Bad Faith (Mason Ashford Thriller Series Book 1)

by Nick Stevens

  “Yes, Father.”

  Paul turned at the sound of a throat clearing behind him. “Ah! Apostle Aaron! I’ve been waiting for your return.”

  Looking back to Diana, Paul dismissed her. “Don’t forget my instructions.” She bowed and backed away before turning back to her sisters. Paul arched an eyebrow, wondering when Diana started the bowing act.

  After she left, Paul waved to Aaron, and they walked away from the gathered women.

  “Aaron, buddy, you look like hell, and you’ve been ducking my texts. What happened?”

  “It has been a long, long day. I have bad news. The Fitzgerald girl is dead.”

  Paul froze. “What? What happened? Our clients were expecting her in a few days.”

  Aaron told Paul about hiring Darius and his crew to grab the girl, and how it all went south after the security guard showed up.

  Paul let his anger flare, his face turning pink despite his tan face. “Why didn’t you just grab her yourself?”

  “Do I look like I’m picking up a college co-ed at some club in the District?” Aaron waved to himself, his clothes still spattered in dried blood.

  “So, what was your plan?” Paul balled his fist, looking at Aaron’s jaw. The big man wouldn’t even feel a swing from Paul. Aaron stood a foot taller than Paul and outweighed him by at least eighty pounds.

  “It should’ve been simple. I figured I’d use the corner kids to create an opportunity. They’d round her up, and I’d roll in with the car. Even if they screwed up, and they did, I figured I could grab her off the street.”

  The pair resumed walking around the old camp. Paul needed to burn off his anger.

  “What happened after that?”

  “The security guy walked her home. I couldn’t grab her on the street.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re a Marine! You couldn’t handle one security guard?”

  Aaron stared into the trees, thinking it over. “Not fast enough to grab the girl. This guy was different. He moved different. Like a pro.”

  Paul stopped again. Aaron took two more steps, then paused and turned back to Paul.

  “You’re a coward,” Paul spat.

  “I’m a what?”

  “You heard me. I should’ve left you in the gutter. Coward.”

  Aaron closed the distance between them in less than a heartbeat. His hand drove upward, catching Paul with an uppercut to the stomach. Crashing to the dirt, Paul landed on his side, gasping for breath and trying not to vomit at the same time.

  “Coward? I’m not the one selling girls behind a sham cult, Paul. That’s you.”

  Crawling to his knees, Paul wiped the tears from his eyes. “It’s you, too. We’re both in this. The only way out is forward.”

  “Out? There’s no way out now!” Aaron stuck a finger in Paul’s face, pink from uncontrollable coughing. “You made the deals for those girls. Now we’re stuck.”

  Aaron turned, pacing back and forth in front of a still kneeling Paul to burn off his rage.

  Paul pulled himself together enough to climb to his feet. “I’ll fix it. We’ll make them another deal. Another girl. I’ll need time, but I’ll make something happen.”

  Putting a gentle hand on Aaron’s shoulder, Paul pulled the behemoth of a man around. “Tell me what happened with the Fitzgerald girl. Tell me everything.”

  After Aaron recounted the fight in the alley and how the mysterious savior walked her home, he told Paul about snatching Laurel from her apartment, drugging her, and later finding her dead in the trunk.

  “Where is she now?”

  “I tossed her in a dumpster behind some grocery store in the city. Shouldn’t take long for her body to turn up.”

  Paul’s eyes went wide. “You did what? If she’s found and makes the news, the North Koreans will know, and we’re in trouble.”

  “That’s the plan. Not only her, but I dumped the corner kids’ bodies in Rock Creek. Somebody’s bound to find them soon. Once the bodies turn up, I’ve got a surprise for our security guard friend.”

  Paul sat at the round table in his small house near the center of the old camp. He had the old bunkhouse cabin converted into a suitable residence soon after taking ownership. The house was spartan, with a central living area connected to a bedroom. A bathroom connected to the bedroom, while a simple kitchen adjoined the living area. It was enough to keep up appearances for his clueless flock.

