by Trisha Wolfe
“Fuck,” I shout, and Avery flinches. I go to say something to reassure her, but Sadie points to the screen.
“Quinn, listen,” she says.
“Are the recent murders and the attempted silencing of the ACPD medical examiner being kept from the public on purpose? Jeff Jackson is live now with the suspects’ lawyer to answer our questions.”
The backdrop alternates to a transmission of Maddox walking in front of the courthouse, the press holding microphones alongside him as they keep pace. His slick dark hair gleams in the sunlight, and though his mouth is set as grim as his clients’ circumstance, there’s a smile in his eyes. I already disliked this bastard before I ever laid eyes on him.
The reporters sling questions at Maddox, demanding to know if his clients murdered the victims; if the victims were prostitutes connected to a crime ring; if he’s the acting attorney for the crime ring itself; if his clients attempted to kill the medical examiner working the case; if the ACPD is involved with a cover up; if Maddox knows who the Alpha in charge of the crime ring is. “No comment at this time,” is his calm reply.
“With all this damning evidence, why haven’t the local authorities confirmed the suspects in custody are indeed responsible?” the news anchor asks as the screen blinks to her. “With the city just suffering a tragic murdering spree, the public has a right to know if there’s yet another serial murderer on the prowl. Do the police have the Alpha Killer in custody now, or is he still out there, branding his victims? Is there a new threat in Arlington, a powerful head of an underground organization that oversees the killing of women?”
I’m out of my seat and slamming the laptop closed, just stopping myself from throwing it across the room. “A department full of detectives and we can’t find one goddamn leak?” I shout.
Sadie grabs the laptop, getting it out of my reach before I demolish it. “Department issued,” she says in way of an explanation and hands it over to Carson. “Quinn, you know how the press work. They’ve used this Alpha-Omega scheme before to fan fires for ratings.”
I heave a strenuous breath, my blood pressure rising. “But who the hell served them up that bullshit on the brand being a signature? I want a team on that pronto. I want it discredited, but I also want to fucking find out what the hell it actually means.”
Alpha Killer.
My jaw tightens, and I breathe through the restriction seizing my chest.
I scoop up the search report I requested yesterday, the one that shows a hit for the brand on a dead pro outside of the city. No mention of any fucking underground criminal network on the report. Which means we have nothing on it in the database, because it doesn’t exist. It’s a damn urban legend the press cooked up to increase ratings, just like Sadie said.
“Let him be a figment of the press’s imagination,” Sadie says, reading me like she always does. I look up. “The media can run circles around the Alpha Killer story. It will keep them busy and out of our way. They don’t have the one key piece of evidence that matters.” My office settles with a thick silence as that fact clicks into place.
I eye Carson, slitting my gaze. “Who all has had access to the M.E. reports?”
“Just us,” he confirms. “With what happened to Avery…there hasn’t been time for anyone to investigate the vics further.”
But there has been. Because the press somehow got their leaked information from the doctored COD reports that had no mention of the drug. Avery’s update on the cause of death was just simply overlooked. Accidents don’t make for good news.
“Avery, I need for us to access your reports, and no one else outside of this team is permitted to see them.”
She nods hesitantly. “All right, but for what it’s worth, this doesn’t seem like something one of ours would do. The leak, I mean. I know you can’t really trust anyone…” Her voice lowers as she trails off. “But I can’t believe that any one of my colleagues would throw me to the wolves like that.”
After everything she’s been through, no one would fault her for losing faith in the system. Shit, I wouldn’t blame her for giving up on it entirely after what she just suffered. But hearing her contradict that assumption ignites some kind of fire in my chest.
It’s a feeling I’ve been missing for a while.
Vindication.
I want it for Avery. And I want it for the ACPD.
“Are you wearing the same suit as yesterday?”
And like that, Sadie’s keen observance knocks me right off my pedestal of justice.
