Obrist’s eyes narrowed. “There isn’t one giant justice system that works toward one goal, Ashley. Your role in my case is completely unrelated to your family law matters.”
Ashley looked down at the carpet, cheeks burning and trying to calm herself. “What now?”
“There’s no way you could have damaged my case more, which makes an appeal unlikely to succeed. The defense had a field day last time you were on the stand, and now you’ve given them more shots to fire at you. Without you, there’s definitely no case, but I’m not sure there’s one with you anymore either. Our time together is at an end.”
“Okay.” Ashley sagged. She wasn’t sure what to say now that he’d rejected her offer of support. “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.” Obrist’s voice had a softer tone now. He stood and walked around to her side of the desk, then leaned against the edge of it. “If there’s no appeal, the witness protection for you, your ex-husband and your daughter will end. For you, that means no more payments, counseling, or US Marshal protection.”
Ashley looked up from the carpet and her mind raced. They had only remained safe because of the program. They’d had their names changed and been moved out of New York. Though Ashley and Tom had later separated, he and Lucy had kept their fake names when they’d moved back to New York.
Ashley would still have the new name if pulled out of the program, but she’d lose everything else, including access to the meager allowances that had kept her afloat financially. Worse, she’d no longer have free access to Simon Weltering’s counseling. Despite all her criticisms of her time in the loving embrace of the Federal Government, she’d come to rely on the support.
“You can’t do that.” Ashley’s eyes searched his for any hint of uncertainty, but his gaze was granite. “Please, I need to remain in witness protection. So do Tom and Lucy.”
“Laverri has been found not guilty and your part is done.” Obrist’s tone was somber. “Keep your head down and focus on getting your daughter back. You should be safe.”
“My daughter…”
Obrist’s eyes narrowed slightly, then his features softened and he let out a long sigh. “I’ll see if I can help with that. Call it a parting gift for trying to help me put Laverri away. Let me call a friend and see if he’ll help gain you some access. He’s a family friend and a damn good lawyer, specializing in family law.”
Ashley was a little shocked by Obrist’s offer. He was extending an olive branch of his own. She watched as he picked up his phone and dialed. She couldn’t help wondering if he was doing this in order to soothe his own guilt, providing a kindness to a woman he’d soon forget about. She wouldn’t say no to the help, though, as much as it rankled that it was only now being provided.
As he spoke, she thought. It sickened her that powerful people such as Obrist conducted business like this. They have conversations their clients never hear, but are heavily impacted by. And as quickly as deals are done, the subjects of those deals are forgotten. It was a system of justice only for those who could afford it. For everyone else, it was best to simply stay out of the way.
Ashley leaned forward as Obrist ended the call. She balled her fists by her sides and spoke louder than she intended. “Another no?”
Obrist shook his head. “No, quite the opposite. My friend will try to help you gain some access to your daughter. It’s a good opportunity.”
Ashley clenched her teeth. She didn’t want to accept his help. She was sure it’d mean more torment at the hands of the legal system, more empty offers of assistance, more false concern. She almost told him to shove it, but the overriding desire to get things right with Lucy trumped everything else. She had to accept any help that was offered, because everything she’d tried had failed.
She held her tongue and smiled at Obrist.
20
Duncan
Duncan strode confidently down the hallway of the apartment building, jingling the keys until he reached Chelsea’s place. After glancing around to make sure he was alone, he used the newest key in his collection to unlock the door. As he did, he remembered the story Chelsea had told about having lost her key and laughed. Pretty soon she’d be wishing she’d changed the locks.
He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. The apartment was dark, but he had no need for any light. An unexpected advantage of getting close to his victims before killing them was learning the layout of their apartments well enough to walk around in the dark. He listened for a moment, to make sure his entry hadn’t woken Chelsea, but he heard nothing.
As he pulled the balaclava over his head, Duncan reflected on how perfectly everything had gone. After his broadcast of her nude photographs, Chelsea’s personal life had entered freefall. Her professional life had taken an even bigger hit. He’d logged into her emails again to find dozens of messages from across her company, scolding her for sending the email. There’d been three emails that were particularly interesting.
One, from her boss, had denied all knowledge of the affair, which was quite right given Duncan had made it up. The second, from human resources, informed her that her employment had been terminated. The final email had been from her husband – who worked at the same company – told her he was on his way home from a business trip in Los Angeles and that there’d be a reckoning.
The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Duncan would kill her in the hours to come and be long gone by the time Chelsea's husband walked through the door. The image of him returning home, finding his dead wife, and realizing he was free of her was sweet. Duncan smiled as he used the light on his burner cell phone to find her phone, purse, and keys. He hid them in her freezer, to make sure he had control over the apartment for the time he was here.
Knowing he wouldn’t be interrupted, he walked carefully through her apartment. When he reached the door to her bedroom, he paused and put his backpack on the floor. He’d come back for it in a second, but first he needed to secure her. He removed a single item from the bag and opened the door to her room.
