The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series: Books 1-3: The Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset Book 1

by Gary Winston Brown

  “Stay close,” Lacey said. “If you see him, hit first and ask questions later.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Victoria answered.

  The corridor was dark. Down the hall, the outline of a second door. Light permeated through cracks in its frame.

  “There’s a room ahead,” Bonnie said.

  “Wait here,” Lacey said. “I’ll check it out first.”

  “Be careful,” Bonnie warned.

  Lacey crept toward the darkened doorway, placed her hand on the doorknob, tested it.

  She expected the door to be locked. Instead, the knob turned freely.

  Lacey opened the door. The room was full of books stacked on benches and shelves in various states of repair. She looked over her shoulder. “All clear,” she said as she stepped through the door into the room. The women joined her.

  “My God,” Bonnie said as she looked around. She picked up several of the leather-bound books, put them down. “I know this place.”

  “You’ve been here before?” Lacey asked.

  Bonnie nodded. “Many times. This is Kessel’s.”

  “What the hell is Kessel’s?” Lacey asked.

  Melinda answered the question. “Kessel’s Bookbinding and Restoration.”

  “One of the largest companies of its kind in New York City,” Victoria added. “Probably even the country.”

  “You all know it?” Lacey asked.

  “Mrs. Kessel runs the store,” Vicky said. “Has for decades.”

  “You mean ran the store,” Bonnie corrected.

  “How’s that?” Lacey asked.

  “She died a year ago. As far as I know no one has taken over the business. I would have known about it if they had. My company was the main supplier to Kessel’s for everything when it came to book restoration. Paper, leather, antique writing instruments… you name it. Mrs. Kessel was a legend in the industry, especially coming from such a famous family.”

  “Famous how?” Lacey asked.

  “Her great-grandfather was Jacob Grimm. His brother was Wilhelm.”

  The news stunned Lacey. “As in the Brothers Grimm? Grimm’s Fairy Tales?”

  “The same.”

  “Holy crap.”

  Melinda asked, “If the shop has been closed, how the hell did we end up here? And what was she doing with a dungeon in her basement?”

  Vicky walked to the front door of the establishment and removed a sign from inside the window. She held it up for the others to see. The sign read UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. OPENING SOON. “Someone bought the place.”

  Lacey lifted the telephone handset from its wall-mounted cradle, listened for a dial tone. “Phone’s dead,” she said. “Line’s been turned off.”

  Phantom images swept back and forth in front of the white-washed front windows. “No one can see into the shop from outside,” Melinda remarked. “As far as anyone knows the place is vacant.” She scratched a pane of white-washed glass with her fingernail. Rays of sunlight slashed into the establishment and brightened the dull room. She unlocked the front door deadbolt and turned the knob. The heavy door squeaked opened. Melanie stepped outside, soon joined by the others.

  The sounds and smells of the city filled the air.

  They were free.

  At the intersection, across the street, a NYPD patrol car waited for the signal light to turn green.

  “Come on,” Lacey said.

  Together the women raced to the squad car.

  Within minutes, the normally quiet intersection was bustling with emergency personnel as two additional police units and three ambulances arrived on the scene.

  While Melinda and Victoria gave their statements to police, Bonnie was transferred to a gurney in the back of the ambulance and began receiving the professional medical attention she so desperately needed. Lacey sat beside her and held her hand. “We would never have made it out of there if it hadn’t been for you,” Bonnie told her new friend. “You’re amazing.”

  “Nah, just beautiful and brilliant,” Lacey teased, reminding her of her earlier compliment. “You’re the one who’s amazing. To go through what you did and not come out of this a basket case is nothing short of incredible.”

  “Who says I’m not?” Bonnie admitted. “Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is his damn mask and hear his voice. I’m not nearly as together as you think I am.”

  Lacey squeezed her hand. “You’ll be fine. I’m going with you to the hospital. Is there someone I can call to meet us there?”

  Bonnie nodded. Tears welled in her eyes. “My husband, Owen.”

  “I’ll see to it he’s there when we arrive.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” the paramedic said as he climbed into the back of the ambulance. “How’s my patient doing?”

  Bonnie forced a smile. “Okay, I guess,” she replied.

  “Don’t let her fool you,” Lacey said. “This one’s tough as nails.”

  The paramedic placed a blood pressure cuff around Bonnie’s arm, checked her vitals. “From what I hear about the ordeal you’ve been through I don’t doubt that for a minute,” he said. He released the pressure. The bladder hissed as it deflated. “BP’s one-thirty over ninety,” he said. “Under the circumstances, that’s pretty good.” He shuffled out of the ambulance. To Lacey he said, “We’ll be leaving any minute. You can ride with your friend.”

  “Thanks,” Lacey replied. She smiled. “You coming too?”

  The paramedic blushed. “I have to,” he said. “I’m driving.”

  “I feel better already,” Lacey teased.

  Lacey caught him looking back at her as he walked away. She smiled at Bonnie. “Did you notice if he was wearing a ring?”

  Bonnie coughed as she laughed. “Only you could think about picking up a guy at a time like this.”