Ignoring her outright, I point to the whiteboard. “We need to scour Maddox’s list of high paying clients. Find out which ones enjoy extra curricular activities with working girls. Maddox has been with at least one of the vics. And this guy here—” I shuffle through the notes in my desk until I find what I’m searching for. “Price Wells. He was a partner at Maddox’s law firm before he was found dead. Didn’t he end up on your slab, Avery?”
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, and I try hard not to think about how soft and tempting that mouth is. “He was…I mean, yes, he did. He was the first vic I autopsied after—”
Sadie takes ahold of her hand, offering her a comforting touch. I look away, feeling like a bastard for bringing it up now. It could’ve waited until she was better…settled.
“I’m not questioning your findings,” I assure her, my gaze lowered to the COD report. “But I think we need to look deeper into this. Find out why so much shit is suddenly revolving around this law firm. Find out if Maddox or anyone else had a reason to want him dead.”
“And this illusive crime ring?” Sadie says, steering my notice to the laptop screen.
I prop my hands over the stack of paperwork, giving it some thought. “It’s bogus. We know that. There’s never been one single conviction linked to it. But just to cover our ass, contact Agent Rollins.”
A hint of shock registers on Sadie’s face. “You want to bring in the FBI.”
“No. Not bring them in, just feel them out. See if you get any kind of reading off of Rollins. Suss out whether he knows something.” I scrub my hands down my face, already feeling the weight of this case burying me. “First, get to Maddox. If he’s not our perp, then the perp might have ties to him and that firm. Either way, Maddox is dirty and I want his clients talking. Soon.”
“All right. I’ll follow that lead,” Sadie says, then gives Avery a reassuring smile before she releases her hand.
“Take Carson with you.” I catch Sadie’s gaze, and it’s there in her green eyes, that flicker of suspicion. But whether it’s stemming from her or me, I’m not sure.
“Okay.” She nods. “I guess the partner thing is on hold for a while.”
A heavy silence chokes the air. I push back in my chair, gripping the armrests. “You’re my partner, Bonds. But right now, I need to make sure Avery’s protected. I know you can handle this, but with all the shit going down within the department, it’s wise to have some backup with you.”
She holds my gaze a moment longer, understanding passing between us. Then she releases a resigned sigh. “Got it. I’ll take the rookie with me. No problem.”
Carson steps forward. “You both know that I’ve been a detective now for—”
“You’re still a rook,” Sadie cuts him off. “And right now, you’re a rook who’s going to follow my lead with Maddox. He’s not our typical person of interest. He knows the law, and he knows how to get around it.” She eyes Carson with raised eyebrows. “We’re clear?”
His mouth hardens into a line as he chews back a retort. He nods once.
I push away from my desk, going over the new facts as I head toward the whiteboard. I have no doubt Sadie can handle Maddox, and Carson, for that matter. I just hope she doesn’t handle them too well.
Wiping the board clean, I say, “This is what we know, and these are the people we know it about.” I jot down four names across the top of the board.
Ryland Maddox. Price Wells. Lewis Sellars and Markus Right�
�the two perps we wrangled down yesterday for Avery’s kidnapping counting as one.
“Bonds and Carson are on Maddox. Get information on Wells while you’re there. If Maddox is running for the DA’s office, he knows he needs to work with us. Use that angle to get as much as you can without coming up against a warrant. He won’t want the lives of these women on his hands. See if you can work any information out of him without giving away our lead.”
I clear my throat, adjusting my stance. “Avery and I will work the two perps and the evidence angle that the press don’t have.” I make eye contact with both Sadie and Avery, relaying silently that no one mentions the drug. Not even to Carson.
“Someone is leaking like a damn faucet in this department,” I add. “I want them flushed out. So anyone approaches you, anyone asks to get updates or access to the case, you report it to me.”
“What about the other?” Carson pipes up.
“What other, Carson?” I ask, barely masking my frustration.
