police officer. All the signs of a high-functioning alcoholic, and more generally someone who hasn’t resolved his emotional issues and uses these vices to suppress the problems.”

  “Well, Ms. Gone, please don’t hold anything back.” Definitely more uncomfortable than intriguing.

  “I’m not trying to insult you, detective. You asked for my analysis, and I consider this part of my evaluation in this interview, to show you the value of my services.” She grinned innocently, as if she hadn’t just picked apart his addictions.

  “As for other aspects, your military service is obvious in the sleeve tattoo you try to hide under the shirt but which shows the Marine eagle near your wrist.” Sacker looked down and sure enough, the shirt had pulled up. “Sleeve tattoos were banned from the Marines in 2007, so your service likely came before that, which puts you in Afghanistan or Iraq. Many more troops went to Iraq so the most probable assignment statistically for you is there. Detective at such a young age after military service? Indicates higher education, probably law enforcement related, and a sharp mind to promote you from the ranks of the beat cops. Unless you are wealthy, which doesn’t match your speech or mannerisms, you went on a scholarship from Uncle Sam.”

  “Jesus.”

  Gone smiled. “And you’re not very religious, or you’d stop taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

  Sacker shook his head. “And my personal life? I have a wife and kids at home. How about that?”

  “Unlikely. First there’s the drinking. Second your ability to schedule your time so freely without any concern for a family or its incredible scheduling demands. Now, you could just be an absentee father, but that doesn’t fit the personality I see, at least at first glance. To back up that assessment, there’s no ring, and no evidence on any finger of a prolonged wearing of a ring. You aren’t married or weren’t married very long. You don’t have children.”

  “Maybe I’m gay.”

  “Not the way you continue to check me out.”

  Sacker sat upright a little more. “Now wait a minute. You’ve got that all wrong.”

  “I’m not offended. You don’t leer. I’m not judging you.” She smiled. “So, you aren’t married, have likely never married, yet are interested in women. A detective, former marine—a good catch I would think except for the emotional issues revealed in the drug abuse. Perhaps those are military related or a longer-standing issue, but whatever the cause, it likely explains your lack of settling down, or at least trying to.” She bit her lower lip, hesitating. “The longer-standing issue, of course, is the biggest secret you’ve been hiding.”

  Sacker stared at Gone, his expression frozen. “What secret?” His mouth went dry.

  “It was the bone structure that clued me in. Hips, shoulder width. Of course, there are variations in the population depending on heredity and genotype, so this is a probabilistic analysis. And you were born unusually tall. Growth hormone use can lead to some additional bone development, but after puberty, it’s not enough. Then there are the mannerisms. It’s hard to lose decades of socialized gender norms.” She leaned back in her chair. “And judging from your reaction, I’m now certain I’m correct.”

  Sacker stood. “This time, the interview really is over.” His eyes were wide.

  “Please,” she whispered, color draining from her face. “I’m sorry. Sometimes solving puzzles blinds me. I won’t say any more. And I won’t say anything to anyone. You can trust me. Who’d believe me anyway with your record?”

  I’m completely naked here.

  This was the strangest conversation he’d ever had. This diminutive woman possessed some sort of oracle-like power to pierce through the thickest armor and disguises. She could in minutes uncover the deepest secrets. Part of him wanted to leave and never return.

  Hell, I want to deck her.

  Another part drew him in. For no reason he could justify, despite Frank’s strange background check and the risk he was taking, Sacker trusted Grace Gone. He worked against it, tried to devil’s advocate that feeling into the grave. But it proved indomitable.

  “You said the case was going nowhere. How do you know?”

  “That’s the easiest of all, detective,” she said, meeting his gaze. “You’re here.”

  He coughed. “Well, all very impressive. Really.” His eyes darted to her and away. “And we’re done talking about me, understand?”

  The pout. “I have so many questions. There has to be a story about how you got into the armed services.”

  “There is.”

  “But I’m not going to hear it.”

  “No, you’re not going to hear it.”

  She beamed. “Good! Then let’s talk about murder, shall we?”

  Part II

  TOO FAR GONE

  “In vine-clad Lemnos, where in far-off days they had abducted women from Athens and raped them producing children, their wives wreaked murderous vengeance on all the men.”

  —Quintus Smyrnaeus, Fall of Troy and the Byzantine Greek Lexicon (10th Century A.D.)

  25

  Gone Wrong

  “Absolutely not!”

  Sacker fought an eye roll. Ladner’s bald head was red, his teeth in full grit, his hands clenching and unclenching. This was not the time to show any impatience with the tantrums of his boss. Now was the time to sit there like a man and take the beating.

  “Didn’t we have this conversation? Didn’t I make my position clear?”

  Never answer a rhetorical tantrum question.

  “I just got back from the mayor’s office. Our fucking jobs are on the line. Do you know what that Cathedral debacle is costing this administration? No, of course you don’t. You’re too busy wasting all your goddamn time chasing after some crazy chick in Queens! Normally, I’d tell you to do what you want on your own time. But until this case is solved or filed in a vault, you don’t have any free time, detective! Do you understand that?”

