“Boys and girls,” Blake began. “The situation is this. The target - Miles Dawson - is believed to be at his Downtown office. We can’t risk a loud approach. If Dawson sees us coming, who knows what he’ll do. This could turn into a bloodbath, and the press will have a field day. We’ve contacted as many offices in the building as we can, and had their staff discretely evacuate. We got eyes on the front entrance. As far as we know…” He looked to an officer watching the TV, who shook his head. “…Dawson’s still inside.”
Ron joined Lucy while the Lieutenant summarised the plan. “See the war dog’s come out of his kennel,” he quipped. “Must have smelt the glory. Of course he’s brought you back in case things go sideways and he needs a fall girl.”
“Enough with the humour,” Lucy said. “We’ve got a job to do.”
“Got something to add, Wallace?” Blake asked.
“Yes I do, Lieutenant.” Ron pushed in front of the other detectives. “Now she’s received your personal pardon for being treated like shit, I’d like us all to formally welcome back Detective Lucy Duvall.”
Plain clothes and uniformed officers joined him in boisterous cheers and applause. Everyone except the livid, stone-faced Blake.
Chapter Twenty-One
The police van lurched as it drove over a bump, and rolled back onto all four wheels after a brief sway onto two. Lieutenant Blake clung to a perforated steel bench that resembled an enormous cheese grater. For him, it was literally a white-knuckle ride. Lucy and Ron - sat between Blake and three bulletproof-vested detectives - didn’t seem as shaken, though neither could be described as relaxed. There were no spare seats in the vehicle’s transport bay: a dull, grey metal box with riveted panels and tiny square windows. A policewoman in riot gear stared straight ahead, rifle-mounted flashlight illuminating her soldiery, tough-as-nails pose.
Ron watched Lucy check her weapon barrel. He cringed as she angled its chamber toward him. “Careful where you point that,” he said light-heartedly. “That gun’s got real bullets in it.”
He looked round at the faces of his colleagues. Not a single person smiled at his reference to the Fitzroy incident, and the atmosphere in the van remained tense.
A few seconds passed before Blake spoke. “We all know what we have to do,” he said, voice burdened by apprehension. “Soon as we arrive, we seal off the building. Our surveillance man says nobody’s gone in there except some rich asshole wearing a grey suit.”
“Hope we got a pic of the guy’s face,” Ron said. “As wonderfully detailed as that description was, I wouldn’t want to rely on it to ID a potential witness.”
“Can it, Wallace,” Blake retorted. “The only reason you’re not on suspension is because I need you.”
“And Duvall. Don’t forget your scapegoat, boss.”
Lucy - who’d shown no reaction through the heated exchange - put her weapon away and unbuttoned her suit to allow easy access to her holster. The passengers lurched forward as the van screeched to a sharp, sudden halt. Two metallic thumps came from the driver’s cabin.
“We’re here,” Blake announced. “We got the killer trapped. This time, it’s our turn to tighten the noose.”
***
Dawson stuffed another wad of letter-sized paper into his brown leather satchel. Its folding base was extended flat, the lower section close to bursting. Sheets were densely packed - an entire ream’s worth. The desk drawers had been completely cleaned out. Other than encyclopaedia-sized legal volumes on the bookshelves, there were no documents left in the office.
Dawson puffed with exhaustion. His sweaty forehead glistened under the candle-lights of his chandelier. He pressed the talk button on his desktop intercom, and followed with a habitual glance at his computer screen. Surveillance camera footage from the reception area showed his secretary at work. The dark glass doors between the two offices were closed. Dawson could see her, but not vice versa.
“Yes, Mister Dawson?” Lisa responded through her headset phone.
“Book me on the first available flight to Rio de Janeiro,” Dawson instructed. “There’s some investment opportunities I’d like to pursue. And call security. Have two men meet me in the lobby.”
“There’s a flight in three hours. What date are you planning to return?” Lisa stopped typing when Dawson didn’t answer. “Sir?”