  “That man can take my temperature anytime. And I’m not particularly fussy where he wants to take it.”

  “You’re too much.”

  The paramedic returned to his ambulance and checked on his patient. “The hospital’s waiting for us. You two all set for transport?”

  Lacey smiled. “Take me anywhere you want,” she replied.

  The paramedic laughed. “Maybe I should just call you a cab. You look absolutely fine to me.”

  “No,” Lacey said. “I feel faint.” She placed her hand dramatically against her forehead. “Yes, most definitely weak. Very weak. If I pass out, promise me you’ll bring me back.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I’d prefer mouth-to-mouth.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” The paramedic smiled as he closed the doors.

  Across the street from Kessel’s, Otto’s cab slowed to a stop. He recognized the two women standing beside the police car.

  How the hell had they escaped?

  Where were the others?

  The ambulance turned on its lights and drove down the adjoining back alley.

  “That’ll be seventy bucks,” the driver said.

  “Keep going,” Otto said.

  Confused, the driver asked, “Isn’t this where you said you wanted to go?”

  “I changed my mind. Drive.”

  Nonplussed, the cabbie pulled away from the curb. “Whatever you say, mister. It’s your dime. Where to next?” he asked.

  “Anywhere but here,” Otto replied.

  150

  FATHER FRANK WAS in a panic.

  Otto took the call as the cab driver rounded the corner from Kessel’s. The number on the display was unknown. He opened the line, said nothing, waited for the caller to speak.

  “You there?” the caller asked.

  Otto recognized the voice. “Why are you calling me?”

  “The cops were here,” Father Frank said. “Asked about the note you gave me to give to the girl.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing.”

  Otto didn’t reply.

  “Nothing,” Father Frank repeated
. “I didn’t tell them a damn thing. I said someone slipped the note under the tarp and that I took the money and did as I was instructed to do. That’s it.” Father Frank was angry. “You said this would be simple, that you had it all figured out. Now I’ve got nowhere to go. The police are all over my place. I’m burned.”

  “Is the dog with you?”

  “Biscuit? Of course.”

  “Lose it.”

  “What?”

  “Get rid of the dog. You need to disappear. It’s only going to slow you down.”

  “But Biscuit needs…”

  “I don’t give a shit what the fucking dog needs,” Otto said. “Ask yourself a simple question, Frank.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Do you want to go down for this or not? Because you’re as neck deep in it as I am.”

  Father Frank was near tears at the thought of having to give up his precious Biscuit. “No,” he replied.

  “No what?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Damn right,” Otto said. “Now get yourself together and listen. Can you make your way uptown?”

  “I don’t know. The FBI’s looking for me. Which means so is NYPD.”

  “You need to go underground,” Otto said. “I have someone I can contact who can get you to me. We’ll leave the city. We’ve made our mark here. Maybe we’ll head to Detroit or Chicago. Start fresh.”

  “Miami,” Father Frank said. “I want to go back to Miami. I hate the cold.”

  “Fine,” Otto replied. “Miami it is. I take it you’re calling from a payphone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You still have the money I gave you?”

  “Some of it, yeah.”

  “Buy a burner phone. And don’t call from the street. You’re way too hot right now to expose yourself.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Around.”

  “You can’t afford to take any chances either. You need to get off the radar too.”

  “It’s you I’m concerned about. No one knows who I am. But you… you’re radioactive.”

  “I won’t talk.”

  “I know you won’t. You know the consequences if you do.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Otto. I said I won’t talk.”

  “Every man has a breaking point, Frank. Do you know yours?”

  “I know what’s in store for me if we’re caught,” Father Frank replied. “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in prison for what we’ve done.”

  “No one’s going to prison,” Otto said. “The cops are clued out. Relax, Frank. Everything will be fine. Now go to a convenience store and buy the phone. Call me when you have it. I’ll arrange for your pick up shortly.”

  “All right.”

  Otto hung up the phone, placed a call.

  “Hudson Sanitation and Waste Disposal.”

  “I’d like to order a pickup,” Otto said.

  “Account number?”

  “I don’t have one, but I hear it’s hot in California today.”

  The caller paused. “Hold on.”

  Otto waited. The man returned to the line a few seconds later. “Yes, but the surfing is good.”

  “Especially in Big Sur.”

  “Best waves on the West Coast,” the man replied.

  “We good?” Otto asked.

  “Yeah,” the man confirmed, satisfied that the caller was legitimate. “What do you need?”

  “One package for pickup and disposal.”

  “Where?”

  “Manhattan.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Location?”

  “That’s pending. He’s gone dark for the moment.”

  “You want us to be in the area when he shows up?”

  “That would be ideal.”

  “Done. We’re rolling a truck. Call back when you have the details.” The man hung up.

  Otto’s phone rang. A different number appeared on screen. He picked up.

  “Got it,” Frank said.

  “Good. Where are you now?”

  “Pick ’n Go Convenience. A few blocks from the Odyssey.”

