by Leslie Wolfe
“She worked at Southeast Chemical and—”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who did she travel with?” Tess asked.
“When they do these platinum client presentations, it’s her and her boss, Brad Galloway, maybe someone else from engineering. It was Brad for sure this time,” he said, covering his mouth for a second to stifle a pained, shattered breath. “She hated traveling with him, and she’d bitched about it a lot before she left.”
“When’s the last time you spoke?” Michowsky asked.
“The day before yesterday, after the client demo. Myra was back at her hotel, happy the client had signed the contract. That meant a big commission for her.”
“What time, exactly?”
“It was about nine-thirty P.M.,” he said after a short hesitation. “Eight-thirty, Houston time. I can show you the time code on my phone.”
Michowsky took the phone offered and started scrolling through the history.
“Was she going out anywhere?”
“Definitely not,” he replied. “She was happy to be off her high heels. Those shoes were killing her feet. She was planning to order room service and call it a night.”
“How about yesterday? What were her plans?”
“They were supposed to meet with the client in the morning for final arrangements, then lunch, then some shopping, if she managed to escape from Galloway, and then board the flight and come home.”
“So, yesterday, you didn’t speak with her at all?” Tess asked, frowning a little.
“We played telephone tag for a while, she called me and left a message, then I called her back and got her voicemail again. That’s normal for us,” he added with a shrug. “I’m in the water almost all day, and she’s in meetings. And that boss of hers, Galloway, is a demanding asshole. He wants all of his employees’ time, one hundred percent. He doesn’t even allow restroom breaks when in meetings.”
“Did you call him yet?” Tess asked.
Galloway seemed to be the closest thing they had to a lead so far.
“Not yet,” Stewart replied, averting his gaze for a moment. “Myra said she’d kill me if I called her boss or anyone else at her work. She didn’t want me to embarrass her with ‘my anxieties.’ Her words, not mine,” he added with a sad chuckle. “Life was hard for her at Southeast, a young and ambitious woman like her who wanted to make her own path in life.”
Tess studied the young man. He seemed ready to collapse on the cold tiles but made an effort to maintain his composure and answer their questions. She’d considered him as a suspect for about a split second, then ruled him out. No one could fake that pallor, the dilated pupils from shock, fear of a life to be lived without a loved one, the almost unnoticeable tremors in the hands, the weakness in his knees. No . . . Stewart Aquilar had nothing to do with Myra’s death.
“One more question, Mr. Aquilar. Do you know what hotel she was staying at?”
“Um, yes, a big, fancy one,” he said, extending his hand to Michowsky to get his phone back. “She was thrilled that Galloway had paid for such a classy stay. That wasn’t the norm with that cheap bastard.” He flipped through his notes quickly. “She stayed at The Post Oak Hotel.”
Tess thanked him and turned to leave, when Stewart touched her arm. Tears were running freely from his eyes now, while his chin trembled in a failed effort to contain his sobs.
“Please catch who did this to Myra,” he pleaded. “We were going to get married in September. We were going to start a family, a big one, like neither of us had.”
“I promise,” Tess said, then shook his frozen hand before leaving. “I’m really sorry for your loss, Mr. Aquilar.”
As soon as they reached Michowsky’s SUV, she called the Houston hotel where Myra had stayed and spoke with the receptionist.
“Guess what?” Tess said, after ending the call with the hotel. “Myra left the hotel right before noon yesterday, alone, luggage and all, not showing any sign of distress. She was actually very happy, the receptionist remembers checking her out while she was smiling widely, excited about her stay, about the dinner she’d had, even though it was alone. The valet hailed a cab for her, and she was gone.”
“Did you ask for the surveillance tapes?”
“They’ll send the video of Myra getting in the cab,” Tess confirmed.
“I wonder if she was really that alone,” Michowsky replied. “Overnight, I mean. We should talk to her boss next.”
“I’ve asked Donovan to pull Myra’s phone records. No calls were made to and from her phone, to anyone but Stewart. Let’s assume for now she was alone, but I’ll follow up with hotel security. They should be able to send everything they have of Myra, including who entered her room. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
They drove in silence for a moment.
Then Michowsky said, “I’m surprised you haven’t profiled the perp yet.”
Anger
There had to be a way to break free of Geneva Wilkes.
There had to be, only Richard hadn’t found it yet, not after four years of despicable slavery, of constant humiliation in public and behind closed doors.
In public, Genera interrupted him, criticized every move he made or word he spoke, had him incessantly deliver her drinks and food, even dog treats for her mutt, although there were hordes of staff available to cater to her many whims. But no. Her impossible whims were reserved only for him. The rest of humankind was treated with elegance and respect by the steel heiress. While he, Richard Sanford, heir to a billion-dollar fortune, was to be ridiculed and laughed at by his wife’s many girlfriends.
In private, Geneva’s personal brand of torture exceeded his wildest imagination. Every few weeks, she came up with something new, a different form of humiliation, just to remind him she was in charge and she owned every part of him, body and soul, past, present, and future. Her latest demand still made his skin crawl when he remembered. She’d tied him up to “experience the pleasure of bondage himself,” and because “otherwise he’s too dangerous and cannot be trusted,” and had forced him to perform oral sex on her until she was satisfied. Afterwards, she left him naked and tied up on the floor for hours, while she was in the next room, having coffee with her ever-present girlfriends and discussing his most intimate details without a shred of shame.
