Power Struggle

by Carolyn Arnold

  “You’re the one who ran into me,” she called after him.

  Even that slight altercation had her heart beating faster. It could have just as easily been Constantine. If she thought about that too long, though, she’d go mad. No doubt that was exactly what Constantine wanted. He wanted her to question every move and live life a hairbreadth away from insanity—and it was working to an extent. She shook her head and her arms, letting the tension flow out through her fingertips and into the air. Then she got in her car.

  The next thing she needed to do was call her mother, but it was the last thing she wanted to do. How exactly does a woman tell her parents she’s being hunted by a Russian hit man? Again. Not that she had to tell her mother the first time, but it had come out when Madison had almost died at his hands. Chelsea had basically made Madison tell them. And that was not an easy conversation on the back end. Madison figured this one would be worse.

  She turned the key in her ignition, and her phone beeped with a text message. She pulled it out to read it. It was from Cynthia: Found three cameras. Will be tracing.

  Madison celebrated this minute victory. Would this be the break they needed? A way to actually find Constantine and end his tyranny over her mind and lift the threat on her and her family?

  She sent back a quick text—Let me know ASAP—and went to set her phone in the console, but her hand wasn’t letting go. She’d hit her head against the steering wheel if it would do any good, but the phone call to her parents was one that needed to be made. Maybe she could somehow get her father on the line and explain everything to him. He’d always been far more reasonable than her mom. Of course, he wasn’t living to stir up conflict. Even if she got him on the phone, though, when the message got back to her mother, it would be worse than if she’d just told her directly.

  Madison took a deep breath, brought up her contacts, and called her parents’ house. As the phone rang, her gaze went across the street to a parked car. The male occupant was wearing a baseball cap, and when he saw her looking his way, he turned and sank down in his seat. But it was too late because she already recognized him. She smiled.

  Good ole Terry.

  “Madison? Why are you calling? It’s the middle of the day.” Her mother said it as if Madison had interrupted something important.

  “Everything’s all—”

  “Were you going to say all right?” she asked, interrupting Madison.

  “Maybe if you gave me a chance to finish.” The words flew out without much thought.

  “Humph.”

  Madison could imagine her mother jutting out her chin and pursing her lips.

  “I didn’t mean…” Madison let the sentence go, not knowing how to finish. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “I figured that, given you’re calling me,” she retorted.

  Her mother could never wonder why they didn’t have a warm and fuzzy relationship when Madison wasn’t just allowed to call for no particular reason.

  “What is it?” her mother pushed.

  “You might have noticed a police presence outside your house. A squad car sitting there or one driving by often?”

  “What have you done, Maddy?”

  Madison clenched her free hand into a fist. With her mother, it was always about placing blame, and it always came to rest on Madison’s shoulders. But given the circumstances this time, she didn’t need her mother applying any more pressure because it was obvious all this was her fault. She really should have killed the guy when she’d had the chance…

  “Are you there? Hello?” Her mother knocked the receiver against something hard.

  “I’m here!” Madison called out.

  The receiver hit the object again.

  “Mom!”

  “Hello?”

  Madison rolled her eyes. “I’m just going to come out and say it. There’s a situation that’s come up—”

  “And there always will be as long as you’re a cop, Maddy.”

  “Mom, please. This is serious.”

  “Very well,” she said primly. “I’ll zip my lips.”

  I’ll believe that when I see it…

  Guilt snaked through Madison for thinking that so quickly.

  “I’ve been threatened and so have my loved ones,” she said directly. “This person is highly dangerous and more than capable of following through.”

  “What do you mean threatened? Threatened how?” Her mother’s voice seemed stretched thin and took on a note of seriousness.

  Madison had to consider her next words carefully. The last thing she wanted to disclose was that the threat involved the Russian Mafia. She was certain her mother held them just as responsible for the death of Madison’s grandfather as Madison did. Bringing them up would only escalate the matter and fray emotions.

  “Our lives, Mom,” Madison said, letting the words carry on a breath. “Our lives have been threatened.”

  “Well, we’re coming up there, then.”

  Her mother continued talking, but Madison had stopped listening. The thought that her parents would want to come to Stiles hadn’t even occurred to her.

  “My girls are in danger and—”

  “Mom,” she interrupted, “I need you and Dad to stay put. A call’s been made to the local PD and they’re watching over you both.”

  “You can’t expect me to just do nothing while some animal comes after my girls.”

  Her mother’s tenacity and the words my girls had Madison’s heart swelling. But the moment was short-lived.

  “If you’d just walked away years ago…” Now Madison pictured her mother’s face going red from her rising blood pressure. “Did your father and I not provide a good enough example for you on how to live a happy life?”

  A grinding ache formed in Madison’s chest. It was a common side effect of trying to communicate with her mother, and it was also a signal that it was time to put an end to the discussion. “You and Dad just stay where you are. You’ll be safer there.”

  “And you’ve never been a mother,” her mom growled. “How can I expect you to know how I’m feeling right now?”

