The last time the liquid had touched her skin her mind had been catapulted… somewhere. She was still at a loss to explain the experience.
Curious, Jordan held the needle cover in her hand. Once again it began to vibrate. She gripped the object tighter.
Then… she traveled.
She found herself standing in the middle of a jungle path, surrounded by lush greenery. In the distance she heard the roar of a waterfall. Overhead, a flock of the most beautiful tropical birds she had ever seen soared gracefully under a canopy of fine mist. A man walked on the trail ahead. Sensing her presence, he stopped and turned around.
Jordan gasped.
She recognized the man.
She hoped he had not recognized her.
Egan spoke to her. “I know you’re out there, Agent,” he said. “I can feel you. Listen to me carefully because I’m only going to say this once. Do yourself a favor. Leave me alone.”
Ben Egan raised his hand. The flash of pink light that followed was blinding. Jordan looked away.
When at last she opened her eyes, a light rain had begun to fall in the jungle.
The trail ahead was quiet.
The air felt electrified.
Ben Egan was gone.
Jordan dropped the needle cover and broke the connection.
There was nothing veiled about the Commander’s threat. His powers and abilities were unlike anything she had ever seen and far superior to hers. Pursuing him would be extremely dangerous.
On top of the fireplace sat a wooden Chinese puzzle box. Jordan removed it from the mantle, disassembled the toy, placed the plastic sheath containing the mysterious solution in its hidden compartment and fitted it back together. Only she knew the secret sequence by which the box could be opened and closed.
She needed time to think.
Commander Egan’s secret would keep for the time being.
Jordan returned the puzzle box to the mantle and left the library.
She locked the door behind her.
MR. GRIMM
Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Book 3
“Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive of itself. It only requires opportunity.”
George Eliot
126
DEAR COMMISSIONER HALEY,
You have thirty-five thousand NYPD officers at your command. There is only one of me.
I can’t imagine how sad and embarrassing this has become for you.
Have you been enjoying my work?
I see you’ve assembled a task force to find me. Thank you. I’ll send them another one soon.
Tic tock.
“We’ve got eight more of these in evidence,” Andrew Haley said. He held up the scrolls, cupped them in his hands, then opened his fingers and let them fall and scatter across his desk. “You’ll want to read them all. Son of a bitch leaves one at every scene.” The New York City Police Commissioner held up a red ribbon. “Ties it up with one of these, pretty as a present. Always the same condescending, holier-than-thou crap. My detectives kept the investigation off the radar until a duplicate scroll showed up on the desk of the editor-in-chief of The Times. Soon as that happened, they were all over us.” Haley picked up a copy of the newspaper from his desk and handed it to the agents. “The Times printed the note. So did The Huffington Post and USA Today. They’ve been running articles in high rotation, all of them saying the same thing: New York’s under siege... that this guy is the new Son of Sam or BTK. I’m getting calls from the Mayor’s office three times a day demanding answers: Where we are with the investigation? Why haven’t we made an arrest?” The Commissioner walked to his office window and stared down at the city. “We need to find this bastard,” he said. “Makes me wish New York still had the goddamn death penalty.”
Below, the bustling city went about its business. “Over eight million people call New York home,” Haley continued. “Another sixty-million visit us each year. A serial killer who likes to brag to the press about how far ahead of us he is scares the shit out of people. And you know what happens then? Shit-scared people stay home. Which means they don’t shop at Saks. Or Bloomingdale’s. Or Macy’s. Or thousands of other stores. They don’t go out to restaurants. Since these killings hit the press, the city’s economy has sunk to the bottom of the Hudson in Titanic proportions. And politicians, like Mayor Scullia, don’t take too kindly to that.”
Haley walked back to his desk. “I need your help. More to the point, the people of New York need your help. Personally, I don’t go in for this whole psychic thing. But your reputation precedes you, Agent Quest. Same goes for you, Agent Hanover.”
