by Blake Pierce
She found the lock-pick set stuffed in beside the extra flashlight. She imagined these items remained in his suitcase at all times, never even getting unpacked. She wondered how long it had been since this kit had even been touched. She checked it over, made sure that everything was present and accounted for. She tossed the kit on the bed and then called a cab company; she was told her ride would be there in about fifteen minutes.
She then dressed quickly, brushed her teeth, and readied herself for the day. Three hours, she thought. That should be plenty of time. Very doubtful Ellington will be back before then.
She tried to talk herself out of it, tried to tell herself that she needed to think of the best interests of her career…of the best interests of her baby.
But it did no good. After all, what would she tell her baby if she let this notion go and a killer remained at large?
You should call Ellington, she thought. Tell him what you’re thinking.
But she knew that would cause tension and, ultimately, have him deny her. He was thinking like a husband and a father right now. He’d shoot it down and while he might pass it along to Yardley and Harrison, she’d feel better handling it herself. Besides…it was like she had told her baby moments ago. There was no danger where she was headed. She’d likely be back in this hotel room within an hour and a half.
Before she could change her mind, Mackenzie left the room and headed down to the lobby. She did so on high alert, not quite convinced that there wouldn’t be someone else lurking around a corner to get another jump on her.
When she got outside, her cab had just pulled up. She got into the back, gave the cab driver the address, and tried to stamp down the guilt that wrapped around her heart.
***
Mackenzie wasn’t sure if she needed to check her conscience or if she was beginning to develop looser morals than she had when she’d joined the FBI. The sensation of guilt had faded during the cab ride and by the time she was picking the lock to Christine Lynch’s apartment, it was gone completely. In fact, as the tumbler turned and the lock clicked, she felt a rush of excitement.
She stepped into the apartment and had a look around. She skipped the kitchen, heading directly for the book case in the living room. She scanned the titles but found nothing of interest. But she then looked back toward the kitchen, feeling that maybe she had seen something but had overlooked it.
She went back into the kitchen, stood against the counter, and had a look around. She scanned the small area slowly, taking it all in. It took about fifteen seconds before she recognized the significance of something that had been placed on the refrigerator with a magnet. She stepped to the fridge and saw a flier that was very similar to some of the ones she had seen in Marie Totino’s bedroom. She took it down and looked it over. She was not too surprised to see that it was a flier from the last election cycle—a flier promoting Neil Rooney. She opened it up, read through it, and sure enough, there was Daniel Humphrey’s name at the bottom, listed as campaign manager.
There were a few quotes in the flier, some from politicians that Mackenzie had actually heard of, all praising Rooney. Mackenzie read the entire thing from cover to cover and then made her way into Christine’s bedroom. She stood at the doorway, taking in the scene in the same way she’d done at the kitchen. A bed to the left, a closet to the right. A dresser straight ahead, a desk tucked into the left corner of the room by the window.
She took her time, checking around the place. She looked in the single drawer within the bedside table and found nothing of interest. She then looked over the desk. Everything was sorted and neat, the mail tucked away in a small basket, her entire laptop set-up wireless and uncluttered. The drawer beneath the desk contained only notebooks and old papers she had written for school.
She then looked to the top of the dresser. There was a lamp, a jewelry box, and a single book sitting on top of it. The book was fiction, the latest Nicholas Sparks title. The jewelry box was opened, everything given its proper place inside. The only exception was a single item that had been set out, as if set aside on purpose. Not being in the box and given its own little place, it looked very much out of the ordinary within Christine’s extremely tidy room.
Mackenzie picked the trinket up and looked at it. It took her a while to understand what it was. It looked like the sort of gold lapel pins that pilots sometimes wore, only bigger. It was in the shape of a scroll-style ribbon, about three inches across and two inches tall. In the center, a simple message had been engraved:
ERIC CONNOR
Support VIP
Eric Connor was a name that Mackenzie recognized. She wasn’t exactly well-versed in the field of politics, but she’d heard the name enough around DC. She was pretty sure he was a fairly well-loved senator. And apparently, Christine had been given this special little token for supporting him.
Something else occurred to Mackenzie as she held the pin. She made her way back through the apartment, to the kitchen. She looked at the Neil Rooney flier one more time, opening it up to where people were quoted speaking about Rooney. The very first quote came from none other than Eric Connor.
“Neil is not only a friend of mine, but someone I respect and admire greatly. I’ve gotten to watch him grow, right along with his tremendous ideas and his great love for this country. Keep your eyes open, America! Neil Rooney is going to be doing some very great things.”
She thought for a moment, traveling back in her mind to when she had gone looking through Marie Totino’s room. She’d had some literature on Rooney as well. And apparently, Rooney and Connor were friends. And that meant, by way of association, Daniel Humphrey was also more or less connected to Eric Connor.