Chelsea was asleep, covered only with a crumpled top sheet, an empty bottle lying next to her. Typical. He detested her and what she was forcing him to do, but it needed to be done. Duncan frowned and stepped forward, with less caution now that he knew she was drunk. He locked one half of the handcuffs around the pole of the bed frame and then, as quickly as he could, secured her wrist with the other.
“Mmmm!” She started to stir as he locked the cuffs, but her mumbles were muted, because he’d covered her mouth with his hand. She flailed.
“Stay still and keep quiet” Duncan’s voice was filled with menace. “Or I’ll cut your heart out.”
His words had no impact. Chelsea thrashed and kicked out at him, until Duncan cocked a fist and punched her in the face. She let out a scream as the blow landed. Though he cursed, both at the pain in his hand and the scream she’d let out, he raised his fist and hit her twice more. The blows knocked her out and she was quiet again.
Duncan returned to his bag and carried it into the room. Within moments she was restrained by another set of cuffs, and had a gag in her mouth. As she started to regain consciousness, he flicked on the lamp beside the bed and stood over her. Her eyes widened and she thrashed against her restraints, her attempts to speak or scream more desperate now – primal and frenzied.
Duncan ignored her and simply spoke over her. “I don’t know why you’re so intent on struggling and screaming. Your actions have led to this.”
He reached up and pulled off his balaclava, savoring the recognition and fear in her eyes. He grabbed her by her messy red hair and yanked on it hard, ignoring her cries and lifting her head until her face was inches from his. He searched her eyes for any sign of remorse at the things she’d done. It was said that people gain insight and clarity when faced with danger or death, but all he saw was fear.
He sighed. He was going to have to explain it to her, just like most of his victims. “You were powerful. You had control over y
our life, your husband, everything. A puppet master, doing and taking whatever you wanted, but impervious to the damage you caused. You’re a slut and an abuser. Now it’s time to pay.”
Letting her hair go, he watched as her head fell back onto the pillow. Then he gripped the top sheet and pulled it off her. She wore a matching underwear set that typified her attitude. Clearly she thought she could make up with her husband by greeting him in a lacy bra and thong, doing the bare minimum required to keep him under her spell. With a snarl, he ripped off the bra and pulled down her panties so she was as naked as the day she was born.
By now her moans and muffled screams had become background noise. He whistled softly as he rifled through his bag and pulled out a claw hammer. The hammer was the type of weapon Duncan preferred. It was simple and strong and honest, as opposed to her attitude. She sought to control others and inflict pain in complex and dishonest ways. He liked to mete out justice with blunt force.
He raised the hammer above his head and savored the look of fear in her eyes. Her cries became increasingly frantic, but there was nothing she could do to change his mind. He took a couple of deep breaths as he decided where to start, her thrashing and shaking making him more intent. Then his mouth formed into a snarl. He settled on her knee. It was as good a place as any.
21
Chris
Chris sighed as he unwrapped the hamburger and bit into it with no pleasure, having long grown tired of a diet of fast food and takeout coffee. As he chewed, he kept his eyes on the front of the apartment building he was staking out. He knew he shouldn’t be here – the run-in with the college kid and the subsequent rebuke from his superiors still fresh in his mind – yet here he was.
The encounter with Ashley Wheeler had jolted him into action. Though he’d promised both Manny and the psychologist that he’d try to stop, seeing Wheeler and her red hair had made him realize he couldn’t stop. The killer would continue to prey on women until he was caught. Chris couldn’t turn away from the danger. Not after Tamara. He’d continue to work to find the killer, hopefully before the killer found another victim.
After finishing the burger, he started on the coffee. He was bunkered in for a long night of boredom, talk radio, and NYPD dispatch. Like usual, he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. Maybe he’d see the potential victim who lived at this address, or someone who might be the killer, but most likely he’d see nothing. He was searching for a needle in a haystack in a field full of haystacks.
“All units.” The NYPD radio squawked. “We have reports of a domestic disturbance at 17 East 207th Street in Norwood.”
Chris took another sip of his coffee, then realization hit him. He rummaged through a mess of papers on the passenger seat until he found the document he was looking for. He flicked on the Chevy’s interior light and checked the address that had come over the radio against the one on his list. They were the same. The domestic disturbance was inside the place Chris was staking out.
Chris considered going in alone, but decided against it. He grabbed his radio. “This is FBI Special Agent Chris Horan with the Extreme Homicide JTF. I’m in the area. I’ll check it out.”
“Confirmed, Agent Horan.”
Chris now had a reason to be here. He put the radio down and picked up his cellphone. He hesitated for just a second, but knew he needed help. If this was the killer, Chris needed someone else there when he caught him. He dialed Manny’s number and put the phone to his ear. The phone rang and rang. He almost thought Manny might not pick up, given the hour, but eventually the call connected.
“Can’t I even get an hour of sleep at my desk?” Manny’s voice was groggy and he didn’t sound impressed by the phone call. “What is it, Chris?”
Chris struggled to hide his excitement. “I’m at the house of a potential victim and a call just came over the radio. There’s a domestic disturbance at the same address.”
“A potential vic…” Manny’s voice trailed off. “Oh, come on, Chris. Do yourself a favor and walk away.”