Jordan Quest sat in a guest chair beside her partner. Chris Hanover picked up the paper scroll and examined it in the light. The note had been written in calligraphy. Swirling, sweeping strokes of red ink graced the page.
Hanover traced his finger across the surface of the paper. “It feels old,” he said. “What do we know about it?”
“Forensics says the parchment is handmade,” the Commissioner replied. “Which makes it damn near impossible to trace. The ribbon is at least a hundred years old. Hasn’t been manufactured for decades.”
“May I see it?” Jordan asked.
Chris passed his partner the scroll. Contact with the paper brought with it a flood of images.
“Many victims,” Jordan said.
“You can see that?” Commissioner Haley asked, “Just by touching the paper?”
“Yes,” Jordan replied. “He’s been killing for a very long time. Strange that he hasn’t come to the attention of the NYPD or the Bureau until now. And this isn’t ink. It’s blood. Human blood. And not from a single contributor. I’d say ten... maybe more.”
Commissioner Haley leaned back in his chair, folded him arms and grinned. The look was pompous, condescending. “I held back the blood information on purpose,” he said to Jordan. “I wanted to see if you’d catch it, I mean, you being psychic and all.”
Jordan dropped the note on the desk and glared at the police commissioner. “Are you serious?” she asked.
Haley leaned forward. “Watch your tone, Agent Quest. Let me remind you the FBI is here at my invitation.”
Jordan stood and stared down the commissioner “Not anymore. You have a serial killer on your hands. I’ve just confirmed it. Which makes it a federal case now. And let me remind you this isn’t my first case. I’ve been working with police agencies across the country since I was a child. So, if you or any of your people insist on testing me for your personal amusement or are holding back information which is pertinent to this investigation, let me know right now. Agent Hanover and I will be on the next plane out of here. But not before I’ve placed a call to the Attorney General’s office.” Jordan slung her purse over her shoulder. Chris stood. The agents turned to leave. “Those are my terms, Commissioner,” Jordan said. “Take them or leave them. It’s your call. Make it now.”
Haley grinned. He turned to Chris Hanover. “Is she always such a hard ass?”
Chris shared Jordan’s anger, supported his partner, said nothing.
“We’re waiting,” Jordan said.
“Okay, okay. Fair enough. I apologize, Agent Quest. You’ll get all the cooperation you need from this office. And the NYPD.” Haley extended his hand.
Jordan accepted the handshake, then held his hand. The Commissioner slowly drew it back. “What are you doing?” Haley asked. “Reading my mind or something?”
Jordan smirked. “Or something.”
Haley’s face flushed. “Well, in future… don’t.”
Chris picked up one of the scrolls from the Commissioners desk. “Mind if I hang on to this?” he asked. “I’d like Quantico to have a look at it.”
“No problem.” Haley opened his desk drawer, removed an evidence bag, labeled it accordingly and dropped the scroll into the bag. “We’ll transfer chain of custody over to you. Keep it as long as you need it.”
“Thank you,” Chris said.
Jordan
and Chris left the Commissioner’s office. Waiting for the elevator, Jordan said, “Funny, for a non-believer he seemed a little shaken.”
Chris shook his head. “You just had to do it, didn’t you?”
“Do what?”
“You know what. The whole hold-his-hand-and-freak-‘em-out thing back there.”
“Haley needs to know I won’t be taken for granted,” Jordan replied.
“I get that. And I agree,” Chris replied. “So now that you’ve done it, I have to ask. What did you read off him?”
“He’s trying hard not to let it show, but he’s scared to death.”
“Of?”
“Losing his job and his city to this maniac.”
Hanover placed the evidence bag containing the paper scroll in his jacket pocket. “Then we better make sure that doesn’t happen.”