She checked her watch. She’d already been away from the motel for nearly forty-five minutes. To call a cab and ride all the way to the Totino residence would be pushing it. She took a while to properly think out the idea that was slowly dawning on her and realized that if she had already come this far, there was no sense in stopping now.
The guilt started to creep back in once again as she pulled up the number she had been given for Mike and Sandra Totino. As the phone rang, she went over some of the victims’ similarities again, for what seemed like the millionth time. But now, after seeing the pin and the flier in Christine’s room, things started to feel a little more solid—a little more like a path that might lead somewhere worthwhile.
They’re all connected to a campaign for Neil Rooney, which was organized and set up by Daniel Humphrey. They are all ardent political fans; they all attend rallies and are political science majors. They were all very much get-out-and-vote women. Even if Daniel Humphrey is innocent, maybe there was someone else. Someone like Bruce Dumfries.
Mike Totino answered the phone, breaking her train of thought.
“Hello?” He sounded worn out…tired.
“Mr. Totino, I am so sorry to bother you again. This is Agent White. I have a very quick question I was hoping you could answer for me.”
“I can try,” he said. She also realized that his voice sounded raspy. He’d been crying recently and likely not getting enough sleep.
“I’m wondering if there has been any time in the last year or so where Marie was involved in something with a senator named Eric Connor.”
“I’m not sure…I think…I think maybe she was. I seem to remember that name. It might have been that event or gala or whatever that she went to sometime last summer. It was for someone really big in DC. Pretty sure it was a senator, but I’m not positive.”
“Do you remember her maybe going to this event with someone else?”
“Oh, no. She was a loner for that sort of thing. She always said anyone going to a rally or event like that in a group was not going for the right reasons. You know…now that I think of it, this event she went to…the one she was so excited about…she brought something back with her. Some little thing she was showing off to us and some of her friends.”
“Like a gift?” Mackenzie asked.
&nbs
p; “No, nothing like that. Just a little gold button.”
“You mean like a pin?”
“Yeah, like a pin you wear on your shirt or jacket. I remember her saying only people they allowed backstage got one.”
“Backstage?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what she said. It all…well, it’s all sort of muddied. And it makes me realize now, after she’s gone, that I never really paid much attention to what she wanted to do with her life.”
Mackenzie had no idea what to say to that. She had never been great at consoling people and here, on the phone in a dead woman’s apartment, surely wasn’t going to be the moment she started.
“Does that help?” Mike asked.
“Mr. Totino, I think it just might.”
“Good,” he said. He hung up then and the clicking noise in Mackenzie’s ear seemed far too loud.
She looked at the pin in her hand. One that Christine Lynch must have also gotten backstage at some event for Eric Connor. She wondered if Jo Haley had a similar pin and if so, where it might be.
I don’t have time to go rummaging through Jo Haley’s apartment, too, she thought. This is one of those cases where I might just have to make an assumption.
And it would be a good one, she thought. All three women had ties to Daniel Humphrey, and Humphrey worked closely with Neil Rooney, who was also friends and perhaps a student of sorts to Eric Connor. It felt very much like some deranged version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. And somewhere in there was Dumfries…a man who seemed to remain private and in the shadows.
What might he be hiding in those shadows? she wondered.
Fully aware that she was breaking a rule, she pocketed the pin and called the same cab company she had used before. As she waited, she went back into the bedroom and had another look around. She went through the jewelry box, just in case, wondering if there was some other trinket in there. She looked under the bed for any books or loose documents. She thumbed through the papers and notebooks in the desk…and found a loose scattering of what looked to be discarded papers—the same sort that seem to collect in forgotten drawers and closets in every home.
She took them out from between the college papers and notebooks. There was a stack of such papers about one inch thick. Even Christine’s clutter looked organized, the papers folded nearly in half and tucked into one another. As she unfolded the papers, she saw old notes for her college papers, an invitation to a wedding from a year ago, and a birthday card from her sister.
She then came to a sheet of paper that had very clearly gotten wet at some point and then dried out. The majority of the paper could not be read, having been soaked and nearly crumbled apart.
It was an invitation to a fundraiser and gala event for Eric Connor. The event was held last September and referred to the invited, Christine Lynch in this case, as a VIP supporter.
Christine was at this event. Marie was there, too. One hundred bucks says Jo Haley was also in attendance.
She further scanned the document and at the very bottom, in fine print along the bottom of the footer, was a Special Thank You section. There were several names there, some the names of companies, but mostly the names of individuals. And it was there, mixed in with all of the other names, that she spotted Bruce Dumfries.
She was now quite comfortable in adding him to the chain of potential suspects, shoving him in right behind Humphrey. Sure, his alibis might have checked out, but he fit her profile so perfectly, it was hard to ignore him completely.
How would Dumfries be involved with this campaign, other than offering up money to some cause that Senator Connor was behind?
She had no time to find out.
