by M. Z. Kelly
When he was younger, he sometimes used a partner, who he called the Finder, to locate his victims. He would give the Finder the specific type Mother wanted and wait until the contract was fulfilled. In time, he realized using a Finder was too risky. It opened the door for someone to talk. When he’d eventually learned to hunt on his own, he killed all the Finders. Now, no one except Mother knew what he did.
The Angel had parked and was on the sidewalk now, less than fifty feet behind the girl. This close, she was even more beautiful than he’d thought. There was a fresh, innocent way about her, as she talked on her phone and browsed through the windows of the local shops.
At this age, he knew it was doubtful that the girl was a virgin. Even if she was a senior in high school, he knew it was unlikely she was untouched. It didn’t matter. What he intended to take from her was far more than her virginity. There was also the matter of protecting The Realm.
The physical type he was after could be traced back to Carrie Ann. She was his first, the standard by which all his other victims could be measured. He had met her in a jewelry store, where she worked, then told Mother about her. When Mother told him she had to die, he spent weeks watching her. There was something shy and unsure about the way she’d asked him if he needed help.
“I’m looking for a ring,” he’d said, examining the shiny rows of baubles in the glass cases, before looking up and meeting her doe-like green eyes.
“Is it for a special occasion?” she asked.
“Yes.” He smiled, pushing down his arousal. “I’m planning to ask someone to be with me forever.”
“Oh, then you’re looking for an engagement ring?”
“I suppose you could call it that.”
He saw her confusion, the first hint that she knew something wasn’t quite right. Despite that, she’d led him over to another display case containing several diamond rings.
“This is one of my favorites,” she’d said, removing one of the rings from a case. “It’s a round halo cut, set in platinum.”
He took the ring from her, brushing against her hand. “It’s beautiful. How much is it?”
“Umm...” She checked the back of the display case. “It’s just under three thousand, but I can ask the manager if there’s a discount.”
“That would be wonderful.”
He’d watched as she’d floated off and spoke to a man. In a moment, the man came over to him. “May I help you?”
“The girl was helping me.”
A smile. “She’s my assistant. I’m the manager here.” He motioned to the ring. “I understand you’re interested in an engagement setting.”
His anger had boiled over. He wanted to grab the man by the throat and squeeze the life out of him. He stuck the bauble in the man’s hand. “Keep your fucking ring.”
That night he had taken Carrie Ann as she’d left work. He’d spent the next two days with her, explaining about the mistake she’d made by having her manager talk to him. Then it was punishment time. He’d spent hours doing all the things to her that he’d dreamt about. After that, he’d ended her life to protect The Realm, just as he’d ended the lives of the other girls after her.
“Okay, I’ll see you at seven tonight.” The girl he was following turned as she’d ended her phone call and almost bumped into him. “Oh, excuse me.” Her phone came out of her hand and skidded across the sidewalk.
“No problem...” He went over and retrieved the phone, handing it back to her. “I hope it’s not damaged.”
“Oh, God, my parents will kill me if it is.” She worked the screen for a moment, not bothering to look at him. After a moment, she said, “It looks like it’s okay.” She turned away and began to leave.
“Can I make it up to you?”
She stopped and looked back at him. “I’m sorry?”
He smiled. “For almost breaking your phone. I could give you a ride, or...maybe we could get something to eat.”
Her eyes fixed on him for the first time and he saw her anxiety rising. “Thank you, but I’ve got to meet someone.”
When she left, he followed her in his car, keeping a safe distance. She stopped at the mall and he waited until she came back out before making his move. Her arms were loaded with shopping bags as he grabbed her on the way to her car, pushed her into his van, and tied her up.
When her gag was in place, he sat on top of her, smiling at his trophy. “You should have accepted my offer. I’m afraid what I have in mind for you won’t be nearly so pleasant.”
FOURTEEN
“John Edward Drake was murdered in 2009,” Hayden Kinnear told us when we were airborne. “His throat was slashed, and the body was found near a swamp in southern Florida. There were no suspects.”
“Maybe the Angel heard rumors about him talking while in prison,” Eva suggested.
“Probably,” Joe agreed. We were gathered around a small conference table in the jet, headed for New York. He looked at Kinnear. “What do we know about Wade Langston, the guy Drake spilled to in the joint?”
“He did time for drug possession while in Florida. It looks like he relocated to New York about three years ago, lives in the Bronx with a girlfriend, Andrea Todd. She’s got a couple of priors for prostitution.” He showed us mug shots of both Langston and Todd on his iPad.
Joe’s handsome features twisted up as he glanced at the photos. “You ever wonder what some people see in each other?”
“Does Langston work?” Olivia asked Kinnear.
“The background we pulled up shows he’s had a series of odd jobs, including driving a cab, probably to supplement his drug income.”
“Any record in New York?” I asked.
“A couple of possession charges that he served local time for, nothing major.”