  Aaron’s incompetence weighed on him. Losing the Fitzgerald girl put his entire operation in jeopardy. He didn’t know how his new clients might react. They were volatile.

  A soft knock landed on the door of Paul’s house. He pushed aside one set of problems for the more immediate problems outside the door.

  “Enter, my children.”

  The door squeaked open. Diana’s head peeked through, finding Paul still at the table. He waved her inside. Kimberly and Olivia followed, their heads down, eyes locked on the floor.

  “Come in, come in. I’ve been waiting for you. Sisters, please take a seat.” Paul gestured to an ancient sofa he’d purchased second-hand. He held Diana back by her arm.

  “Thank you for bringing them. I’m going to speak with your sisters about what we can do to help them adapt.”

  Diana’s expression of wonder transformed to disappointment. She whispered, “I understand.”

  “I have another task for you. I need you to take care of the new sister that arrived some time ago. She’s recovering, but nearly ready to join the flock. Her name is Chloe. Go to her tomorrow. I cannot stress how crucial this is.”

  Diana brightened at the important new task Father Paul gave her. “Yes, Father. I will. Thank you for your faith in me.”

  “You’ve earned it. Now leave us for a bit, will you?”

  Nodding, Diana turned and darted from the house. Paul turned back to his two reluctant guests.

  Clapping his hands together, he announced, “Sisters! How would you like a drink?”

  The two women looked at each other, then back to Paul, who stood in the middle of the room. Olivia, her mouth hanging open, could only nod.

  “Perfect. I don’t normally drink, but it has been a challenging day. You two wait right here and I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Stepping into the kitchen, out of sight of the women, Paul unlocked a cabinet. He took out a cheap bottle of vodka and a large can of cranberry juice. Next to those, he placed a half-empty blister pack of white pills.

  He called from the kitchen, “How was today’s meal? Oh, and what did you think of the sermon?”

  The girls mumbled something. Paul didn’t listen. Crushing two pills, he sprinkled the dust into two glasses, topping them with vodka, juice, and ice from the narrow refrigerator.

  Emerging with three glasses, he placed one on the table and passed the rest to his guests.

  Paul offered a toast, and everyone sipped. The drinks offered a relaxing environment away from the harsh glare of the sisters. The girls opened up about missing their families and wanting to leave. Paul listened to their concerns, biding his time. He stole glances at the clock, willing the minute hand forward.

  About twenty minutes later, Kimberly’s speech slurred as she recounted growing up somewhere awful. Olivia’s groggy alarm was short-lived as she slipped into unconsciousness seconds after her sister.

  Paul finished the rest of his drink. “And that’s why we use roofies instead of fentanyl, Aaron.”

  Reaching back into the same cabinet in the kitchen, Paul extracted an ancient push-button phone. Cell service was unreliable in remote eastern Maryland. Sometimes the old technologies worked best. He plugged the phone into a hidden jack behind the refrigerator and punched in a number. A graveled voice answered.

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

  “That’s good news for you. I’m having a buy-one-get-one sale, but you have to act fast.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  Stretching the cord into the living area, Paul stroked Kimberly’s long
blonde locks. “I have two lovely specimens, but not as well trained as I like. I have to let them go. I’ll make you a fair price.”

  “When can I pick them up?”

  “Available immediately.”

  The voice laughed. “Immediately? It’s like three hours to get there.”

  Paul unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his trousers. “I’ll keep them occupied until you get here.”

  Another sarcastic laugh from the handset. “See you soon, Father Paul.”

  “Not too soon, I hope.”

  Chapter 6

  A stabbing pain froze Jodie Nash on the trail, only halfway through her daily ten kilometer run through Rock Creek Park. She’d pushed her pace earlier than she should have, and the run-ending cramp was the result. As the seconds ticked by on her GPS watch, she chastised herself for jumping into a sprint too early. Jodie focused on her breathing to clear the pain. Pacing in circles with her hands on her head, she scanned the trail and trees, figuring the day wouldn’t be a waste if she glimpsed an early morning deer.