Dawson leafed through the papers in his satchel, squeezing them as narrowly as he could. “When the police arrest Adrian Pryce.” He forced the monogrammed locking pins into their sockets. “Until then, it’s probably best if I get out of town. Consider yourself on paid leave until further notice.”
Lisa was slow to acknowledge him. “That’s… very considerate.” Her hesitation suggested the offer was unusually generous.
“I’ll be a few moments,” Dawson told her. “I’ve got some last-minute business to take care of.”
Dawson muted the intercom, and walked to a watercolour portrait of the White House. He slid his fingertips around the left of its gold frame and pulled. The painting swung out with a click, revealing a previously-hidden safe. The electronically-locked door was smooth, silvery titanium with a hairline, force-proof gap around the edges.
Dawson placed his right palm on a biometric sensor pad, and waited for the neighbouring indicator light to flash green. Keeping that hand in place, Dawson typed a ten-digit combination on the touch-sensitive keypad. The safe unlocked with an airy hiss, and its two-inch thick door swung upward. The three titanium storage shelves were empty except for an American passport, a Harvard University law certificate, and high-denomination bearer bonds issued by the Bank of America.
The intercom crackled, giving Dawson a jolt of fright. “What is it, Lisa?” he asked.
A strangled, drawn-out gasp came through the speaker, followed by sporadic choking. Dawson’s face turned deathly pale, and his eyes shot towards the office doors. He raced over to the desk and grabbed an infra-red remote control unit. Then he stopped, thumb over the untouched switch.
Dawson looked at his monitor. From surveillance footage, the waiting room appeared empty. The chair behind Lisa’s desk was vacant. Uncollected paper spilled from the printer’s output tray.
“Don’t you touch her, you bastard!” Dawson yelled at the intercom. “I swear I’ll…” He paced to and fro in anguish.
Heavy breaths filled gaps between scuffles and wheezes. The puffs got louder as the chokes faded, until nothing could be heard but slow, steady panting. Then the intercom went dead.
Dawson - shaking in fear - put down the remote control and grabbed a mobile phone off the desk. He backed against the wall, watching the doors as his quivery finger tapped nine, then one. Dawson was about to repress the key to complete the emergency number when he noticed a pulsing blue glow on his suit sleeve.
Dawson turned to face the window, and stretched on tiptoes to view the street nineteen floors below. Five police vehicles - two patrol cars and three armour-plated vans - were parked outside the Frank & Bennett building.
“Pryce,” Dawson cursed. “Bastard set me up.”
The cellphone slipped from his weakened grasp, and landed with its screen face-up. The dialled digits disappeared as the device timed out.
***
“Why aren’t the elevators moving?” Blake asked the duty clerk.
It wasn’t the ‘librarian’ who staffed the Frank & Bennett lobby, but a snow-bearded man who wouldn’t need fake hair to portray Santa Claus. Other than that, he looked the traditional doorman, wearing a stiff-collared, royal blue blazer with shiny steel, scratch-free buttons.
“Don’t ask me what’s going on,” the clerk groaned. “I’m no maintenance guy. I just watch the doors.”
The two security guards in the corner looked even more annoyed, but they kept quiet, wisely avoiding a confrontation with the heavily-armed strike team.
“Blame the architects,” the clerk said. “Always trying to outdo each other, build higher than the last. Police business or not, you’ll just have to
wait like everyone else.” Unlike the ‘mercenaries’, he didn’t appear fazed by the double-filed queue of riot cops between the entrance and elevators.
“Thanks, pal,” Ron said sarcastically. “Really appreciate the help.”
Blake pressed the call buttons in sequence, moving one way then back the other. He tapped his foot and watched the indicator needles. They all remained stuck on XIX.
“Dawson knows we’re here,” Lucy said. “He must have jammed the doors open. We’ll take the stairs.”
Lucy volunteered herself for point woman, and opened the stairwell door without waiting for approval. Ron chased after her, closely followed by another plain clothes detective and the tough rifle-woman.
