by Karen Rose
His heart was racing so hard that his head hurt. He drew a breath, trying to calm himself. He was safe here in the old pedo’s house. Nobody knew he was here. Nobody knew that he was connected to the old man whose body had long been claimed by the river.
I’m safe here. And I have hostages.
He could still get away. He would get away. Then he’d find a way to kill that receptionist bitch from wherever he ended up. He’d make it hurt, too.
‘I can’t believe I was almost alone with him.’ Millicent was crying into the camera, and the picture abruptly shifted to a picture of the nursing home’s exterior.
A photo of his father flashed on the screen, taken before Konrad Kaiser had had his ‘stroke’. When he was still a healthy man. When he could still beat the shit out of anyone who crossed him.
Including his mother. Her photo appeared next to her husband’s as the news reporter shared the fact that Konrad Kaiser had been accused of killing his wife, but had been cleared of all suspicion.
Because he’d lied. His old man had used his influence to lie. He’d called in favors with colleagues and old clients and even a few cops to establish an alibi. He couldn’t have killed his wife, he’d claimed.
Even though I saw him do it.
‘Now we have to wonder who did kill Myra Kaiser nine years ago,’ the reporter mused. ‘It seems more likely that her son had a hand in it . . .’
‘No!’ Cade thundered. He had not killed her. He was not taking the rap for what his piece-of-shit father had done. There was no fucking way.
‘. . . now that we know that he’s suspected of killing at least ten people,’ the reporter was saying. ‘There are the seven bodies that the police have pulled from the river, the pediatrician who originally discovered the bodies, a CSU technician, and the wife of victim John Brewer.’
They’d found Stella then. Cade had zero regrets about killing her.
‘If you see this man, please call the following number.’ A new photo flashed on the screen and he could only stare dully. A photo of me. It was a real photo, not the sketch the cops had been circulating everywhere since Michael Rowland had described him on Saturday.
He had to get away. Had to find someone to change his face.
I should have run before now. Because now he couldn’t run. His wounds were dark red and oozing. If he hit the road, they could turn gangrenous, and that was a very bad way to go.
He’d stay here in the house. At least for now, he was safe.
Twenty-three
Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, 18 March, 5.30 P.M.
‘Diesel? Baby, are you okay?’
Dani’s soft voice – even calling him ‘baby’ – was actually the last thing he wanted to hear as he hugged the toilet in the condo’s gleamingly clean bathroom. He rested his cheek on the cold rim, wishing he could tell her to go away but unable to speak the words. Not to her. Not ever to her.
He heard the running of water in the sink, then felt the cool wetness of the washcloth she pressed to the back of his neck. The palm she ran over his stubbled head was gentle. Soothing.
‘What do you need?’ she asked.
He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t even shake his head. He didn’t have the energy. And his body wasn’t getting any of the messages his brain was frantically firing. Go. Make sure nobody sees . . .
He hadn’t closed his laptop before running for the bathroom. Go. Close it. Nobody else should have to see that . . .
Oh God. That.
He heard a whimpering sound and realized it was coming from him.
‘Shh.’ Dani knelt beside him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, her head a welcome weight against his back. He heard sniffling and knew she was crying. For me. ‘I’ve got you,’ she murmured. ‘You’re not alone. I’ve got you.’
A sob sat hard in his throat. He couldn’t let it go, so it stayed there, growing harder and bigger, until he couldn’t breathe. He gasped, and she took the wet cloth from the back of his neck and wiped his face.
Then she held him. Saying nothing. Not demanding answers.
She just held him until he could feel the wetness of her tears seeping through his shirt to his back. Eventually her quiet crying stopped and she shuddered out a breath. Still she said nothing.
Rising to her feet, she pressed a kiss to his temple, then filled a glass with water. ‘Drink,’ she said softly. ‘Please.’ She cupped his chin, holding his head up, and pressed the glass to his lips. ‘Please.’
He drank because he could deny her nothing when she said ‘please’ like that.