Oh, how he dreamed of the day he’d get his hands on his dear wife, to show her who he really was. Even that ill-fated, wine-infused night where he’d lost control with her, he’d managed to be moderate, gentle even by his own standards. After all, she was just fine the next day; not like she needed to see a doctor or anything. Maybe he should’ve just killed her then, when the bitch was tied up and her screams were smothered by her lacy, cream-colored La Perla panties shoved all the way in her damned mouth.
He’d never killed a woman before, but he wouldn’t hesitate now. Not if he could get his hands on dear, old Gen. Or any of her girlfriends from hell.
He’d seen the way those women were staring at him whenever they ran into him at the mansion. They gave him these furtive looks, followed by whispers among themselves and poorly suppressed giggles at his expense, no doubt.
What he wouldn’t do to the lot of them . . . one by one, or all at the same time.
Just thinking of that, just fantasizing of them screaming and begging for mercy, with Geneva served at the end like exquisite dessert, was sure to make him stiff and achy, his urges dire and merciless.
One such day, while he was still shaking with repressed rage, he’d run into his father in the downstairs living room.
Mr. Sanford senior, who had sold him into slavery like a seventeenth-century virgin. His father, who could’ve died by now and set him free, but instead clung to life and seemed to be thriving by Wilkes’s side, now having found a best friend in his new business partner.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” his father had greeted him jovially. “Come on, have a drink with me, son.” He filled two glasses and handed one to Richard. He gulped it down, not
even feeling the burn of the aged scotch on his parched throat.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, the lack of enthusiasm in his voice unconcealed.
“I’ve been hearing from Wilkes, you know. You need to keep that young wife of yours happy, son. A child might be in order, or two. Sanford Wilkes Enterprises needs an heir, and soon.”
“I’m afraid my marriage is doomed,” he said, determined to break free once and for all. “Geneva and I have nothing in common, and we’re not happy. I will file for divor—”
“Nonsense,” the old man bellowed. “You get that wife of yours pregnant, you hear me?”
“The merger will stand even if we divorce, Dad. I’ve seen the paperwork,” he pleaded. “It’s been years. If you want out of the merger, I’m sure some financial arrangement can be reached. Either we buy him off, or he buys us—”
His father’s hand landed hard across his face, sending him off balance, seeing stars.
“How dare you?” the old man shouted. “You haven’t built this company with your blood, your sweat, and your tears . . . I have! Before I hear you say another word, I’d just as soon put you in the ground myself. If the Sanfords aren’t fit enough to lead this business into the future, maybe the Wilkes are.”
Richard rubbed his cheek where it smarted, blinking away tears of frustration and staring at the old man in disbelief.
“Are you saying—”
“I’m saying this is your last warning, Richard. Make that nice wife of yours happy and pregnant while Wilkes and I can still show a grandson the ropes. Or else, I swear to God, I hear one more sigh from that woman or see Wilkes frown one more time when your name is spoken, and you won’t inherit a single cent. I’ll make sure no one will hire you, and no respectful bank will consider loaning you any money.”
He stood there, unable to articulate a single word. How could he fight his old man, if his mind was already made up, if he’d fallen so badly under the Wilkes’ family spell? If Wilkes was anything like his daughter, Richard didn’t stand a chance against the two of them.
“What if I just leave the family business altogether?” he offered. “Would that make things better?”
“After I have built an empire, to die without a son? You call that better?” he shouted.
In the next room, one of the housekeepers rushed out and closed the doors behind her.
“I’d still be your son—”
“Make no mistake, if you walk out that door, if you choose to abandon me, you’re no son of mine!”
Fueled by the slow-burning rage that had been consuming him for the past years, he found the courage to approach his father with newly found determination.
“There has to be something I can do about this. I won’t stay married to her. I’m unhappy with—”
“Unhappy? Do you think I care about your unhappiness when my entire life’s work is about to go into the ground? Everyone’s buying from China these days, and we have to compete!” His voice had turned croaky and choked from the effort, and probably his blood pressure was spiking too.
Not high enough, damn him to hell, Richard thought.
He’d hidden his white-knuckled fists inside his pockets, fighting the urge to strike the life out of the old man and be done with everything once and for all. If his father were to die, he’d sell his share of the company to Wilkes or to the highest bidder of the moment, and disappear to some place where girls were easy and didn’t complain much if they knew what was good for them.
He considered striking him dead, but then his courage withered; too many things could go wrong, and he could end up in jail. He bowed his head, defeated, while anger burned him raw. “As you wish. You’ll have your grandson.”
He didn’t remember how he walked out of that room, if any other words were spoken, or how he got to Sanford Wilkes Enterprises. Just seeing the name, Wilkes, in brushed steel on the lobby wall made him want to tear it down with his bare hands and bellow his rage at the glass walls until they came tumbling down, like a modern-day Samson and the temple.
“Mr. Sanford?” A woman’s excited voice brought him back to reality.
