by C. M. Sutter
Malice
C. M. Sutter
Copyright © 2017
All Rights Reserved
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction by C.M. Sutter. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used solely for entertainment. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.M. Sutter is a crime fiction writer who resides in the Midwest, although she is originally from California.
She is a member of numerous writers’ organizations, including Fiction for All, Fiction Factor, and Writers etc.
In addition to writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends. She is an art enthusiast and loves to create handmade objects. Gardening, hiking, bicycling, and traveling are a few of her favorite pastimes. Be the first to be notified of new releases and promotions at: http://cmsutter.com.
C.M. Sutter
http://cmsutter.com/
Malice: An Agent Jade Monroe FBI Crime Thriller, Book 5
Omaha’s finest are baffled and the city is on edge following a rash of brutal murders of women, all killed in similar fashion. Local law enforcement believe a misogynistic killer is in their midst.
With little to go on, the central police department requests assistance from the Serial Crimes Unit of the FBI. Agents Jade Monroe and J.T. Harper are tasked to fly to Omaha and lend a hand.
Without any leads, the investigation stalls until a chance meeting between Jade and a stranger with memorable blue eyes turns the entire case on its ear. With the killer quickly losing patience, the investigation takes a turn for the worse. Not only are more of the city’s ladies being targeted, but now Jade Monroe is on the killer’s radar too.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 1
Ed Tanner turned the knob on the truck’s radio and silenced the Monday news report. Movement at the front door across the street had just caught his attention. His body stiffened involuntarily as he peered out the driver’s side window with his hand cupped against his face to shield his identity. The family of four that had arrived thirty minutes earlier had driven away, but the Realtor remained inside.
Come on. What’s the holdup? Quit your jibber-jabbering.
He continued to watch the door. Ed was surprisingly calm for someone about to commit a heinous crime, yet he was itching to get started. The door finally opened a second time, and a friendly looking exchange of words passed between the homeowner and the Realtor. The handshake sealed it, and the Realtor was finally leaving. He followed the sidewalk to his vehicle then turned back and waved as he climbed into his car.
Ed grasped the door handle of his banged-up truck. He watched the Realtor back out of the homeowner’s driveway and leave the neighborhood, and he was dying to get started.
He waited an extra minute to be sure. He craned his neck left out of the truck window, then right, then left again. It was midday—a quiet time—and nobody was out and about or keeping tabs on their neighbors. No joggers, no dog walkers, and no prying eyes.
Ed flicked his wrist and checked the time—1:45. The rusty hinges creaked as he gave the driver’s door a hard shove and stepped out of his truck. He jogged across the two-lane street to the sidewalk of the home with a clean, well-kept façade. It had to look pristine—it was on the market. The early October breeze caused the For Sale sign to sway slightly as it hung from the post in the yard. The sight of it fueled the fire building inside of Ed.
He looked both ways down that quiet street one last time before knocking. The coast was clear, and his mind was made up. There was no turning back. He slipped the fitted work gloves over his fingers and waited. The sound of approaching footsteps caused his ears to perk. He cocked his head toward the door and listened. It had to be a blitz attack. There wasn’t time for words or, in her case, screams for help.
The surprised expression on her face gave Ed an adrenaline rush. It took only a second for her to realize she’d made a mistake, and it wasn’t the Realtor returning because of something left behind. Now with the door pulled open widely, she stared at a stranger wearing gloves and a sinister glint in his eyes. She tried to slam the door, but he was halfway in, so closing it was impossible.
With a fierce thrust of both hands, Ed launched her backward and watched as she slid across the marble foyer and hit the wall with a thud. The woman scrambled to get her feet under her as Ed quickly closed the door and turned the dead bolt.
His voice was deep and slow. Each word was deliberate and clear. “There’s nowhere for you to go. You can’t outrun or outwit me, and I’m far stronger than you, but I will promise you one thing.”
Her fingers gripped the carpet as she scooted backward into the living room. Her terror-filled eyes darted left and right. “Who are you, and why are you here? What do you want with me?”
“Why I’m here isn’t your concern, and this isn’t about you.”
“Then what do you want? Do you promise not to hurt me?”
Ed took two steps toward her then reached for something at his side. The afternoon sun crept in through the half-opened blinds at the patio doors and caught the steel just right. The blade glistened in the rays when he pulled the knife out of its leather sheath.
She tried to scramble again, but he caught her by the right ankle. The knife sliced through her Achilles tendon. Blood pumped out with each beat of her heart. She screamed out her pain as she stood to run.
