by J. L. Drake
“Well,” Chris started, “I’m gonna get back to my friend over there.” He patted Jason’s shoulder with a firm hand. “Stay strong upon the Rock. You’re in my prayers.”
Jason nodded his thanks to his old friend, who then rejoined the horribly depressed man across the bar. He smiled. Something about seeing the preacher again after all these years did him good.
Chris White’s faith in God was amazing. Always had been, probably always will be. Jason groaned and shook his head slightly. How he used to be the same way, he’ll never know. Too much evil had happened before his eyes to believe in someone who claimed to be all loving. When God showed him a sliver of holiness, then he would have some of that faith.
***
The Don
The holding cell was eight feet by eleven, accommodated only by a metal bench and a stained toilet that smelled like diapers and Thai food. Meals of bread, canned fruit, and water were served thrice a day, and an hour in the sunlight was offered at noon. Fellow inmates spat, swore, belched, threatened, and, worst of all, stank. This, in a nutshell, was the Inner City Detention Center of Los Angeles. This had been Shane Drake’s home for thirteen days, but it was thirteen days too long.
The Don sat in the cell, waiting for his brawny police escorts to come collect him. This moment was all anybody—his guards, his therapists, his roommates, everyone—had talked to him about since his capture on Venice Beach. He was to be transported to County Penitentiary, where he would await his trial in an even smaller hole, likely to be pestered by huge horny guys named Bubba and slipping slowly into insanity.
He stood and looked out his steel cell door’s tiny, barred window. He wanted to be staring right at the officers as they walked toward him. He’d gaze straight into their eyes and make them feel fear. The thought made him happy.
His head felt extremely light. They had shaved off his dreadlocks and dumped them in a trashcan. He missed his sunglasses, his Italian suits, his dozen or so girlfriends. Most of all, he missed his sleek black walking staff, hand-crafted from an African Baobab tree. He had stolen it in Santa Monica when he was a fledgling mastermind with nothing but lint in his pockets, and it embodied all he had gained throughout his career. But that scrawny, hollow-boned detective Flynn had confiscated it. Shame.
Was it time yet? Geez, the minutes crawled slowly within these four walls.
A thought that had plagued him for the past several days drifted back. His idiot mom and dad had practically put him in here themselves. He had told the people at the press conference following his capture as much, with plenty of nitty-gritty details. Sluts and junkies, both of them. What he’d give to go to the cemetery right now and spit a huge loogie upon their graves.
A smile played across his face. It was probably sick and twisted to get pleasure from that thought, but that was okay by him.
Finally, a handful of cops swarmed the cell’s foyer, unlocked the door, and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him. They ushered him through a labyrinth of hallways and staircases that would stump the Minotaur. How people got around this joint, the Don would never know. And he wasn’t going to stick around long enough to find out.
A tall, beefy chief named Frost with eyes and biceps made of steel met the posse by one of the jail’s few exits.
“Drake, you’re one lucky prick, I’ll tell you.” His words were mechanical as if he had been planning this little speech for days. Which he probably had, like the smug, stuck-up egomaniac he was.
The Don didn’t respond, just glanced at Frost out of the corner of his eye.
“If you were kept here, with me, you’d be begging for a needle by the end of the month.” He cackled like a lawn mower.
The Don groaned and looked around at the meat locker that passed for a government-funded jailhouse. Chief Frost would be one of the many things he would not miss about the ICDCLA.
Even though Drake didn’t like it, the place had ingrained itself into his mind. Its sights, smells, routines, and society would probably follow him for the rest of his days. But, even though he was leaving the place, life continued all around them. Well, “life” in a loose definition. How much “life” did an existence beneath concrete ceilings and security cameras offer?
Prisoners in muted uniforms passed by him as if they were one big extravagant parade wishing him luck…or as if he was some strange creature in a zoo.
“Move along!” Frost barked to the gawkers.
He turned back to the Don and hissed in his ear. “I hear they got tons of playmates for you in County. I bet they’re eager to play all sorts of games with you, fresh meat.”
“Mr. Frost,” a new voice spoke. It was professional and intelligent, something the Don hadn’t heard much of the past few days.
A razor-eyed man in guard’s attire approached the group of cops, hands clasped tightly behind his back.
Frost sniffed arrogantly at the challenger. “Yes?”
“I’m under orders from the L.A.P.D. to take Shane Drake into my custody.”
“Is that so, Mister…?” Frost fished for a name, but the guard didn’t bite. His glare was narrowed, sharp as daggers, and blunt as a fist. The Don liked him already.
“The Warden and Captain Slate Jones gave me direct orders to escort Mr. Drake out of the facility, and I plan to do just that.” He nodded to Frost and grabbed the Don’s arm firmly.
Frost started to object, but the guard was already leading his prisoner out of the jail. The chief growled to himself, ashamed for being upstaged in front of his subordinates. He spun around and began snarling orders left and right to compensate.
The Don would’ve chuckled at Frost’s embarrassment if the death grip on his arm weren’t cutting off his blood circulation. Who was this new guy? Where was he going now?