She leaned in to rest her forehead against his. ‘Go lie down. I closed your laptop. Should I shut it off, too?’
His eyes opened, his gaze flying up to meet hers in panic. She’d seen. Oh God. She’d seen . . . that.
‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked, his voice sounding like a rusty crank.
‘Oh, baby. Me, too. So sorry.’ Her hand caressed his head again and he leaned into her touch. ‘Come with me. Let me help you. Please.’
She stood, holding out her hand, her beautiful eyes full of sorrow, and somehow Diesel knew that she knew about him.
How? How did she know? Marcus hadn’t said a word. Of that, Diesel was certain. He trusted Marcus O’Bannion with his life. So how does she know?
But he was too tired to figure it out now. Somehow he managed to get his body moving, bracing one hand on the marble tub to shove himself to his feet.
He looked at her hand, still outstretched. Waiting.
He didn’t want to touch her. Didn’t want to . . . dirty her.
Her eyes narrowed and she grabbed his hand, squeezing it hard. ‘I don’t know what you just thought, but I don’t ever want you to think it again. Okay? Just . . . don’t.’ Her gaze softened. ‘Please, don’t. You don’t have to tell me, Diesel. You never have to tell anyone. But . . .’ She pressed her lips together like she was trying not to cry anymore. Then blinked and sent new tears falling. ‘You waited for me for a long time. Don’t push me away now.’ She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his fingers, one at a time.
Relief was a tidal wave, sweeping him under. He tugged his hand free to wrap his arms around her, his stupid body still trembling. Her capable hands flattened on his back, hugging him so hard he almost coughed.
It felt better than words could say. So he said nothing, just held her until his trembling ebbed. ‘You saw my computer screen?’ he asked gruffly.
‘One thing, yes.’ He heard her swallow.
‘Did . . . Who else saw? I should have closed it before I came in here.’
‘Nobody. I was in our room when I heard the door to the office slam open. I went to check and saw you running for the bathroom and Michael coming out of his room. He gave me this look, Diesel. Like he knew. But he didn’t see your laptop.’
Thank God. ‘And Joshua?’
‘With Agent Troy in the kitchen.’ He felt her smile against his chest. ‘They’re making cookies.’
More relief swamped him. ‘I’m sorry. I should have made sure—’
She cut him off, pulling far enough away to press her fingers to his lips. ‘Stop. No harm done.’
‘Yes, there was. You saw it.’
She sighed. ‘I’ve seen things like that before. Doesn’t get easier, but I saw child victims of sexual assault come through the ER. I sometimes see them in the clinic.’
His cheeks went hot now, shame replacing the relief. ‘You never threw up.’
She gave him another look, this one full of challenge. ‘Yes, I did. And I still do. Almost every time I see a patient who’s been sexually assaulted. Adults and kids. I wanted to on Saturday, after I saw that Michael was bleeding on my exam table. I knew what had been done to him. And I wanted to kill his stepfather then, too. I wanted to run from the exam room to my office and cry and vomit and
scream.’
‘But you didn’t.’ She was a strong woman. Stronger than me.
‘No, I didn’t.’ She cupped his cheek in her palm. ‘Because when I came out of my office, there you were. And you let me lean on you.’
She had, he remembered. Just her forehead against his chest, but she’d leaned on him and it had been one of the sweetest moments of his life.
She was smiling gently. ‘Lean on me. Let me help you like you helped me.’
So he did. There in the condo’s bathroom, he took the comfort she offered. The strength. It was just enough for him to tell her what he’d seen on the casino’s network. It wasn’t enough for him to tell her what had happened to him, personally, at least not today. Maybe not ever.
But to tell her what Scott King and Richard Fischer had done? Yeah, he could do that. He leaned in to whisper in her ear, just in case anyone was listening at the door. ‘I don’t think that Richard Fischer – the casino owner – knows that Scott King had access to the database. If he did know, I don’t think King would still be alive. I don’t think Richard’s clients know, or Richard wouldn’t still be alive.’