  Tears stung Madison’s eyes. The woman could be so vindictive. “Please, just stay where you are.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Hysteria licked every word.

  Madison’s hands were shaking. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Yeah, of course, you do.”

  One final attempt at piling on a guilt trip, and the line went dead.

  -

  CHAPTER

  19

  MAYBE A BULLET TO THE head wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Her mother was certainly reliable, at least at making her feel like a failure. Once she got the flashbacks sorted out, the next topic she really needed to discuss with Dr. Connor was her relationship with her mother. Although, Madison didn’t really hold any hope that the shrink could salvage the charred remains of their mother-daughter relationship. She and her mother butted heads as far back as Madison could remember. There were only pockets of time when she seemed to have her mother’s approval, but they were always ripped apart just as quickly as they’d been stitched together. And usually any sort of grace bestowed upon Madison was because she’d done something her mother wanted her to do; it was never a result of living life her way.

  But that conversation had ended fifteen minutes ago. Her hands were still shaking as she walked through the station to her desk to meet up with Terry before heading to get the autopsy findings from Richards. She wondered if she had driven slowly enough for Terry to beat her back here. It turned out she had.

  Terry jumped up from his chair when he saw her. “Where have you been?” He was out of breath, though, and had probably just sat down.

  “I told you I was going to see my sister,” she said, playing along for now so he didn’t know he was spotted tailin
g her. “Why are you so excited?

  “Cynthia and Mark found cameras in Bates’s house and—”

  Madison held up a hand. “She texted me. They’re going to trace them.”

  “Yeah.” The one word came out like air from a deflating balloon.

  “You were worried about me.” She smiled. “You seem happy to see me.”

  “Of course, I was,” he said, gesturing emphatically. “You’re out there running around without protection—”

  She tapped her waist above her gun holster.

  He sneered. “You know what I mean.”

  She gripped his shoulder. “I do. But everything is just fine.”

  “Thank God. I never should have agreed to let you out of my sight.”

  Madison consulted the clock on the wall. It was nearing two, and Richards was a stickler for punctuality.

  “We should go.” She ushered Terry along by making a brushing motion with her hands.

  Terry stepped in line with her. “Troy came over looking for you, by the way. So did Winston. I was surprised that the chief didn’t stop by, too.”

  He could have been watching her part of the time, but she didn’t think so. She’d wager the moment she left the lot, so had Terry. For now, she’d continue to play along… “What did you tell them?”

  They reached the elevator, and she pushed the “down” button. The doors opened right away, and they got on.

  “That you must have slipped into the bathroom or something.”

  Now she was convinced his story about Troy and Winston coming by was fiction. Either man would have just waited at her desk for her return.

  “And they bought that?” she challenged. “I was gone for almost an hour.”

  Terry bobbed his head side to side. “It worked out.”

  “It did.”

  “I’m still mad at myself for letting you go alone,” he lamented.

  Withholding the fact that he’d tailed her must have been eating away at him for him to say what he had. Madison scanned his eyes, though, and they didn’t give any indication he was going to fess up to following her. “I know you were there. Watching me at Starbucks.”

  Terry shook his head. “No, I just told you that I’m mad at myself for—”

  “Save it, Terry. I saw you. Black Nissan Sentra?” She moved in front of him, trying to force eye contact. “And everything you just told me happened with Troy and Winston? That didn’t happen, did it?”

  “Fine.” He lifted his head. “I followed you from the moment you left the lot. But did you really expect me to let you go on your own right now?”

  She hugged him.

  He stepped back. “What was that for?”

  “For caring about me.”

  “Don’t let that get out of this elevator.” He smiled, uneasy. “You can be one confusing person sometimes.”

  She grinned. “It’s a special skill of mine.”

  The elevator dinged, and the doors opened.

  “I’d say,” Terry replied, stepping off first and leading the way to the morgue.

  Richards was at his computer in the corner and turned around when they entered.

  “Right on time.” Richards stood and came toward them and Bates’s body, which looked worse on the metal slab than it had at the crime scene. The blood was gone, but the autopsy had left its marks and the stab wounds were more noticeable. Even seeing Bates like this, Madison experienced no empathy for him. There was just a twinge of anger and a sliver of aggravation that he seemed to be what brought Constantine back to Stiles. But why? And would she ever get the answer to that? Or would she die trying?

  “The victim was stabbed twenty-seven times,” Richards said as he moved around the body and pressed his fingers next to some of the wounds. “The killer took his time, knowing where to inflict injury and how deep to go without immediately killing the victim.”

  “He put up one hell of a fight,” Terry said.

  “As best he could anyhow. You’ll recall how he was bound to his bed? The jagged edges on some of the wounds, as well as the cuts on his wrists from the zip ties, indicate the victim was bucking at his constraints.” Richards spoke with his eyes on the body.

  “What was the cause of death?” Madison asked.