He didn’t ask. The man directed him toward a car parked in front of the detention center’s main gate. Highways and trees were visible beyond the fences, enough to make the Don’s heart beat faster. He had dreamed of springing out of the jail for the past two weeks, but now this mysterious escort was taking him somewhere even more unknown.
The guard opened the car’s backdoor.
He glowered, jaw firmly set, “Step inside, Drake.”
Moment of truth. The Don quickly weighed his options, trying to match the officer’s intimidating stare.
Run and get caught, or comply and get time off for good behavior? It was an obvious choice.
He winked at his escort and stepped into the car.
***
Abel
Shane Drake, who liked to arrogantly call himself “The Don,” slid into the back seat of the ‘08 Lexus. Perfect. One more sinner in his grasp, but it wasn’t quite the right time yet. Almost, though. Almost, he told himself.
Barely keeping his composure, Abel swung the door shut. He settled into the driver’s seat and drove out of the Inner City Detention Center of Los Angeles. As he left, he gave the guards a wave and a friendly smile, which they returned. He was well liked here.
***
Jason
A buzzing in his pocket snapped Jason out of his thoughts. He dug his cell phone out of his pocket, ignoring the annoyed stares from around the bar.
“It’s Jason.”
“Hey.” Garth.
“What’s happening?”
“We found Abel’s next step.”
Jason jumped to his feet, heart racing. “What?” He glanced at his watch. “It’s been less than an hour.”
“We got lucky. Super lucky. We started running each of Aarti’s things through examination. Guess which one was planted?”
For some reason, he wasn’t in the mood for guessing games right this second. “Just tell me, Garth.”
“The plastic hairclip. We found conflicting fingerprints on it. Partial, though, obviously. But there was also a tiny, itty-bitty blonde hair caught in the hinge. Ran that through DNA searches—”
“That fast? These things usually move like icebergs.”
“Hey, a stationary
iceberg took down the unsinkable Titanic. Captain Jones convinced the national lab boys this was urgent and immediate, since we could stop these killings. And he was right. We got a name, address, everything.”
“And?” He was already walking out the door, feeling more ready to spring into action than he had all day.
“Carmelita Thorne. Picked up previously for a few counts of solicitation. Age twenty-three, moved to the city last year.”
“Address?” Jason was outside now, finding a sudden change of weather. The setting sun was completely snuffed out by the monstrous clouds, and he could practically feel the moisture in the air. Rain was coming.
“Hold up, Ranger. A team was already sent over to get her. Cheyenne and Josh Locke are heading it up.”
“Right, right.” Being sidelined at a time like this, however temporary, felt like being caged. Abel was standing right in front of his nose, whetting his appetite, but he was still only a shadow just out of reach.
“There’s another detail,” Garth said. “Josh mentioned he and you have met Carmelita before.”
That gave him pause. “Oh?” he said as he reached his car in the parking lot.
“Yeah, at Adam Fischer’s apartment. She was an ‘employee’ of his?”
Jason gasped as the woman’s face filled his memory. She had been scouting the dead Fischer’s apartment, then attacked him and Josh with pepper spray. She was one of Fischer’s top escorts.
Carly.
“Yeah, I remember her. Small world.”
“And one more thing…”
Sheesh. What else?
Garth continued, “Carmelita’s DNA matches the sample taken from the saliva we found on the floor of the Just Dropped Inn.”
“Where Jack Magnum died?”
“The same.”
“So Carly…Carmelita was Jack’s escort that night. She was half of his assassination plot, remember? She had opposing chemicals on her lips that killed him.”
“Adultery, right. So she probably saw our little Abel’s face as she was getting the chemicals planted on her food.”
“Exactly. This is great, Garth.”
“You’re too kind,” he responded dryly. “You can talk to her in about thirty minutes. See you soon.”
“Right. Bye.”
Jason hung up and jumped into his car. He hadn’t even fully sat down when the phone started buzzing again.
He settled into the seat as he answered. “Yeah, what’s up, Garth?”
“You may have found Thorne…”
Chills raced down Jason’s bones even though the breeze was still warm. It was Abel, rasping with a smile in his voice.
“…but don’t consider it a victory.” He spoke very fast as if he was eager to end the conversation. “You have no idea what’s going to happen next.”
He hung up.
Jason dropped the phone on his lap. He wondered why for a second, then saw his hand was shaking violently like a leaf in the wind. Sweat dotted his hairline, but he wiped it away and started the car.
Somehow, Abel knew about the police finding Carly. But that news was only a few minutes old, and it was beyond top secret. Only those on the force, on a need-to-know basis, had access to the info.
It put acid in his stomach, but Jason had to consider that Abel had someone on the inside of the police department. Someone keeping him ahead of them. Or, maybe, Abel himself was on the inside.
He stopped dead. The thought made him sick. And horrified. He shook his head, put the car in drive, and left the Pub’s parking lot, desperately trying to still the tremor in his hands.
Chapter 10
“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”
—John 8:32
Abel
Time was of the essence. No matter how rich a man was—how powerful, how charming, how righteous—the clock’s hands would never slow. Time was one of life’s equalizers—the sun traveled at the same speed over England as it did Swaziland. What it came down to was what a man did with the time he was given.