Her brain kicked into overdrive as she thought through it all. But before she could get anywhere, her phone rang, startling her. She saw that it was the cab company; it was time to go back to the hotel.
She went downstairs and climbed into the back of the cab. When the driver asked for a destination, it took every bit of restraint within her not to give him the address she had on file in her emails for Jo Haley. Instead, she reined it in and asked to be taken back to the hotel. As she did, she touched the golden pin in her pocket, realizing that she was going to have confess her little journey to Ellington.
She supposed it would be just as good of a reason as any to have their first marital spat.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
If he was going to keep doing this, he knew he had to be more careful. There were three so far. Three. He’d thought that disposing of Marie in the river would relieve him, would help him to feel less stress. And while the authorities were nowhere near catching on to him, he knew he could not get cocky.
After all, the story was in the news now. It was circulating around campus. And as he watched the late-night news programs from his warm living room, he saw that the authorities had managed to come up with a few leads. They were all dead ends, especially the misguided investigation into Neil Rooney’s campaign manager, a poor sap by the name of Daniel Humphrey.
And while the authorities were way off base, it did show that they were very much dedicated to solving his crimes.
Ah, not that it mattered. There was only one other woman out there, one woman who knew too much. Once he disposed of her, his task would be over and he could resume his normal life.
When he picked up his phone and started to send a text to her, he realized that he was excited. He had grown to like the act of murder. Well, maybe not like…it more like a stark appreciation. And he was apparently quite good at it. It nearly made him sad that this would be the last. Of course, he supposed if he really wanted to do it again in the future, there would be nothing to stop him.
Stop worrying about the future, you fool, he told himself. You still have one more right now. Why don’t you go ahead and take care of that one first?
He did just that, composing the text and then sending it. He was getting excited, growing aroused as he pressed send. And not because of the implications of what was in the text, but because he knew the real reason behind it. That she, too, would die at his hands.
It’s been far too long, he typed. I think I could do for some breakfast.
He set the phone down and waited. These women…these younger women who had barely even broken into their twenties—were always quick to respond. He knew it wasn’t only because they were so eager to please him. No, it was something about this poor generation…always needing to be up to date and in the know.
Sure enough, his phone buzzed at him. It was not his standard phone but one of those cheap drug store deals. He went through them regularly in the event of someone’s carelessness. Perhaps his own. Perhaps one of his girls’.
Early class in the morning, silly. Dinner?
No, he responded. I’m busy all day after lunch.
Shame. I’m HUNGRY too.
He smiled. It was almost too easy. He was beyond excited now, sensing the finality of it. The woman typing this…she had very little time to live. And he was the only one that knew it.
After your class? he suggested. At the old spot?
I can do that. 10:00?
Can’t wait, he sent.
And he meant it.
With Jo, he’d given in to his most base desires. They had slept together and in the middle of it, knowing what he had to do before the night ended, he went ahead and killed her. Strangling her had been harder than he had anticipated; he blamed the fact that he had been more interested in the sex for far too much of the night.
That was why he had opted to forgo sex with Christine and Marie. He could not let them cloud his head, could not let his human instincts interfere. It had been especially difficult with Marie because she was an absolute animal in bed. While he himself loved to feel a sense of control in all things, Marie had taken things to a different level in the bedroom, switching from the dominator to the slave in the blink of an eye—and being extremely good in both roles. That was why, in the end, he couldn’t help but play with her a bit. She li
ked to be in control most of the time in the bedroom, so he’d had to make her see where she truly fit before he dispatched her. Hanging her in the closet and watching her beg for her life had brought him more pleasure than he would have ever expected.
It was the sole reason he thought he might indeed be capable of murder even after this fourth and final woman was silenced.
It was this thought that crowded his mind as he settled in for sleep. He thought of a future where, once this fourth woman was disposed of, he would experiment with such things. The utter debacle of the police and FBI’s handling of the current case was evidence that he could get away with it.
And God, it was enticing.
He fell asleep, wondering what sort of victims he might take in the future and how many different ways he could exert control over them.
It made for a surprisingly dreamless sleep.
***
He was remarkably calm as he drove to his secondary apartment the following morning. When he had first dabbled in sleeping with younger women several years ago, he had rented out the space. Some of the women had boyfriends or fiancés or, in one case, even a husband. And he had his reputation and career to consider.
So a secret secondary living space had just made sense. He’d used it without any problem at all for more than three years, taking nine different women to the apartment for somewhere close to fifty visits. So when he parked his car—his older Subaru, which did not stick out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood like his Beamer—behind the apartment building, it truly did feel like he was at a home away from home.
And there she was, waiting for him. Bridgette Minkus. Twenty-one years old. Pretty in a plain way and she knew it—which was why she was always so eager to please men. She was a firecracker in bed and while she had a few too many restrictions while between the sheets, she made up for it in energy and vigor.