She was amazing, a dream in a white dress that hugged her slim waist and her voluptuous breasts. Her long, brown hair played hide-and-seek with her generous cleavage, while her smile promised a world of wonders, his to explore.
“Yes,” he replied, smiling and shamelessly measuring her up.
“I’m Glenda Phelps, with Miami channel seven,” she said, offering her hand.
He shook it a few moments longer than was customary, but she didn’t withdraw or lower her gaze. Instead, her smile widened while she tilted her head to the side just a little. She batted her eyelashes a couple of times, and he swallowed hard.
“What can I do for you, Miss Phelps?” he asked.
“Please, call me Glenda,” she asked, and he nodded. “I was wondering if we could spend some time together to go over some questions I have. We might do a piece on you, sometime in the next couple of weeks, if that’s okay.”
He looked at her for a long moment, weighing his decision. She wasn’t someone who could easily be silenced, but neither were his desires . . . not anymore. First, he had to remove her from the eyes of so many witnesses.
“Sure, why don’t we grab a cup of coffee in my office?”
He watched the sensuous movement of her hips while she walked, her legs long and taut on four-inch heels, her back straight and curving perfectly into a tight, inviting ass. And her hair . . . was just like Geneva’s.
He pressed the penthouse button and smiled, while darkness descended in his eyes and lit his body on fire.
Interview
“It’s a little too soon to deliver a profile,” Tess admitted reluctantly, while Michowsky made his way through thick rush-hour traffic. Southeast Chemical and Paper was only a few miles away, but it was taking more than the ten minutes Tess had anticipated. A couple of car crashes on the interstate had them moving at snail speed, despite the flashing lights that did little to clear a path for the black Suburban.
“You must have some idea,” Michowsky replied. “Anything could be helpful; you know that better than I do.”
“How would it be helpful if I rush into a profile and I’m wrong?” Tess replied. “All I have is one victim, Myra. We don’t even know that much about her and absolutely nothing about any other victims, other than the fact that I’m willing to bet my paycheck that they exist.”
“Exactly,” he said. “If they exist, who are they?”
She sighed; a long breath of air ended in a stifled groan. “No way of telling, M. They could be any woman who has crossed the unsub’s path.”
“What does that famous gut of yours tell you right now?” Michowsky insisted, after glancing quickly in her direction.
“All we really know is what he’s done to her,” Tess replied. “We don’t know why he chose her or what Myra was to him. Was she someone who provoked him in any way, or so he thought in his diseased mind? Is she a substitute for the object of his anger? In this case, we’d expect the other victims to have some common physical features with Myra. Age, race, appearance.”
She paused for a moment, looking absentmindedly at the driver in the next vehicle. The man was nervous to find himself so close to an unmarked law enforcement vehicle with its flashers on. Every few seconds, he glanced quickly toward them, as if hoping they’d miraculously vanish from the solid traffic jam.
“All I can say with a reasonable degree of certainty is that he’s a power rapist. To him, it’s about asserting power over his victims, and that’s where he finds his sexual release. He carries a lot of unresolved anger, and he might feel powerless in his day-to-day existence, so powerless he feels the need to set things straight, to defend his identity, his ego, his masculinity by raping and killing his victims.”
“He’s not a lust killer then?”
“If I were to place a bet, I’d say he’s motivated by power, not lust. Again, we don’t have nearly e
nough to know for sure who we’re dealing with. If we’d found a second victim, then I’d be more certain. But in lust killers, the torture and mutilation are key elements of the unsub’s sexual fantasy. I didn’t see mutilation or torture on Myra . . . just the traumatic evidence of a brutal and prolonged assault.”
“Was her death a countermeasure? Could it have been?” Michowsky asked.
Tess mulled the question for a moment in her mind.
“Like with most power rapists, their first kill is an experimentation, maybe things being pushed too far, maybe the victim was killed to be silenced. Was Myra his first victim? I don’t believe so. In my gut, I don’t, although we have zero evidence one way or the other.”
She paused again, replaying in her mind what she’d just said. “To clarify, was Myra his first rape victim? Definitely not. He came equipped with cable ties, knew what to do, did it over and over without apparent inhibition or fear of getting caught. If he were a beginner at this game, the assault would’ve been shorter. He would’ve been satisfied sooner. What we’ve seen in the coroner’s report and on Myra’s body speaks to his experience as a rapist. As a killer? I’m not sure. I’d need to see at least another victim, and that’s because of the specific cause of death. Is he so inexperienced at killing that he thought he’d killed her while strangling her? Or was the elaborate asphyxia and release just a power game, and she was meant to die hitting the water as part of an elaborate signature we don’t yet understand? There’s no way we can tell. Not right now.”
“These sick bastards leave a trail of victims in their wake, they always do,” Michowsky said. “Once we have an idea who this perp might be, we’ll know.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And we’ll catch him, I promise.” She opened her laptop and switched through a few screens. “Bradley Galloway, fifty-one years old and Myra’s ‘favorite’ boss by all accounts, has a clear record. He’s single and has worked for Southeast for seven years. Let’s see what he’s got to say. He seems to be the last person to have seen Myra alive.”