She frowned up at him. ‘What was Richard doing?’
‘You mean, what is he doing. The most recent entry was this past Friday. I think it’s a poker game. Very exclusive. Very expensive.’
‘High rollers?’
‘High stakes, at least. It doesn’t look like money changes hands. Participants bet things. Black-market things.’
She swallowed hard. ‘And people? Children?’
‘Yes. And yes. At least five women, one man. And at least two kids.’ The photo she’d seen had been of a teenage girl. Luckily he’d already closed out of the photos Brewer had taken of Joshua, so she hadn’t seen those.
But Diesel had. He closed his eyes, resting his head on Dani’s shoulder. He’d been transported back in time. Back there. He’d been five years old. Six years old. Seven . . . Twelve . . .
‘Hey.’ Dani’s hands were alternating between rubbing his back and patting to get his attention. ‘Diesel. Come back to me.’
He looked up, realized his mind had . . . strayed. ‘Sorry.’
‘No sorries. Focus on Richard Fischer. Focus on making the bastard pay.’
He tightened his jaw. She was right. Affection filled him, surprising him with its sweetness. Of course she was right.
‘Okay. Other than people, participants staked real estate, exotic animals. Jewelry. Art. Organs – and not the musical kind.’
Her eyes popped wide. ‘Like . . . kidneys?’
‘Mostly. One heart was on offer as well.’ Diesel imagined the FBI would be very interested in that.
‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘It’s like an exclusive black-market swap meet.’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’
‘And the casino owner’s role?’
‘He’s like a matchmaker. He has a “wants” column and an “offers” column. Those people end up playing in games together. Only on Friday nights. That’s when the riverboat sets sail. Other nights it’s docked.’
She still looked stunned. ‘And nobody suspected anything? None of the participants talked?’
Her horror was kind of refreshing. Diesel was afraid he’d become desensitized to what humans were capable of doing to each other after all of his investigations for the Ledger. ‘I imagine it’s a mutual deniability thing. If one tells, he’s telling on himself, too. If one tells, the others retaliate. So nobody tells.’
‘Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘Brewer was a participant?’
‘Yeah. The guy who wanted a five-year-old boy was named Blake Emerson.’
‘And now Brewer’s dead. I wonder if Emerson is, too.’ She looked away for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. Then her confused gaze shot back to Diesel’s. ‘Scott King was the security manager. He killed Brewer. And then came back to check on Joshua. Was he . . . protecting Joshua?’
Diesel nodded. ‘That was my take. King was working every Friday night. I think he was the game’s security guard.’
‘And he saw what was happening. Or heard it. I wonder why he didn’t kill Richard Fischer.’
‘Maybe he did. Nobody can find Fischer, according to the news. I called Adam to find out if they’d questioned him, and he confirmed that they were looking for the guy. They were about to search his house.’
‘House,’ Dani murmured, as if to herself. ‘What about the boys’ house? Why did LJM Industries buy it? How does that fit?’
God, she was smart. Diesel loved her brain as much as the rest of her. ‘Good question. Richard didn’t pair the same people in more than one game very often, but he put Blake Emerson and John Brewer together twice. The first time was three Fridays ago. John’s stake was his house. Emerson’s was a kilo of heroin.’
‘Oh. John wanted the heroin for Stella.’
‘More likely to resell,’ Diesel said flatly. ‘He’d already gone through the boys’ trust funds and he was broke.’
‘Goddammit,’ she whispered. ‘What’s the street value of a kilo?’
‘Six hundred grand plus change, which is the estimated value of the house.’
She bit at her lip. ‘Does Richard keep photos of his clients in that database?’
‘Yeah.’ He dug his phone from the pocket of his jeans. ‘I didn’t download anything from the casino’s server. I went old-school and snapped a picture.’ He held out his phone, open to the photo he’d taken. ‘Meet Blake Emerson.’