He moves farther back, tucking his laptop under his arm, as if I’m liable to hit him. With how today’s going, that’s wise.
“What about adding the Alpha Killer to the list?” he says, cringing after it’s out there. “Look, I get that we hate monikers. I’m all about frowning on the moniker. But I think it’s unwise to ignore the possibility altogether that there may be one top dog out there running the show. I mean, look at the idiots in holding,” he says with an awkward chuckle. “No offense, Avery. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you went through—”
“None taken,” she says. “They are idiots.”
Carson gives her a smile. “What I’m saying is, they don’t seem capable of putting together an elaborate plan like breaking into the ACPD crime lab, stealing a bus, kidnapping a smart woman like Avery…all on their own. Not those two. They must’ve gotten their instructions from someone. Like that leaked missive on the news? Where did that come from? Who leaked it?”
I open my mouth to comment, but Avery intercepts his questions. “They did have help,” she says, her eyes finding mine. “And he was intelligent. More than that, he was calm and in no hurry, completely in control, as if he felt he had nothing to fear.”
I swallow the burning lump trying to strangle me. “Did you get a look at him?”
Her gaze shifts to the whiteboard, away from me. “No, I didn’t. I don’t think I’ll ever forget his voice, though.”
A pain barrels into my chest. I press my hand against it, then adjust my gun strap, attempting to conceal the move. I asked her over and over if she’d been hurt, and each time, she was quick to deny it. But then, she’s been hurt before. Her tolerance for pain and suffering has increased. Maybe she even believes what she endured doesn’t register compared to other hurts and scars inflicted upon her.
But the way she lowers her eyes now, the sullen inflection in her tone…I know this bastard did hurt her. And now, I’m going to make him pay for that.
I turn toward the board and do something I’d hate myself for any other day. With a tremor of rage in my hand, I write “Alpha Killer” in large print and circle it. “This fucker has a name. I want it.”
15
Alpha
Wells was a loss. One of my best assets. You know that scene in Scarface, the one where Michelle Pfeiffer says, “Don’t get high on your own supply.” Ah! What a brilliant bitch. All criminals should be required to watch that movie before they’re inducted into the fold.
I have my own preference for the order of rules. Don’t sample your own product—lesson number one. Lesson number two: don’t make a mess you can’t clean up.
Wells had to be cleaned.
He sampled his own product, and he got messy.
Luckily, a pretty little profiler took care of the nasty task for me.
A man obsessed is a dangerous thing. You can’t reason with him. He has no boundaries, no limitations. The whole world could be burning down around him and yet he’d only be conscious of his obsession.
Obsession makes you weak. And for that, Wells got what he deserved.
How I do miss his gifts, though. Wells knew quality. The gems he provided were never missed, always clean. Beauties, they were. Absolutely delectable.
They made me a lot of money.
And money…now that’s what it’s all about. Sex, drugs, power—all these things can be bought. Even your fucking, pitiful obsessions can be obtained with enough of it.
I stub out my cigarette on the dirty counter, disgusted. I hate mess. I despise filth. It sickens me almost as much as finding a rat in my presence. But here I am, cleaning up yet another mess. But if you want something done right… You know how it goes. No one gets to the top without getting their hands dirty every once in a while.
And I’m not afraid of work.
My once right-hand man is strung up in the middle of the room, his body stretched, limbs racked. He’s soaked in his own sweat and piss. The stench of it rolls through the small space, souring the air.
I flick my hand, and two of my thugs lower him to the ground. Alex slumps over, gulping in the foul air, thinking the worst is over. That now, finally, his torture will end.
But death isn’t coming to him so quickly. I invested much of myself into Alex King. Reared him into my perfect protégé, and how does he repay me?
Red colors my vision.
I suppress my rage with a sigh of disappointment.
I do enjoy giving my rats a moment to catch their breath—to believe I might just spare them. Some have come to the conclusion that I’ve gone soft. I’ve seen the rebellion in their eyes, waiting for an opportune time to strike.