  Okay, maybe it’s time to fan the flames.

  “She’s a damn genius, Mike. A short and pouty Sherlock Holmes. She’s free and she’s hungry. I want to crack this case as much as you do. That’s why I say bring her in.”

  “What part of no is confusing you? All we need’s the press to get wind of something like this. Jesus! The next headline is “Floundering NYPD Outsources to Charlene Chan!”

  “Grace Gone.”

  “Whatever. This is the end of this bullshit, do you hear?”

  I’m getting nowhere. “All right, Captain.”

  “I’m serious, Tyrell. We’re playing big league ball here. I like you, but don’t cross me. My job’s on the line. You’re known to buck orders.”

  “You’ve never complained before.”

  “You’re productive. But this one is different. We’re far removed from a homicide investigation. This is a glowing ball of radioactive political waste. The rules change. Don’t screw with me.” Ladner glared at him.

  Sacker had never seen the man so hostile. “Or what, Mike?”

  “Or I’ll have your badge, Tyrell. That’s a goddamn promise.”

  Sacker stormed back to his desk.

  “Shit!”

  The chair creaked as he fell into it. Snyder and Hill kept their distance, eyeing him from their desks.

  Ladner’s tying my hands.

  They had nothing to go on, only cryptic murders, devoid of incriminating evidence, unlinked to any location or individual. A small army of detectives across the city chasing down one dead end after another. He needed something. Everyone knew they needed something. So why was Ladner being so damn stubborn?

  And a voice materialized to answer his question. “He can’t ri
sk the exposure.”

  “So says this ancient relic.”

  Brad Rosenberg. Supposedly retired a year ago, but he continued to haunt the corridors of the 12th like some ghost that couldn’t pass to the next world. His thick Long Island accent gave him away even before Sacker turned around.

  The old Jew’s eyes still burned behind his glasses, his beard short and hair trimmed. He sat on the corner of the desk, squashing case reports.

  “Egos are always the problem. This case sounds bad. You’ll need all the help you can get. Wherever it comes from. Even if others don’t approve.”

  “I’ll be out on my ass.”

  “He said that?” Rosenberg sighed. “Too much fire in Ladner. Too little forethought. I’ve seen better, and worse, in my day.”

  “Well today is my day.”

  “This PI really might be useful?”

  “I’m sure of it. I met her yesterday. If she’d told me I lost my virginity on my sixteenth birthday with the camp director’s daughter, I wouldn’t have blinked.”

  “Maybe you’re a little star-struck?”

  “I’m no rookie, Brad. It wasn’t just what she did. It was how damn fast, how accurate and sure. Never seen anything like it.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “And her ideas on the case—maybe they aren’t all right, but so far she’s one for one with the organ damage. We’re crazy not to give her a look at the evidence. At least hear what she says.”

  Rosenberg shrugged. “You should never take the advice of an old man who lived in different times. So if I say work with this Gone woman, show her the bodies, let no one else know, you’re hallucinating.”

  Sacker squinted at the former detective. “Go behind Ladner’s back? Risk my damn job?”

  “Of course not! Like I said, never listen to an old man.” Rosenberg patted him on the shoulder and stood, leaving Sacker to spin in his own thoughts.

  Hill and Snyder inched closer.

  “You think it’s safe to approach now?” Sacker said.

  God I’m tired of babysitting.

  Hill smiled. “You didn’t attack the old man. Figured you’d cooled down sufficiently.”

  “So, what did old Rosenberg say?” said Snyder.

  “Nothing much. Just crazy old stories of what he did in his time.”

  “What did he do?”

  Sacker grunted. “Nothing of use to us now. I’ve got a new assignment for the both of you. Go down to medical, convince Sutherland to run some tests on the mouth of the victims. pH test.”

  “pH test?” asked Hill.

  “Yes. Tell him I’m wondering if the cause of death was carbon dioxide suffocation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing I’d run across before, but they use it to kill animals, small rodents and such after experiments. Enough of the gas in your blood and it knocks you out. Eventually kills you. Enzymes in the mouth can turn the gas into an acid. Lowers the pH.”

  Hill looked to Snyder and back to Sacker. “You get a Ph.D. in biochemistry over the weekend, sir?”

  Sacker waved her off. “Just mention it to Sutherland. Remind him about the indentation around the mouth. Maybe left by an anesthesia mask. Maybe he’ll be convinced enough to give it a try.” Hill raised her brows. “Get! Time’s in short supply, if you haven’t noticed.” The two rushed toward the examiner’s office.

  Ph.D. in biochemistry.

  Sacker smiled. Did Gone have one? It didn’t matter, she might as well. And computer skills. And light speed deduction from a photographic memory.

  Fuck Ladner.

  Rosenberg was right, about what he had to do and how stupid it was to do it. But this case would define his career, define an entire generation at NYPD and the 12th precinct. They would not be the group that failed to catch this killer. And Grace Gone was his ace in the hole.

  Ace buried very, very deeply in the hole.

  He didn’t know how he was going to pull it off, but he was going to put her on the case. Unofficially, clandestinely, as a consultant, and hopefully no one the wiser. If they were discovered, he hoped their progress would earn him a keep-your-badge pass from the boss.