Her mouth fell open in stunned surprise. ‘That’s Wesley Masterson, Laurel’s cop brother. Marcus found his photo online last night. You’re saying that Wesley Masterson was buying children?’
Her reaction was the same as his had been. ‘I’m saying that’s what Richard Fischer entered into his database. He also has Blake Emerson owning a company called Liberation Junction Mining Industries, located in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.’
‘LJM,’ Dani whispered.
‘Exactly,’ he said grimly. ‘I ran a background check on Blake Emerson. On the surface, he looks legit, but if you dig deeper, it’s suspicious. Liberation Junction Mining is a real company, incorporated in Michigan. Blake Emerson’s listed as the president of the company, which does have a website and a phone number, but calls go to voicemail with a generic “Please leave a message” greeting. The company has an address in Houghton, Michigan, which is where many of the copper mines are located, but the address is that of an abandoned mine site.’
She shook her head, still dazed by the revelation that Wesley Masterson had tried to buy Joshua. ‘So the mining company doesn’t really exist?’
‘It doesn’t appear to have a physical location. It does, however, have cash assets. You remember the bank statement that John Brewer received before his disappearance?’
‘Yes. It showed LJM’s account balance with a handwritten message basically saying that the company had the funds and that Brewer should turn over the title to his house, which he then did, right?’
Diesel nodded. ‘Right. Richard had the bank statement attached to Blake Emerson’s name. Emerson – or Wesley Masterson – offered up Liberation Junction Mining as his source of income, but gave Richard a bank statement for an entirely different entity, incorporated here in Ohio.’
‘If Richard had dissected LJM like we did, he would have seen the same clues. He would have known someone was trying to avenge Laurel Masterson.’
Diesel shrugged. ‘I think all he looked at was LJM’s bank balance, because Blake Emerson has a checkmark in the approved column next to his name. If he had dug even a little deeper, he would have been suspicious of Emerson.’
‘But why would Wesley Masterson fake an identity like that?’ Dani asked, then blinked. ‘Wait. Was Laurel one of the women Richard sold?’
He nodded. ‘I found her listed under “offers”, with a date of Sept
ember, a year and a half ago. It fits with when she abruptly withdrew from med school.’
Dani was frowning thoughtfully. ‘Wesley Masterson is a narcotics detective. He spent two years undercover, even got a commendation for his work. He’d know how to fake an identity.’
Diesel blinked, surprised. He’d forgotten that Masterson was Narcotics. ‘Either he’d know or he’d have resources that could do it. Are you thinking that he infiltrated Richard’s secret poker game because he was investigating his sister’s disappearance?’
Her eyes had brightened. ‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘But . . . if it’s true, he’ll need to explain a few things.’ He hesitated, because Dani looked so hopeful that Wesley Masterson had infiltrated the poker game with good intentions and Diesel wasn’t so sure.
Her brows lifted. ‘Like?’
‘Like how the men who actually bought and sold Laurel both ended up dead, shot during home invasions.’ Although if Masterson had learned their identities and killed them, Diesel could understand the cop’s rage.
She drew a breath. ‘Well, I can’t truthfully say that I’m sorry they’re dead. Who were they?’
‘Richard lists the seller as Anatoly Markov and the buyer as Clinton Stern. I didn’t get a chance to look at the crime reports for the details, but both dying the same way seems too coincidental to me.’
Her shoulders sagged. ‘To me, too. That seems like revenge.’
Diesel shrugged. ‘Raguel, the vengeance dude.’
She sighed. ‘I guess I’d understand Wesley’s reasons if he did find and kill them, but that doesn’t give him the right to be judge, jury, and executioner.’
Diesel opened his mouth, then shut it again, suddenly unwilling to remind her that his hacking was much the same thing.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘I can tell that you’re thinking something I probably won’t like.’
He forced himself to say the words, hoping she’d respond the way he wanted her to. ‘I do the same thing. So do Marcus and Stone and the rest of the team at the Ledger. We take matters into our own hands. We’re judge and jury, too.’