“I gave word to the prison authorities to deny McAndrew any phone or Internet privileges until further notice, along with revoking his good time credits,” Joe said. “I don’t want him tipping off Langston.”
The sun was going down by the time we landed at LaGuardia and rented a car. The traffic was heavy as we made our way to the working-class neighborhood of Morris Park. Langston lived in a brownstone, midblock in an area that looked like it was made for drug dealing. Several gang bangers were hanging out in a nearby park.
“Let’s divide up,” Joe said when we were on the street near Langston’s apartment. “I want the alley behind his flat covered.”
“I’ll go around back,” Olivia offered.
After Kinnear agreed to go with her, Joe and I made our way up the steps to Langston’s place. We’d left Eva on the street, since she was a civilian. We stopped at the landing, listening for a moment. A television was on, and voices could be heard from somewhere inside the flat.
“Ready?” Joe asked, resting his hand on the gun beneath his coat.
I nodded as he knocked on the door. It took several tries before a woman finally answered. I immediately recognized Andrea Todd from her mug shot.
Todd tried to push the door shut on us, calling over her shoulder, “It’s the cops, Wade! They’re...!”
Joe pushed the door back, resulting in Todd falling to the floor. As we made our way inside, we saw Langston ducking through a rear window.
“FBI!” Joe announced as we got over to the window.
Langston was already on the run through the alleyway, even as Olivia and Kinnear were in pursuit. By the time we made our way through the window and onto the street, we heard a gunshot and saw our suspect go down.
“What happened?” I asked Olivia as we met up with her and made our way over to Langston. Kinnear was standing over him with his gun in hand.
“He drew down on us. Kinnear was in front of me and fired.” Olivia already had her phone out to call for assistance and an ambulance.
Joe and I went over to Langston, even as Kinnear told us he had no choice but to shoot. Langston was bleeding from a chest wound, but was still conscious.
Joe was on his knees, leaning in close to Langston.
“We’re here about the Angel. We know that Johnny Drake told you about him when you were in lockup. Who is he?”
“I n...need an ambulance,” Langston said, his voice weak.
“You talk, you get help,” Joe said. “That’s the way this works. Now, who is the Angel?”
“All I know is...he’s some guy who’s...” His eyes rolled back in his head and he gasped for air.
“Talk to me,” Joe said, grabbing him by the shirt. “I need a name.”
Langston’s eyes fluttered open again. “Par...ker...” His voice trailed off, and his eyes closed.
“Is that a first or last name?” Joe demanded.
Our suspect drew in a final ragged breath, not responding to Joe’s question. As his life faded away, Joe stood and shook his head in frustration. Wade Langston was gone, taking with him whatever he knew about one of the most prolific killers the world had ever known.
FIFTEEN
“Run the name Parker through CODIS, VICAP, and any other database you can find,” Joe said to a crime analyst from Quantico he had on the line. The local cops had responded to the alleyway, and the medical examiner was on the way. “I don’t know if it’s a first or last name, but cross-reference it with anything on file with all our victims. Call me the moment you have something.”
Joe put his phone away and said to Eva and me, “Let’s go.”
“What about us?” Olivia asked, referring to her and Kinnear, who had been busy giving preliminary statements to one of the uniformed officers.
“You can catch up with us later. I want to be in the air when we get something back on this Parker asshole.”
After telling Olivia I would see her later, we took a car and headed for LaGuardia Airport. On the way, Eva said, “There’s something about the name Parker that sounds familiar to me from one of the Angel’s cases. I just can’t place it.”
“Put your thinking cap on,” Joe said as he weaved through traffic. “If he follows his past pattern, we’ve only got a few hours before the Angel’s killing window closes.”
Eva was still drawing a blank when we got to the plane and met up with the pilot.
“Where to?” the pilot asked.
Joe scratched his wide jaw, looked at his phone, then Eva. “Anything?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“Just get us in the air,” Joe told the pilot. You can circle the airport. I’ll give you instructions when we’ve got something.”
We circled the airport for the next hour before Joe finally called the Quantico crime analyst back. “Tell me you’ve got something.”
I couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but I did hear Joe explode with a litany of expletives as he ended the call. He tossed his phone on the vacant seat next to him. “The greatest crime fighting organization in history and they can’t connect the name Parker to anything.”
Eva had been poring through reports in her briefcase as he’d made his call and vented. “I know it’s here somewhere,” she said. “Give me a few minutes.”
“That’s the one thing we don’t have,” Joe said. “The Angel takes additional victims when his killing spree resumes, taking one or more within seventy-two hours of the first. We’re running out of time.” He used the intercom to call the pilot. “Let’s head west. You can set a course for LAX, unless you get something more from me.”
“Why Los Angeles?” I asked.
Joe smiled. “I thought we could have dinner on the beach.” He saw that I wasn’t amused. “Just playing a hunch, Buttercup. Don’t ask me to explain it.”