“You four!” Blake indicated the two rearmost pairs. “You’re on sentry duty. Watch the doors. Nobody comes in or out. I don’t want this greasy bastard slipping through our net. You got that?”
Once he’d finished issuing orders, the Lieutenant entered the stairwell and joined the strike team on the long, upward slog to the nineteenth floor. The police proceeded slowly and carefully, checking around every corner.
***
Dawson switched on the intercom and hunched forward to listen. Hearing only silence, he checked the security monitor. His eyeballs oscillated rapidly from side to side as he scanned the image. There was no sign of anyone - Lisa or killer - in the outer office, and the printer had stopped spewing out paper.
Dawson slowly reached for the remote control switch, held his breath, and pressed it. The doors slid apart with a beep. Lisa’s body fell inward through the widening gap, head flopping back as she gathered speed.
“Holy shit!” Dawson yelped.
The corpse landed with a loud thump. A computer mouse smashed apart on the hardwood floor by Lisa’s neck. Its left button snapped off to expose internal wiring. The white plastic cable had been wrapped twice around the secretary’s throat. Red scratches and peeled skin were visible between the taut wire loops, and Lisa’s outstretched fingernails were coated in fresh blood. Her mouth was wide open, final gasp frozen on her face.
The killer stepped from behind the wall, having hidden in the security camera’s blind spot. The intruder wore a graphite-grey suit, a marginally lighter shirt, and smart trousers, but the gloves and piercing eyes - seen through a rubber face-mask - were those of the Taurus Strangler. Under the blazing light of the chandelier, the fleshy-pink ‘skin’ and blond ‘hair’ were obviously plastic, but a faraway observer might be fooled. With a black leather briefcase to complete the disguise, it would be easy to mistake the killer for a harmless businessman.
“You sick mother—” Dawson lost the nerve to finish and retreated fearfully behind his desk.
The killer removed the mask to reveal another underneath. Dawson shuddered when he saw the identity-concealing balaclava and murderous intent in the strangler’s eyes. Sweat poured down Dawson’s cheeks as the killer discarded the false face and stepped casually around Lisa’s body.
The attorney’s eyes shifted to the briefcase. He watched with trepidation as the strangler put it down, sprung the brass locking catches, and pulled out a steel cable attached to a disc-shaped, rubber-and-plastic device. It was part of a motion capture harness, but the wire had been reshaped into a noose and fitted with a sliding clip. The loop was just about wide enough to slip over a human head.
Dawson shifted round his desk. He used it for protection as the predatory killer circled to his right. The strangler let the noosed cable fall slack. Steel wires clinked together. The killer watched and waited, mouthpiece veil fluttering in response to calm, quiet breaths.
The panicked attorney made a desperate dash for the exit. He hadn’t gone ten feet before the strangler pressed the remote control button to block off his escape. Dawson staggered to the closing doors - ignoring a squelch and hiss from behind - but arrived a split-second too late. He pounded the glass in frustration, then turned to see the Taurus Strangler stood before him.
A knee to Dawson’s stomach left him out of breath and struggling to stand. The killer dropped the looped cable over his head - with the linking clip behind - and tightened the noose. Dawson gasped for air and groped at the wire. Despite his best efforts to loosen the knot, the clip wouldn’t budge. The connector was designed to move in only one direction - inward.
Dawson gave up the hopeless struggle, realisation dawning in his eyes. The strangler stepped aside to allow the distraught man to see an elaborate, pulley-like setup: steel cable looped over a chandelier branch, then down to the suction pad disc fixed to the desk. A digital clock counted down seconds from three to zero, and a winch whirred into life.
The top section of the disc rotated, reeling in the cable. The steel wire creaked with tension, and the chandelier shook under the extra weight. Dawson tried to hold his ground, but his shoes couldn’t get any traction on the wooden floor. Dragged backward by the noose around his neck, the wriggly attorney slid past the watching killer. Dawson grabbed the closest desk corner to fight the pull of the winch. His grip weakened as his arm was forcibly stretched, and he was unable to prevent his feet lifting off the ground.