  “Wait around the back, behind the garbage disposal,” Otto said. “I’m sending someone to get you. You won’t recognize them, but they’ll recognize you. When they ask, tell them ‘the best waves are in Big Sur.’”

  “All right. And Otto?”

  “Yes?”

  “I meant what I said.”

  “About?”

  “I won’t talk. Not to the cops, not to anyone.”

  “I know you won’t, Frank. I believe you. I trust you.”

  “Good,” Frank replied. “It’s important to me that you do.”

  “Stay put,” Otto said. “Everything will be fine. Hang in there. You won’t have to wait long. Thirty minutes, tops.”

  “All right.”

  “I know you’re scared. Don’t be. Everything is under control.”

  “Okay.”

  “Go.”

  Father Frank disconnected the call.

  Otto called Hudson Sanitation and Disposal once more. He didn’t bother with the cryptic formalities. “It’s me. Go to the Pick ‘n Go Convenience, two blocks from the Odyssey Gentlemen’s Club. The package is behind the Dumpster.”

  “We know the place. You want the usual service?”

  “That will be fine.”

  “We’re on our way. Want us to call when it’s done?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Otto said. “I won’t be available.”

  “Nice doing business with you.” The man hung up.

  Otto placed his phone in his pocket. He needed to think.

  By now the police would be going through Kessel’s with a fine-tooth comb. They would have found the dungeon, but that would be all they would find. He had been careful. No trace of Scroll had been left behind. The women weren’t a problem either. He had always worn a masquerade mask in their presence and used a vocal scrambler when he spoke. They would have no clue as to his identity.

  Otto felt good about himself. He had always been a meticulous planner. The abductions were no different. The same care and attention to detail had gone into the kidnapping and subsequent elimination of his victims as the interrogations he had conducted overseas.

  Soon Hudson Sanitation would deal with his Father Frank problem.

  Otto pressed his palm against the passenger window of the cab. It was sunny and hot outside.

  Like the weather, his day had improved immensely.

  151

  IN THE SHANTY, Father Frank’s only belongings consisted of a foldable army-surplus military cot and pillow, a propane cooking stove and spare gas cylinder, several pots and pans, canned and box foods, several bottles of water, half a can of Folgers coffee, a bag of dry dog food, a change of clothes and a well-worn blanket. The blanket lay on the floor beside his bed in the tiny domicile and no doubt served as Biscuit’s bed. Chris found a knife hidden under the pillow, likely placed there for quick access and personal protection. He handed it to Jordan and pointed out the crimson flecks that speckled the blade.

  “Could be blood,” he said.

  Jordan turned the knife in the light, examined it, then closed her eyes and connected. The scene flashed through her mind. Explosions all around… screaming… Father Frank dragging the knife across the man’s neck, then driving it down into his shoulder… pulling it out, delivering a final thrust into the small of his back… then guiding the lifeless body to the ground.

  “It is,” Jordan said. “This knife was used to kill, but not to murder. It was used in combat.”

  “Father Frank told Penner he and Biscuit were ex-military.”

  Jordan nodded. “The energy in this place is very dark,” she said, “but it’s not Father Frank’s. It’s Scroll’s. He’s spent time here.”

  “We know they know each other,” Chris said. “The note I found in the trash confirms it.”

  Jordan studied the newspaper articles on t
he wall, psychically reading the stories behind the murders, like the woman referred to in the article entitled ‘BODY COUNT RISES,’ found in the trunk of an abandoned car in Bedford-Stuyvesant, dressed in white, whose hands had been removed. Scroll’s note stated that her death and the amputation of her extremities had been at the request of the Devil.

  The next article, ‘SCROLL KILLER TAUNTS NYPD’ and its accompanying note had been reprinted in the New York Times:

  Dear Commissioner Haley,

  Mating is a tiresome ritual, is it not?

  You might even call it a process of ‘elimination.’

  Cinderella she was not.

  One more down, many to go.

  Wish me luck.

  The article further informed how the woman was found immaculately dressed yet without shoes in an alley, in Queens, heels slashed, toes removed, throat cut.

  Jordan felt there was something familiar about the victimology. Was it possible she had crossed paths with this killer before?

  Many to go.

  He was out there, somewhere, killing at will and with a purpose. The notes were getting more specific. These were not random kills as the police had suspected.

  Found without shoes, toes removed… Cinderella?

  Jordan turned to her partner. “I think I might know what this is about.”

  “Feel free to clue me in,” Chris answered.

  “Fairy tales.”

  Chris looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  She pointed to the excerpt in the article. “He’s serious when he refers to this being a process of elimination. I think he’s looking for a particular person, someone he thinks is special. And when he realizes he hasn’t found her he has no choice but to kill her. But he’s doing so in very specific ways. The deaths seem scripted, like he’s following a manual on the many ways to kill.”

  “Perfect,” Chris replied. “Just what we need. A psychopath using the streets of New York to test his murder theories.”

  “This is beyond theory,” Jordan said. “There’s method to his madness. There’s so much variance in the crimes. They don’t fit a pattern. Perhaps that’s the whole point. What if each of the murders is meant to be different, unique, one of a kind?”