127
LACEY CHASTAIN LEFT the bass-thudding music, applause, and flashing bright lights behind, rushed off the stage to her dressing room, showered and quickly changed into skin-tight jeans that accentuated every curve of her perfect stripper’s body. She shoved “Rihanna,” her leather riding crop, and “Jackson,” her favorite body stocking into her locker. She’d named the short whip after her favorite pop singer and the intimate apparel after the late president whose likeness appeared on the twenty-dollar bill, her usual tip. She dried and styled her flowing blonde mane, freshened her lipstick and makeup, dabbed a little Chanel No. 5 where she knew her client would most enjoy it, said goodnight to her fellow dancers, and hurried out of the dressing room and down the hall.
The business of exotic dancing had been very good to Lacey Chastain. A featured dancer and VIP room favorite of the Odyssey Gentlemen’s Club, she rarely worked a night in which she earned less than a thousand dollars in tips. Lacey had been blessed with two enviable gifts: perfect genes, and smoldering sex appeal. Like the lavender-scented oil she massaged generously over her body during her performances, her God-given gifts had helped her slide through life, and she had learned to take full advantage of them. She had an uncanny ability to separate club patrons from their money with little more than a seductive smile and a whisper of promises and pleasures to come. Only her private clients, those with very deep pockets, won the prize.
Odyssey’s head of security, Anton Moore, met her at the front door. Coach handbag slung over her shoulder and a single phone bud dangling from her ear, Lacey looked positively stunning and at least five-years older than the sophomore university student she really was.
Anton never ceased to be amazed by Lacey’s ability to morph effortlessly from student to seductress. As she came around the corner he whistled. Across the parking lot, the Odyssey’s private limousine driver started the car. The chauffeur-driven ride home was a perk of the job enjoyed only by featured performers like Lacey. It made her feel special.
Lacey raised her hand. “Thanks, Big Man,” she said, “but I won’t need the car tonight.”
Anton caught the driver’s attention and waved him off. He smiled. “Perfect! So that means you’ll let me take you home tonight! I’m telling you Lace, I make a mean pasta primavera. Secret chicken seasoning, fresh herbs, a pinch of pepper, veggies on the side. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. Then there’s the pièce de résistance…”
Lacey smiled. “And that would be?”
“Me!”
Lacey laughed. “Somehow I can’t picture that buff, six-foot-four frame of yours tearing it up in the kitchen.”
Anton pointed to himself. “Just who do you think taught Jamie Oliver how to cook?”
“You’re bad.”
“And persistent.”
“Yes, you are!”
“So why no need for a lift tonight?”
“I’ve got a date.”
Anton crossed his arms, feigned disappointment. “Why do I feel like I’ve just been stood up?”
Lacey laughed. “It’s not that kind of date. It’s business.”
Anton clued in. “Oh, I get it. That kind of date.”
“Private party in Manhattan,” Lacey said. “Said they’d pick me up in front of the club.”
“Have you been there before, Lace?”
Lacey shook her head. “First time.”
“You sure you’re gonna be okay?”
Lacey smiled. “I’ll be fine, Anton. It’s sweet of you to worry about me. I appreciate it.”
“You’ve got my number handy, right?”
“On speed dial.”
“And you won’t hesitate to call if you need me?”
“Not for a second.”
“I’m serious, Lace. I’d drop everything to come get you.”
“I know you would, sweetie. And yes, if I ever feel like I’m in over my head you’ll be the first person I’ll call.”
“Promise?”
Lacey crossed her heart and smiled. “I promise.”
Anton smiled. “That’s my girl.”
A silver Bentley Continental GT Coupe crested the apron of the driveway and pulled to the curb in front of the club. The driver flashed his lights three times.
“That’ll be my ride,” Lacey said. She smiled at Anton and waved her finger. “Come down here, good looking.” The bouncer bent over. Lacey kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for caring Anton.”
The big man sighed. “You’re making a mistake, Lace.”
“What do you mean?”
“Even Jamie wouldn’t pass up one of my dinner invitations.”
Lacey laughed. “Tell you what. I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll make plans.”
“Seriously?”