  A flash of white in her peripheral vision made her turn. It disappeared in the early morning light as she searched for it. Stepping back on the trail, out from behind a tree, she found the white shape. She spotted the bottom of a pristine white sneaker several yards off the trail. Obscured by a fern, the shoe rested on a fallen log covered in moss.

  A second shoe, another sneaker, appeared a few feet away. This one had a bright red sole. The pops of color were out of place in the greens and browns of Rock Creek.

  Her morning run ruined by the sharp pain in her side, her curiosity got the better of her. Checking her footing, she lunged over a bush, her own foot sinking up to her calf in cold, murky water.

  “Dammit!” She shouted into the trees. Spread too far forward to step back onto the trail, she launched herself forward with her other leg, landing on a drier patch of moss.

  Extracting her submerged leg, Jodie trudged through the underbrush and up the slight incline to the fallen tree.

  As her head cleared the trunk of the tree, she saw an ashen, naked leg connected to the white shoe. A part of her registered the corpse while another, detached from the moment, realized she’d never seen a dead body in person. Her eyes traced the curves of the body until reaching a contorted face. One eye bulged from a crushed socket. The other, the surrounding flesh swollen, stared back at her. The man’s dislocated jaw, broken in the center, gave the figure a shattered, murderous grin.

  Her fear response flooded back. Spinning, eyes on the trail, she halted at the sight of another body in the red sneakers. The body rested with its chest to the ground, but the tortured face stared up into the early morning sky.

  The pain in her side long forgotten, Jodie sprinted to the trail and back to the horse stables. She encountered another jogger a few hundred yards down the trail and waved the woman down. Between sobs, Jodie told the woman about the disfigured bodies.

  The woman, Jodie later learned her name was Sasha, called the police while escorting her back to her car.

  Pounding on the front door roused Mason from his bed. The clock on his phone read thirty minutes past eight. Muttering, he grabbed yesterday’s jeans hanging on a nearby chair. Stepping into them, he pulled on an old Washington Nationals t-shirt from the pile spreading from his laundry hamper.

  A second round of knocking. More insistent.

  “Yeah, I’m coming!”

  Looking through the peephole, he saw two figures on the other side of the door, both in suits. He shuffled to the side of the door, his ingrained training moving him out of harm’s way.

  “Who is it?”

  “Mason Ashford, I’m Detective Cooper with Metro Police. Open up.”

  He thought of the altercation Saturday night. His expectation that it wouldn’t come back to haunt him now seemed naive. Stepping back in front of the door, he threw the locks and edged open the door.

  “What’s this about?”

  “We want to ask you some questions about the disappearance of Laurel Fitzgerald. Get some shoes on.”

  Mason bit back the questions flooding his mind. The police would use anything as an indictment against him. He’d been on their side of the table and knew how it worked. City cops needed to clear cases fast. They’d pin anything on anyone if it helped their stats.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  The other cop, thick-necked, with dull eyes hiding beneath a protruding forehead, snorted. “Not yet, but the day is young.”

  The interrogation room smelled of stale coffee and desperation. Detectives Cooper and Ross sat across from him. A stack of folders rested between them on the cold metal table.

  Cooper leaned forward. “Tell me about Laurel Fitzgerald.”

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but why are you questioning me about this?”

  Ross snorted. “A front desk guard working at her apartment identified you as dropping her off at her apartment just after four on Sunday morning. According to him, Miss Fitzgerald mentioned you by name. You’re the last person seen with her.”

  Cooper added, “She also posted a lot of pictures on her social Saturday night. Looks like she was having a great time at your club.”

  Mason leaned back in the metal chair. “Let me see if I get this right. I walk this young lady home, a customer in my place of employment, on Sunday morning. It’s Tuesday morning now. She’s gone missing between then and now, and you’re already questioning me about her disappearance? You guys wouldn’t get to a random missing girl in what? Weeks? It’s been just over forty-eight hours. Must be some kind of record. That’s some crackerjack police work, gentlemen. Real cop of the year stuff.”