Dawson was hauled higher, to within inches of the screechy chandelier. The winch stopped, its preset program complete. Dawson - barely awake and choking constantly - reached up, nudging the gold-plated branch from which the cable hung. He swung his body and attempted to dislodge himself. His flailing feet knocked the satchel over.
The Taurus Strangler put the briefcase on Dawson’s chair, removed a second winch cable and disc, and dropped the contraption by the window. As Dawson swayed, he looked down into the open case. Inside were a mobile phone, torn scraps of paper sealed in a plastic bag, and a Taurus-Studios-headed letter. From Dawson’s near-unconscious perspective, the typed message was blurry and unreadable. Words came into focus as he concentrated.
I killed my secretary. I didn’t want to, but she saw me with the check. I had no choice. The others I wanted to die: Norris, Sophie, Jenna, that useless idiot Gordon. They all misused the money I provided. I was hoping to take that money from Adrian Pryce, but if I can’t reclaim my investment, neither will he. The police are here. There’s no way out. I hope that one day my actions will be understood. Consider my employment terminated. Miles Dawson, the Taurus Strangler.
Dawson looked dejectedly at the real killer, and saw a sadistically gleeful smile impressed on the balaclava veil. Then his body sagged, and he stopped breathing. With the life choked from him, Dawson’s dipped shoes collided together.
***
The Taurus Strangler plummeted feet first, suit-tail and trousers flapping as they encountered air resistance. On the side street below, a dirty-skinned drunk cuddled up in a rubbish skip. If he’d been awake to see the blackish figure’s rapid descent, he would most likely be puzzled. The steel cable lined up perfectly with a building support strut, rendering it effectively invisible, and the motion-blurred harness around the killer’s waist was indistinguishable from an ordinary, brown leather belt. The wire unwound from the suction disc attached to Dawson’s office window. Rotation slowed as the killer neared the ground. Clutching a briefcase in one hand and the cable in the other, the masked assassin made a silent landing.
Everything about the strangler’s escape was precise and intricately planned: the near-spot-on cable length, the timer reaching zero at the exact moment of touchdown, the detached suction pad dropping into the killer’s cupped hands. Within a minute, the stranger had unfastened the harness, stored the equipment back in the briefcase, and replaced the rubber mask over the balaclava. The killer lined up the two pairs of eye slits, flattened creases from the suit, and left the scene.
Nineteen floors above, bright lights danced across Dawson’s window, supplementing the steady, constant glow from the chandelier. The beams converged, and a black-and-white image was projected on the glass: a hung man twisting. Body, arms, and legs merged into one, and a vertical line appeared behind the forward-tilted head. The police had arrived too
late to catch the killer. If any cops looked down at the street - and none did - they would have seen only a sleeping drunk.
Around the corner - out of potential eyesight - the Taurus Strangler removed a flat-screened tablet phone from the suit’s lapel pocket. Gloved fingers worked the controls and accessed a video file stored in memory. Footage recorded before the murder showed Dawson reveal and open the safe. Gold sparkled in the upper right corner, giving away the camera’s location: the chandelier.
The killer tapped a double-triangle icon and playback skipped into fast forward. A sequence of still images told the story of what happened next. The strangler planted items in Dawson’s safe, closed the picture frame, and equipped the harness. An eye in close-up looked directly into the hidden camera, and a gloved hand closed around the lens.
The strangler touched another ‘button’ on the phone, and a message appeared on screen: File Deleted. The disguised killer dropped a wireless camera and transmitter, indistinguishable from the device found in Adrian’s office. A powerful toe jab, and the plastic box slid across the wet pavement into a drainage grate.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Coward took the easy way out,” Blake said. “Well, at least he saved us the expense of a trial. One killer less, one lawyer less. All in the same night.”
Vickers scanned the desk with a pencil flashlight and magnifying glass, careful not to miss anything - or bump her head on Dawson’s feet - as she worked lengthwise. “Little early to rule it a suicide,” she said. “Usually we wait for an autopsy.”
Termination Notice (Action Girl Thrillers) Page 16