  He dialed a number on his cell.

  “Ms. Gone? This is Tyrell Sacker. We need to meet.”

  26

  Dropoff

  A black van inched into a dim alley running between buildings of New York University. Several hours before dawn, the general glow of the city oozed across blocks and reflected off low-lying cloud cover, painting the concrete canyon with enough illumination to make out its decaying and aged state. A sign over the rusted doorway of one building noted “NYU Center for Reproductive Medicine.”

  The van stopped beside a collection of large trash bins. Above them a security camera dangled, its wiring rotted away and disconnected. The driver exited wearing black clothing, a mask concealing facial features, and proceeded around the vehicle. Opening the back, the dark figure removed a large and laden body bag, hoisting it on a solid shoulder, and shut the doors to the van with a free hand.

  At the pocked and stained walls of the building, an old door was askew. A warp in the frame prevented the spring latch from engaging. The shadow approached the back entrance, pulled on the handle to swing the door out, and ducked inside with the body.

  Four floors later, a stairway door creaked open, a concealed phantom glancing around the hallways before proceeding. The intruder panted, drained from hoisting the body bag four flights. But the hallways were dark and empty, all the laboratories closed for the night, and no scientists served as witnesses.

  The broad shape dropped the bag to the floor beside a keycard reader, the object rattling the wall of glass separating the hallway from the laboratory space. Inside the lab, the lights were off, but computer monitors, centrifuges, and other scientific equipment painted the space with an eerie, bejeweled glow. A brass plate hung on the locked door near the body: Linda Richards, M.D., Ph.D.

  The body bag hummed as the killer yanked the zipper from top to bottom. A rustling of fabrics, plastic and cloth, preceded the removal of a mummified form in white. Gloved hands peeled away the covering layers while propping the corpse in place, then stuffed the shroud into the black bag. The supporting arm jerked backward and flesh slapped the doorway and floor.

  Stooping, the killer hung a plastic slider bag around the neck of the naked form, white pages visible through the translucent material. The shadow picked up the bag in one arm, removed a small can from a coat pocket with the other, and sprayed a mist over multiple surfaces—the body, plastic container, door, wall, and floor around the corpse. Retracing earlier steps to the stairwell, the retreating shape sprayed the handles and rails, coating everything touched.

  Returning to the bottom floor, the grim figure exited the building, moved to the front of the van, and entered. The vehicle coughed, and without engaging the lights, the driver eased out of the alley and into the streets. Within seconds, the van rounded a corner, vanishing into the mist like a wraith.

  27

  Prisoners

  A soldier jerked off the hood, and Lopez squinted in the bright light. He breathed in small gasps. He hadn’t resisted, but they had taken batons and gun butts to his ribs, anyway. He didn’t think any were broken, but it hurt like hell. Always gotta foul the big guy, huh fellas?

  They hadn’t been taken far, some side room in the underground lair beneath the Iranian monument. He suppressed a smile imagining their engineers rigging something to get them up the elevator shaft. The secret to success and failure: always logistics.

  Their captors dissected the structure of the strike team, separating the Special Forces troops from the members of INTEL 1. Iranian soldiers lashed them to chairs and hooded them, leaving the group in silence. Lopez heard the footsteps of guards patrolling outside, but could only make out staccato Farsi whispers in the hallway.

  As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that the Iranian secret police had arrived. SAVAK or NOPO, what they called themsel
ves mattered little. They were the elite governmental force, the black ops that took care of problems others couldn’t. Beside the NOPO uniforms, a thin, suited man with a goatee glared down at them with a broad smile. Lopez recognized the face from briefings. Mahmoud Karami. The Butcher of Khorramshahr. Head of the NOPO and its most clandestine and extreme forces. Lopez assumed the enhanced interrogation would begin shortly.

  “You Americans will never learn,” Karami began, laughing with a rasp in his throat. “Failure, embarrassment. Every time your supposedly special forces operate in my country, we teach you your place.”

  Lopez didn’t respond, nor did any of the group. He tugged at the ropes binding him. They did not give. Professional. He was not going to break them. His mind flashed back several years, when he and Houston struggled, tied to chairs in a similar fashion with little hope. Only the chair he sat on today was not rotten. He would make no dramatic escape. He did not try. His struggle became resisting the pull to look for Houston. He sensed her beside him, smelled her. But he dared not betray their bond and give these bastards any more leverage than they had.

  “The circumstances of this raid puzzle even our organization.” Karami gazed upward. “What is this place? Beneath our great tower? Not American. But then why are you here? Who tipped us off at the highest levels? Perhaps you three will be able to enlighten me.”

  He’s good.

  An experienced interrogator. His threats were palpable. He emitted a pungent will to violence. Basic survival instincts responded to it.

  And you can suck air, amigo.

  “No? I didn’t figure this would be easy. We will likely need to go down some most unpleasant routes.” Lopez tried not to tense as the man fixed his gaze toward the shape of Houston beside him. “And we have a woman. How easy they will break when we have our way with them.” That grin again.