  Cooper shrugged. “The girl’s father is some Beltway honcho. He called the mayor when his daughter didn’t make a breakfast and didn’t answer her phone. Shit rolls downhill, Mr. Ashford.”

  “Oh, I’m aware.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Ross prodded. “I’ll bet all the shit lands on you, right?”

  Mason knew the cops were fishing. If they’d had anything concrete, they’d have better questions. He told them about walking her home Saturday night after she lost her phone and her friends ditched her. He left out the bit about the attempted assault he both witnessed and prevented. Any altercations inside Gridlock wouldn’t land him in legal trouble. Outside the club, like, say, in an alley, left him exposed to criminal charges, so he left that out as well. Volunteering information, or anything else, beyond the exact question asked was a good way to end up in jail, or worse.

  Ross sat back in his chair, his girth straining buttons on his discount bin shirt. “Sure, you walked her home. All chivalrous like. You do that for a lot of pretty girls?”

  Mason resisted rising to the jibe. He knew the most they could pin on him were a couple of assault charges, but a competent lawyer would turn it into self-defense. Gridlock had cameras covering interior and exterior spaces, some even Clayton didn’t know about. Mason had plenty of evidence for a defense if he needed it. He was looking at twenty-four hours in jail, at most, for the alley assault. Less if he called an attorney. Or Borisov.

  He needed to stick to the facts and avoid getting emotional.

  “And you don’t know anything else about Ms. Fitzgerald?”

  Mason shook his head. “Nope. You know what I know.”

  Cooper’s grey eyes scanned Mason, impassive. “There’s something else I want to ask you about. It’s unrelated to Miss Fitzgerald but humor me.” Taking a folder from the desk, he placed four photographs on the desk in front of Mason. From the clinical nature of the pictures, Mason knew these were crime scene photographs. Each showed a different young man, faces mangled and distorted in agony.

  Mason recognized Brayton, Darius, and the other two men from Saturday night. His heart sank. Whatever trouble those men were involved in had gotten them killed. Judging by the pictures, someone enjoyed the work.

  “A jogger found these bodies in Rock Creek Park early Monday morning. She thought there we
re only two, but we found two additional bodies a few yards from the first pair. We’re still waiting on autopsies, but it looks like whoever murdered these men had a grudge. Went after some of them with some kind of club or pipe. Know anything about that?”

  Concentrating on his pulse, Mason measured his options. “Again, why are you asking me about this?”

  Cooped flipped open another folder, spinning it to Mason. Pages of printed pictures and captions spilled out. “Have to say, establishing a timeline is a hell of a lot easier with everyone posting their locations at all hours of the day and night. As you can see, the victims were also at your club on Saturday night. And, as far as we can tell, that’s one of the last places they were seen alive. Ms. Fitzgerald even appears in this picture, right here.” Cooper pointed to a woman in the background of one of Brayton’s pictures.

  Ross leaned back in his chair. The chain groaned at the man’s bulk. “That’s a lot of coincidence for one night at an overpriced nightclub in the District, wouldn’t you say?”

  “How should I know? I’m just a security guard getting fifteen dollars an hour and a cut of the door covers. I don’t know where Laurel is, or what happened to these guys you found in Rock Creek.”

  Leaning forward, Ross placed his hands on the table. “Here’s what I think. I think the Fitzgerald girl wanted to go home, and you followed her all the way to her apartment. She turned you down, again and again. But that didn’t sit right with you, did it? I mean, who turns you down, right? So, you snatched her up the next day so you could get what you wanted. That part sound about right to you? You know we’ll sort this out. Might as well make it easy on yourself and come clean now. Get a nice deal with the district attorney.”

  Mason thought the only thing Ross sorted out came in a bucket with a special recipe. Patience running thin, Mason ignored the ranting cop. He focused on Cooper.

  “Look, you guys clearly have nothing to hold me. I was a good sport and came here willingly. Didn’t even call a lawyer, which was my right. But you got nothing. Am I free to go?”