We were in the air for another hour before Eva said she had something. I’d dozed off and tried to regain my bearings as she spoke.
“Alexander Parker,” Eva said, the pitch in her voice rising, as she held up a fistful of police reports. “He was at the scene of the Angel’s first victim.” She looked at me. “Alexander Parker was a police officer with your department.”
SIXTEEN
The Angel took his time, going by the beach before driving the girl to his small house in Bluff Heights, just south of Long Beach. Even though he no longer had ties to the area, he’d kept the small house near the beach. It had served as a retreat, a place he only occasionally used for his kills. Mother had told him it was time to use the house again because those who would steal her power were coming.
It was his custom to go slow after taking someone and savor what was to follow. When he got home, he locked her in his capture room. The room had been a master bedroom at one time. Now, the windows had been blacked out, klieg lights had been set up, and hooks were in the ceiling.
After the girl was secured, he took his time, spending a couple hours on his makeup, hair, and the wings that were his trademark. The transformed creature then went over and admired himself in a mirror. The perfection of imperfection stared back at him. He laughed. There were times, like this one, when the transformation was so startling that he was almost convinced he was not of this world.
He rapped on the door before going back inside the capture room. The girl was so startled that she jumped back against the headboard of the bed, stretching her chains to their limits.
He took his time, enjoying her terror, the disbelief about what was happening. After a couple minutes ticked by, he finally said, “Do you know who I am?”
There was a flood of tears, but no response.
He went over to the bed, trying to meet the eyes that refused to look at him. “I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”
Her gaze came up for an instant, moved away. “You...you’re the Angel.”
“Tell me what you know about me.”
Her tears became steady, her voice soft. “You kill people.”
The girl’s name was Bailey. She was seventeen, a senior at Washington High. He knew all this and more, well before she was taken.
“Do you like school?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
She broke down crying again. “Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”
“That’s very true. You won’t tell anyone. But, I’m sorry, I can’t let you go.”
She managed to regain some composure, wiping her tears away. “What do you want?”
It was too soon to tell her what he really wanted, the things he planned to do to her, seeing her abject terror as the realization sunk in about the horrors she would endure. Even though he knew all about her, he said, “I want us to get to know one another. Tell me about yourself.”
Tears were in her eyes again. She turned her head, trying to blot them against her blouse. He waited while she composed herself. “I live in...in Westwood, with my father and brother.”
“What about your mother?”
“She...she died in a car accident when I was eight.”
The Angel did his best to sound compassionate. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He inched closer to her, even as she moved back. “What about your father? What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a... a professor at UCLA.”
“A professor. That’s very impressive. What exactly does he profess?”
Bailey sniffed, holding back her emotions. “He teaches psychology.”
“Really? Now, we’re getting somewhere.” The Angel came closer, until he was only a couple feet from her. “Does your father know what motivates people?”
She flinched, again trying to move farther away. “I guess. I’m not really sure.”
“Has he ever mentioned me?”
“I don’t think so.”
He reached over and grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to meet his eyes. His voice was just short of a scream. “Tell me the truth, Bailey! Your life depends on it!”
She broke down, losing control as she pleaded with him. “Please don’t do this.”
He wrapped his hand tighter around her hair. “Then tell me what you know.”
She screamed in pain, her voice full of terror. “He wrote a book about you.”
The Angel loosened his grip a bit. �
�Aha! Finally, some progress. Tell me about the book.”
“I don’t...”
His hand wrapped tighter around her hair again. “The truth, please.”
She caught her breath. “He just wrote some stuff about what you do.”
“Like what?”
She drew in a heavy breath. “He said you have a...”
When she didn’t go on, he screamed, “A what?”
“A compulsion...to kill.”
The Angel released her. “Thank you for finally telling me the truth.” He studied her for a moment, his eyes fixing on her dark hair, her unblemished white skin, the green eyes that, even in the subdued light of his capture room, shone. He reached under the bed and brought out her father’s book.
“Angels and Demons,” he said, thumbing through the pages. “Do you believe what your father said about me is true, Bailey?”
She hugged her sides, her head slumping down. She nodded. “Yes.”
He tossed the book on the bed and patted her knee. “Very good. I appreciate your honesty.” He rose. “Stay here and don’t be a nuisance. I’ll be back soon. The fun is just beginning.”
SEVENTEEN
“Alexander Mathias Parker was an LAPD patrol officer, a first responder to the Carrie Ann Montrose murder,” I said, after calling LAPD and obtaining his personnel records. “He worked out of Harbor Division, beginning in 2004, resigned in 2012. He was single, and, according to what was in his file, he lived near Long Beach.”
“Any record since he quit the department?” Eva asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing. It looks like he went to work as a truck driver after ending his law enforcement career.”
“That would give him access to victims in multiple states.”
“There’s a photo from when he worked for LAPD in the system,” I said, showing them Parker, in his police uniform, on my iPad. “He’s six feet, one-ninety, brown and blue.”