Abel shook his head. However interesting, he hated it when his mind wandered. Detracted from the task at hand.
Refocus. He had just dropped off Shane Drake, unconscious and hogtied, at his base of operations. He now was driving his Lexus down Cypress Avenue and would, in approximately 3.8 miles, turn left onto Frederick Street. Arrival in less than five minutes, if traffic allowed.
He was cutting it close. He would just barely make it to his next stop in time, but that was good enough.
What a hectic day. And there was so much more left.
The radio was on, and some prissy female pop singer squawked about how great girls in California are. Abel smirked. He enjoyed fun, upbeat music as much as the next guy, but he was currently in the mood for something else. He switched to some intense instrumental music with killer brass and a terrific string section.
That’s more like it.
On approach. The quaint house was dead ahead at the end of the street. He slowed, driving at a casual pace. Most everyone on the block was at work or school, he had checked. It was a clean, bright area of town. Children’s playsets and toys dotted lawns, along with benches, gardens, a hammock or two. Neighbors knew each other and waved hello without fear of aggression or burglary. Picturesque, suburban America, happy-go-lucky and harmless. It warmed Abel’s heart to see that such a place still existed.
He parked the car a few houses down from the one that interested him and got out, not bothering to lock it. He walked briskly toward the house. It was the largest on the block, with ornate decorations, expensive plants, and a triple-car garage.
A glance at his watch told him he was a tad early. Better than late. He quickly approached the house. The clouds were getting heavy, and he didn’t want to get caught in the rain.
***
Malorie
It was six in the evening, Malorie’s favorite time of day.
Really, it was always her favorite time of day. Her life was the best it had been in years, and she couldn’t imagine things getting better.
Malorie Daniels wandered through her home on Frederick Street, walking on air. She caught a glance of herself in a mirror as she passed. Slight wrinkles were forming at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and her hair was getting frayed at the roots. At the age of forty-one, most would think her lively days of climbing the ladder to success and playing frisky games with men’s affections were behind her.
They’d be wrong! she giddily thought to herself.
Ever since her twenty-first birthday, she had been employed by a sleeper corporation known as Moutrin. Very little of the public had ever heard of it, but that was intentional. Technically speaking, the company was still in its infant years, but it was the backbone of the country.
Basically, Moutrin acted as a financial Good Samaritan, preferably without the receiving company’s knowledge. For example, if stock in Office Max was nose-diving and it was close to bankrupt, Moutrin would swoop in, buy unheard of amounts of stock, and anonymously contribute enough money to get them back on their feet. Thus, Office Max would have a healthy confidence boost, consumer interest in Office Max rose, the American economy kept rolling, and Moutrin made good profit. Sometimes they would lose money, but more often than not, the revenue more than made up for the occasional failure.
Malorie had been there for Mourtin’s inception, working as a lowly accountant advisor. Now, after twenty years of hard work and grit, she sat on top of the corporation as one of three Chief Financial Officers. With newfound money and self-esteem, she had moved into this nice neighborhood and focused on starting over. She made six digits a year, plus benefits and perks.
But suddenly, just a few years ago, it struck her that something was missing. That feeling sat on her mind, bothering her, keeping her from eating, sleeping, and laughing.
As she looked in the mirror, she remembered the revelation she had had years ago:
It wasn’t enough.
She was CFO of o
ne of the most important corporations the country had ever known! She worked hard, paid her taxes, went to church every now and then. Was it too bad to want a bit more in return?
The memories came back to her as she walked barefoot through her huge house. Room enough for dozens. Occupant: one.
While she was still a simple advisor for the bigwigs, she had been living in a disgusting little shack on Skid Row. On those dirty streets, in shady alleyways, she had picked up a nasty habit from her peers.
Even though she knew she was alone in her big house, she felt the need to sneak quietly to her bedroom. She knelt under her bed and pulled out a bulky wooden chest.
She opened the chest. Inside were a dozen or so pocket-sized plastic bags, each filled with a fine white powder with the consistency of sand. Pure cocaine. She felt like an old-time adventurer, gazing in a treasure chest at her bounty. Just looking at the bags of coke made her stomach churn in a weird mix of guilt and excitement.
As CFO, she had unlimited access to Moutrin’s funds. Any time of any day, she could call up her associates and take a peek at the company’s vast fortune. One day, her longing for more had overwhelmed her. What she had wasn’t enough. So, one fateful day, as the company sent out money to another business, she skimmed a bit off the top and pocketed it for herself.
Who would miss it? Moutrin had more money than it knew what to do with. Besides, she was worthy of some extra cash.
That act, “skimming,” as she liked to call it, became more addicting than the coke itself. Every time Moutrin sent funds through Malorie, she would skim a few thousand for herself. Nothing too big. No harm done, in the long run. The skimmed money mostly bought the cocaine her body demanded. The six-digit job supported her fancy lifestyle.
Who wouldn’t be happy in this life? Malorie giggled like a little girl as she reached into the chest for one of the bags of white powder.