“What can I say? You’re breaking me down.”
Anton smiled. “I’m just that lovable, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.”
“It’ll be the best date of your life. I promise.”
“I’m sure it will be. But before you have us walking down the aisle let’s start with dinner. We’ll take it from there.”
“You’ve got it.”
“All right,” Lacey said.
The driver turned on the cabin light. He appeared to be staring at her through the heavily tinted window.
Lacey got the message. “Looks like someone’s getting impatient. I better go.”
“Okay. Be safe. And remember to…”
“… call if I need help!”
“Exactly.”
Lacey walked toward the Bentley. Anton called out after her. “Hey, Lace!”
She turned around.
“You ever see the Disney movie, Lady and the Tramp?”
“Yeah,” Lacey replied.
“The noodle scene in the restaurant?”
“Yeah?”
Anton smiled. “It all started with pasta!”
Lacey laughed. “You’re crazy!” She waved goodbye, opened the door, and slipped into the back seat of the Bentley.
Anton spoke to himself as he watched the car pull into the street. “Crazy? About you? Better believe it.”
Lacey opened her handbag and removed the invitation. It had been left for her two days ago at the club in an envelope along with two-thousand-dollars in cash.
She untied the red ribbon, unrolled the scroll.
The paper was thick, the note handwritten, the writing the most beautiful she had ever seen. Calligraphy. Very elegant.
Lacey was excited. She had never met this client before, but he certainly knew how to start off a relationship on the right foot. Luxury car. Handwritten note. The cash. What more could she ask for? Life was good.
“Pardon me, driver?”
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror, then lowered the privacy screen. “Yes, miss?”
“Where exactly are we going? My invitation just says it’s a private function in Manhattan.”
“I’m not at liberty to say. I was told to give you this.” The driver passed a box over the seat to Lacey. It was wrapped in black silk and bowed with a red ribbon.
Lacey opened the box. It contained an o
rnately feathered and bejeweled masquerade mask.
“It’s beautiful,” Lacey said.
“Your host has asked that you wear it upon your arrival. Will that be all right?”
“Oh, yes,” Lacey said. She took the mask out of the box and held it against her face. She smiled. “Well,” she asked the driver, “how does it look?”
The driver glanced at Lacey as the Bentley pulled away from the curb. “Better than I imagined it would,” he said. He raised the privacy screen.
“Excuse me?”
Thin wisps of smoke began to drift out from within the box. Lacey coughed. “What the…?”
Seconds later she lay on the seat, unconscious.
The Bentley slowly exited the parking lot of the Odyssey Gentleman’s Club.
Anton Moore waved goodbye.
128
OTTO SCHREIBER KEPT the door to his private workshop at the back of his shop closed. On days like today, when his condition was at its worse, even the slightest brush of air against his skin had the ability to send his body into fits of raging pain, followed by a migraine headache so severe he often considered taking his own life just to make it stop.
His doctors at Bellevue had diagnosed the condition as allodynia, the result of post-traumatic stress disorder. To Otto, it was an unwelcome souvenir of ten months spent in Iraq at the hands of the enemy. His torturers had been thorough. On a strange level, he had gained a respect for them and their ability to extract secrets from him about troop movements in the region which under normal circumstances he would never have revealed. But the techniques they used to carry out his interrogation were so simple yet effective they had to be admired. Until his capture, military interrogation was his stock in trade. No one knew better how to break down another human being than Otto Schreiber.
He recalled the crude torture device they had used which was comprised of six bamboo shafts strung together with barbed-wire and wrapped tightly around his body, pinning his arms to his sides, wholly impairing his mobility. The snare, when stood on end, suspended him a foot off the ground and held him in place. Left confined in the intelligence-gathering kill house for hours at a time, gravity conspired with the razor-sharp steel barbs of the device to carve hundreds of tiny cuts deep into his skin. To say the macabre contraption was an effective interrogation tool would be an understatement.
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