“Can’t.” Chris kept the phone in his hand and opened the door of his car with the other. “I’m heading in.”
The silence wasn’t a good sign. Usually Manny and Chris would wade into any amount of shit for each other, but it seemed Manny might’ve reached his limit. Chris put his phone on speaker and rested it on the car. As he waited, he opened the trunk and dressed in his FBI raid jacket. He put on the belt holster that held his firearm and grabbed his mini-Maglite. Now he’d responded to the job and dressed the part, he had some legitimacy being here.
“Fucking hell you’re asking a lot of me, Chris.” Manny finally spoke, just as Chris closed the trunk. “You’re asking me to skate onto the thin ice with you.”
“Pretty much.” Chris picked up the phone again and put it to his ear. “But at least there’s a call to investigate.”
“What’s the address?”
“17 East 207th Street in Norwood.”
There was another brief pause. “I’ll be there in five.”
The phone went dead. Chris pocketed it, locked the car and crossed the street. He buzzed a different apartment to the one he was interested in and flashed his badge in front of the video intercom. The resident opened the door and Chris took the elevator to the ninth floor. As he walked down the hallway and got closer to the woman’s apartment, the more anxious he felt about what he’d find inside.
No light escaped from beneath the door. Chris paused and listened for a minute, but heard nothing. He didn’t want to knock, in case the killer was inside, but he couldn’t barge in unless there were exigent circumstances, where not barging in could lead to loss of evidence or danger to people. It was a nice little end around the Fourth Amendment that Chris had used in the past.
The bang and muffled scream Chris heard was good enough.
“FBI!” Chris shouted as loudly as he could. If enough people in the building heard his scream, he might get away with kicking the door in.
Chris drew his sidearm and held it out in front of him, together with his mini-Maglite. He gave the door a solid kick, and as it swung inward he stepped into darkness. Moving as quickly as he dared, Chris searched the apartment corner by corner, flashing the light rapidly, his finger on the trigger of the pistol. He cleared the living room and kitchen quickly – they were both empty, though it was strange to see an open window in the living room, given the time of night.
Finally, he moved to the bedroom, where a woman lay naked on the bed, her hands cuffed to the headboard and a gag stuffed into her mouth. Her body was covered in wounds, and blood covered the sheets. Her eyes were closed and she made only soft moans. She was alive. Barely…
With the cops and the ambulance on the way, Chris simply hugged Tamara. Her white singlet top was stained crimson, with clear stab wounds. Her arms had cuts all over them, probably from where she’d tried to fight off her attacker. But the way she was sitting was unnatural. She’d been cooking, then fought off an attacker, now she was sitting on the sofa? No. She’d been put there by the murderer…
Chris blinked. The loud boom of a gunshot had pierced the silence of the night and pulled him back into the present. Chris swept the room with his pistol, but whoever had done this was gone. He must’ve come so close to catching him.
The window.
Chris half turned, but stopped. He needed to help the woman.
She moaned softly once more. Her hair was as red as the blood covering her, and he’d managed to save her, though that wouldn’t do any good unless he got some help here soon. He holstered his pistol, pulled out his cell phone and dialed it in. Within a moment an ambulance and an army of back-up was on the way. Chris ended the call and dialed Manny’s number. It rang and rang, but this time nobody answered.
Chris ran to the living room window and moved the small curtain aside. Though the street was still dark, the figure splayed out in the middle of the road was unmistakable. Chris felt a lump in his throat and he froze for a split second, staring
down at his partner. Then his training kicked in. He knew an ambulance was on the way, but he faced an impossible choice: try to help the victim or try to help Manny.
The woman had been stabbed. Manny might’ve been shot. The killer might be down there.
Chris made his decision. He drew his pistol again, climbed out of the window and rushed down the fire escape, scanning for threats as he went. But whoever had put his friend on the ground was long gone. He reached ground level and scrambled over to Manny, shining his flashlight over his partner. Manny was lying on his back with several stab wounds to his stomach. He hadn’t been shot, from what Chris could tell. Had he pegged the killer?
“Manny!” Chris assessed his partner. He had a pulse and was breathing, but he was barely conscious. Chris pressed against the wounds. “Manny! Hold on!”
“He got the jump on me… took my phone…” Manny’s voice was soft, almost silent. “I got a shot off… missed...”
“It’s okay, buddy, we’ll get him next time.” Chris kept his hands pressing down on the wound as the sound of sirens came toward them. “We might’ve saved a woman’s life.”
“That’s good...” Manny’s voice trailed off and his eyes closed.
22
Ashley
Ashley was seated in the trendiest café in Manhattan, feeling like everyone in the place was staring at her. It made her feel uncomfortable. She wanted to flip over every rustic board of food. She hated the place. Seated across from her and dressed in his business suit, her ex-husband Tom was the picture of calm detachment as he waited for her to speak. It was clear he expected Ashley to break the ice.
“They don’t even have eggs benedict.” Ashley looked up over the menu and was relieved when he cracked a small smirk. “Can you believe it?”
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