Ed smirked his response. “Sorry, but this isn’t your lucky day. The only promise you’ll get from me is today you’re going to die.”
The woman stumbled frantically through the house, coating the walls with bloody handprints. Ed followed her down the hallway to t
he master bedroom, where she tried to slam the door, but his foot blocked her efforts.
“You aren’t going to come out of this alive, so just accept your fate.”
Ed pushed the door forward against her body, and her blood-soaked feet slipped on the carpet as she lost precious ground. With a final shoulder blow, the door flew open, and her fate was sealed. She swung the nightstand lamp wildly in front of her. The sudden crack to Ed’s forehead caught him off guard. Blood ran down the outer edge of his eyebrow and sent him into a rage.
“Now you’re going to feel every slice, you stupid bitch.” In seconds, he was on her and pushed her down on the bed. She thrashed with every ounce of strength left in her body, but she was no match for the stranger who had her pinned flat with his knees. He silenced her screams with his gloved left hand and met her frantic eyes with his own. Blood from his wound dripped in her face. Ed drew back the knife and, with a violent thrust, plunged it into her throat over and over again.
Chapter 2
The Realtor stood in the driveway and watched for the couple to arrive. It was Wednesday, and this was the first house of three he would show the newly married couple that day. When their blue Kia sedan turned the corner and headed his way on Prentice Street, Bob Flannery waved to get their attention. The husband pulled in and parked alongside Bob’s car.
“Hey, guys, good to see you again,” Bob said. The couple exited the car, and he shook hands with them. “You’re going to love this place. It’s in pristine condition, and according to the listing agent, the owner is very motivated to sell. She’s moving out-of-state to be closer to her family.”
Josh and Ann Grant took in the home’s façade, the landscape, and the surrounding street as they stood next to the Realtor.
“The partially wooded lot gives the property a quiet, almost private feel, yet it isn’t totally secluded,” Ann said as she admired the yard.
“Wait until you see the inside. It’s to die for. Shall we?” Bob led the way to the front door, where he entered the code on the lockbox and popped it open. He pulled out the key, slipped it into the keyhole, and turned the knob. The door remained locked.
He let out a quiet chuckle. “Sorry. The homeowner must have forgotten and locked the dead bolt by mistake. Give me one more second, please.” He pulled the key out of the doorknob and slid it into the dead bolt then gave it a turn. “Here we go. After you.” Bob pushed the door open wide, and the couple stepped over the threshold.
“What the hell?” Bob took in the sight ahead of them. Signs of a violent struggle were more than apparent. Shoe scuffs covered the white marble floor, telling them that somebody had scrambled across the entryway. Dried blood coated the floor and streaked the carpet. A side table had been toppled over, and the contents of a flowerpot were strewn across the living room. The houseplant, now wilted, lay among clumps of potting soil that had been ground into the once white rug.
“Oh my God, what happened here?” Ann Grant clenched her husband’s forearm as she craned her neck around the corner to the right, where the kitchen was located. “And what’s that smell?”
Bob ushered the couple back into the foyer, where they huddled together near the door. “Folks, please stay right here. Josh, call 9-1-1 while I check the rest of the house. This could be bad.” Bob cupped his hand against the left side of his mouth and called out to the homeowner by name but got no response. He noticed more flies than would usually be seen in a well-kept home—especially that house. He had shown the property several times, and it was always clean and odor free. Having watched plenty of CSI-type TV shows, Bob knew what those flies meant.
Damn blowflies.
From the blood-streaked carpet, he knew where the crime scene led. He crept apprehensively down the hallway toward the bedrooms. Two doors were open, and the last was closed. With his back against the wall as he inched closer, Bob peeked around each open door to find nothing out of place. The only room left was the master at the end of the hall—the one behind the closed door where most of the blood was located. Bob reached for the knob.
Josh yelled out to Bob when he clicked off the call. “The police are on their way, and they said we should wait outside.”
Bob released his grip on the doorknob, took in a deep breath, and stepped away from the room. He retreated to the foyer and mindfully stepped around the blood as he walked. “Let’s sit on the porch bench and wait for the police. I really didn’t want to look in that room, anyway.” He tipped his head toward the front door.
Within minutes, an Omaha Police Department cruiser turned in to the driveway and parked behind Bob’s vehicle. A fortyish looking man in relatively fit shape grabbed the top of the car door as he opened it and pulled himself out of the driver’s seat. A second officer, who appeared to be of the same general age, exited the car from the passenger side.
“Did somebody here call in suspicious activity?” the first officer asked.
“That was me,” Josh said as he extended his hand.