  “The killer struck the left renal artery, and it caused extensive hemorrhaging. He bled out internally.”

  Madison nodded. “What about the type of blade that was used?”

  “It was straight-edged.” Richards smacked his lips. “This case reminded me of a woman I had through here about ten months ago, so I did some research.” Richards slid his gaze from the body to Madison. “Her name was Lillian Norton. Do you remember her?” The way the ME was looking at her told Madison that he figured she did, and he continued without waiting for a response. “Norton had been stabbed the same number of times, even though the killer took more time with her.”

  Madison gestured to Terry. “We were considering the possibility that the killer knew Bates would be expecting company at seven in the morning. He could have moved things along for that reason.”

  “The killer? You don’t have a suspect in mind?” Richards regarded her skeptically.

  Her chest became heavy and her head light. “You don’t like it when we hypothesize.”

  Richards tightened his jaw.

  “Fine, I have someone in mind,” she confessed. “And, yes, I remember Lillian, and I am very well aware of who her killer was.”

  “You of all people should be,” Richards served back. He passed a look to Terry.

  “Has someone told you that we suspect Constantine Romanov as Bates’s killer?” Madison asked. She needed to make sure the medical examiner’s opinion hadn’t been swayed.

  Richards shook his head. “You referred to the killer as a man a minute ago, and as for Constantine Romanov, I drew that conclusion myself. The stabbings in both Norton’s and Bates’s murders were inflicted in a similar pattern, and in both cases, it was apparent that the killer knew where to strike.”

  Madison’s cell started ringing. “I have to take this. One minute.”

  “Knight,” she answered.

  “It’s Gardener.” His grave tone shot a sliver of pain through her. “There’s been a murder—”

  Madison’s eyes widened, the phone nearly dropping from her hand. She stood there, unable to respond as the shock and the fear drained her blood from her veins.

  “Madison? You there?” Gardener asked.

  She swallowed, trying to wet her dry throat. “Yeah,” she said. “Who’s the vic?”

  “Yasmine Stone.”

  Relief whooshed through Madison’s body, and she tried to temper it outwardly. It might not have been one of her loved ones, but a twentysomething woman had just been killed.

  She looked at Terry. “We’ll be there in ten.”

  -

  CHAPTER

  20

  MADISON AND TERRY WERE STANDING in Yasmine Stone’s apartment with Officer Gardener. His trainee was in the hall guarding the scene.

  “The landlord called us in when she didn’t answer her door,” Gardener began. “He lives directly across the hall and said that he hadn’t seen her leave since she came home yesterday afternoon.”

  Yasmine’s lifeless eyes were staring at the ceiling. She was laid out on her back on her bed, over the sheets, and dressed in silk pajamas. She was on a bit of an incline with her head supported by pillows against her wood headboard. Her arms were at her sides, and her mouth rested in a smile giving her a peaceful appearance. The comforter was bunched up at the end of the bed. Blood had poured from a bullet hole in her forehead down the side of her face and had seeped into the sheets. It was dry now, though, meaning the death had happened hours ago.

  Gardener continued. “There are no signs of a break-in.”

  M
adison nodded at Gardener. “So she likely knew her killer.”

  Terry jingled the change in his pocket, something he normally reserved for interrogation rooms and throwing suspects off guard, but this time he must have been anxious. “What about company? Did the landlord see anyone come over?”

  Gardener shook his head. “No, he didn’t, but he couldn’t have been watching 24-7. I told him to go back to his apartment and wait there for the detectives to come over to talk to him. I also got ahold of building management, and they’re going to get us the surveillance videos from the front lobby and the stairs. We might be able to tell who came to ‘visit.’”

  “Any cameras in the hall?” Terry asked.

  “No, just the lobby and stairs. I also called in to Crime Scene and left a message for Richards.” Gardener stepped toward the door. “Well, I’ll leave you guys to it. I’ll be in the hall if you need me.”

  “Thanks,” Madison said and turned her attention back to Yasmine. Only twenty-three years old—what a waste. Feelings of empathy and sadness for a life cut short washed over her, and she welcomed both after her stone-cold detachment to Bates’s murder.

  Thinking of Bates, they’d pegged—not proved—Constantine as the killer, and now he’d taken out Yasmine? She was having a hard time accepting that her murder wasn’t committed by the same hand, despite the difference in MO. It just meant Constantine was versatile in his killing methods, which they already knew from previous experience.

  “I’d say it was a nine-mil bullet,” Terry surmised.

  Madison nodded. “Yeah, I agree.” Of course, the crime lab would confirm the caliber. She searched around the bed, on the floor next to it, and got down on her haunches to peer beneath it. “No sign of the murder weapon or bullet casings. The killer cleaned up after himself.”

  “Himself, or more specifically Constantine?” Terry raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s too coincidental not to be him. We know that he doesn’t have a preference for any particular weapon. He’s killed with a sniper rifle before, so what’s a handgun?” Not that handguns were the only weapon that fired 9mm bullets.