This will serve as a reminder to all.
Rule number three: If you’re powerful enough, fuck the rules. Make your own.
Thumbing through my phone browser, I pull up a video and place the screen before Alex’s face. His swollen eyes struggle to latch on to the images, but he can hear just fine.
“It wasn’t me, boss,” he slurs through busted lips, red-tinged spittle streaming down his chin. “I’m not a rat.”
“Maybe you’re not,” I say, taking a lap around him. “But you did fail to bring me the lovely medical examiner. I’m almost inclined to believe you let those two imbeciles get caught on purpose.”
He tries to shake his head, but only slumps over farther. Pathetic. “No, boss. Some cop cut me off. I promise, there wasn’t anything I could do—”
One of the thugs punches him, effectively silencing his rambling.
I brush my hands down my Armani slacks as I squat before him. I look him in his eyes. “I believe you.”
For a second, his features convey relief. Until he notices the blade in my hand.
“But that doesn’t change the fact that you failed me, and now the press have a direct order in their clutches.” I tsk. “That is sloppy, Alex. How did they get it?”
“The van. It’s the only logical place where I—” His eyes squeeze shut as he realizes his mistake. “It’s the only place it could’ve been found,” he finishes.
“Because you left it there.”
He stammers out an excuse, and is greeted with another punch to the face.
I look down at the shiny blade, run it over my sleeve. Back and forth. “Do you know why the devil is so powerful?” I ask. His lips tremble, offering no reply. “Because the world doesn’t believe he exists.” Another effective quote that I enjoy. Kevin Spacey said it best: The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. Though technically, Spacey butchered an even greater quote from Baudelaire. Ah, semantics. The meaning is clear enough. It preaches to my heart.
I drive the blade into his stomach and slice straight up through his sternum.
His garbled cry catches in his throat as blood gurgles up, choking him off. I carve out a section of his chest, peeling the inked insignia from his bones.
“Take his skin,” I order.
As I stand and fling the flesh away, I wipe my hands off on
my handkerchief. Soon Alex does find his voice again. With each razorblade that splits his skin, with every yank of his flesh as it’s stripped from his body, his wails fill the void above, his blood stains the floor.
My once right-hand man, now scorched earth beneath my feet.
No one will doubt me now.
I grab my phone off the floor and pause the video of the news broadcast. Her beautiful face fills the tiny screen, her deep brown eyes staring right into mine. Avery Johnson.
I pull Alex’s gun from my belt, bring it close to my face. Inhale her scent that still clings to the barrel. At least Alex was persuasive in getting her to fulfill her purpose. And now I have a marketable drug for my clients. I just hate loose ends. They’re messy.
“Donavan,” I say, stealing my new right-hand man’s attention away from his clean up. “How many novices do we have in transit?”
He looks up at the ceiling, actually counting out the number on both hands. A blinding rush of fury to stick my blade through his neck grips me.
“Seven, boss,” he finally says.
“The media needs a serial killer,” I say, walking toward the steel door. “So we’ll give them one. If they’re looking for one sadistic man, then they’re not seeking the truth.”
I throw the door open, and the muffled cries of frightened young women echo throughout the warehouse. Bound and gagged, they clamber together, crawling toward the back as if grouping themselves will save just one.
Looking over my suit, I decide it’s already ruined. Blood soaks my sleeves; Alex’s guts have made a disgrace of my shoes. I smile and raise my blade, pointing it at each girl in turn. “Eeny meeny miny moe, who will be the first ho to go.”
As I said, I don’t mind doing the work myself. It’s good to get back to your roots every once in a while. Keeps you sharp. Keeps things in perspective.
The tip of my blade lands on a busty blonde. I grin, liking the idea of my fingers running through that hair, gripping a handful and yanking her head back. My blade slicing off her tits after I’ve fucked her pussy raw.