The name Sgt. P. Franklin was engraved on the pin attached to the officer’s shirt pocket. “And you are?” Sergeant Franklin pulled his notepad and a pen from the car door pocket and lifted his mirrored sunglasses to the top of his forehead.
“My name is Josh Grant, and this is my wife, Ann. We met up with Bob Flannery, our Realtor, to tour this house. It looks like a violent attack happened in the foyer area.”
Bob took over and explained the details. “I checked the first two bedrooms and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. That’s as far as I got. The last door at the end of the hall is closed, so I can’t tell you anything about that room, but there’s a lot of blood leading down the hallway. We went back outside after Josh called 9-1-1.”
“Did you touch anything, Mr. Flannery?” the second officer, a Sgt. D. Lyles, asked.
“Only the lockbox, the key, and the front door. Oh, and the master bedroom doorknob. Sorry about that.”
Sergeant Franklin spoke up. “Okay, I want all of you to remain outside, but don’t leave the premises. I have to clear the house, and then we’ll talk.” His radio squawked as he slipped on a pair of latex gloves. He reached the front door, spoke a few words with Sgt. Lyles and Dispatch, then pushed the door open. Lyles circled around to the backyard.
Sergeant Franklin—the P stood for Paul—took note of his surroundings as he entered the home. Even the initial signs told him nothing good had taken place there. He pulled out his sidearm from the shoulder holster, peeked around the right corner, and saw an empty kitchen. A jiggle of the patio door handle confirmed it was locked from the inside—nothing amiss there and no broken glass. Paul turned left at the hallway and followed the blood trail. The two open doors Bob had mentioned were directly ahead on his right. He swatted at the flies buzzing near his face as he inched toward the first room. The house reeked of death. The rusty odor of blood and decaying flesh was pungent—a dead body lay somewhere in that home.
From the quantity of blood ground into the carpet in front of that last door, Paul was certain he knew where the attack had ended, yet each room needed to be cleared. As he crept down the hallway, a quick glance into the first two bedrooms told him those spaces hadn’t been entered. He pulled open the linen closet and bathroom door too then moved on. Finally, that last bedroom behind the closed door stood in front of him. With his head cocked and his ear against the door, he listened for sounds on the other side but heard nothing. Paul took in a deep, slow breath through his mouth and turned the doorknob with his left hand. He held the Glock 22 in his right.
With his body pressed against the hallway wall, he looked in through the narrow two-inch space between the door hinges and the framework. Blood stained the carpet next to the bed, and spatters covered the wall behind the headboard. A woman’s bloody leg extended over the side of the bed, and a shoe suspended from her foot looked ready to drop. Sergeant Franklin covered his nose with the back of his hand and pushed the door open with the barrel of the gun. He took in the full scene of what
had happened as he slowly scanned the room.
Cautiously, he approached the bed and took note of the bloodstained areas on the carpet. He’d watch his step to avoid disturbing any important evidence. Forensics might be lucky enough to come up with a shoeprint from blood transfer. Paul clicked his radio and called his partner, Don. “Hey, buddy, we’ve got a bad one in here. See anything unusual outside?”
“Not yet, but there’s a small shed at the back I still have to clear.”
“Okay, I’ll make the call.” Paul clicked the button and silenced his radio. With his body craned forward over her, he gave the woman a long thorough look. A wide pool of crimson blood, which appeared to be nearly dry, covered most of the quilt beneath her. She lay centered on the bed with her legs and arms splayed out, and her wide-open eyes wore a glaze of white film. Her mouth hung open as if she’d died while screaming out for help. Lividity was evident on the underside of her body and at her extremities. She had been lying there for a while, and the disgusting blowflies had made themselves at home on her corpse. A violent battle had taken place in that room, and from all appearances, she fought for her life right there on that bed.
She’s been dead for at least a day or two.
Paul stepped back and checked the closet, beneath the bed, and the master bath. The screen on the bedroom window showed no signs of forced entry or exit.
With his radio engaged, he called the precinct for backup. “We need officers out here at the address on Prentice Street. Send some patrol units to set up barricades too. We have a female DB, and by the looks of her body and the room, there was definitely a fight to the finish. Get the coroner and forensic team out here right away.” Sergeant Franklin clicked off and closed the door behind him. He’d leave that part of the investigation alone until the ME and forensic team arrived. He returned to the front of the house and cleared the family room, office, and garage. The homeowner’s car—parked inside the two-car garage—was cold to the touch when he put the back of his hand on the hood. That vehicle hadn’t been used by anyone recently.
