Terror gripped her, making it difficult to breathe. She couldn't move anything except her eyes.
Monty Winkler's eyes.
She―he― was lying on one side. On a sofa.
Where was he?
The last thing he remembered was…
James! His brother wanted something from him. What was it? It was something very important. Think!
James' image flashed before him.
"Monty, you need to sign this. Today."
A piece of stark white paper fluttered in the air. It disintegrated into dust before it touched the ground.
Wait? What was that, James?
An image of Marilyn fluttered past him.
Come back, he yearned to say.
They'd had a fight. What was it about? Why couldn't he remember anything?
He thought of Marilyn.
Marilyn, my love. I'm so sorry. I hope you'll forgive me.
From the corner of his eye, he peeked at the shadow that hovered over him. He tried to make out a face.
There wasn't one.
The shadow carried something shiny in one hand.
A hammer?
Whatever it was, it rushed toward Monty's head with lightning speed. He tried to back away, but his body didn't cooperate. He heard a sickening thud and his head jerked close to the edge of the sofa.
Oh God…
As another blow fell, an enraged shriek filled the air.
But it wasn't Monty's.
He felt a rush of dizziness. He gasped, and his lungs sputtered. No, please…
No sound came from his mouth.
The shadow moved away and Monty drifted between unconsciousness and death. He felt no pain. The drug in his system took care of that.
In the flickering light, he saw that his wrinkled hands were covered in blood and tied with coarse rope. He couldn't move his fingers. He couldn't even feel them.
Someone was approaching.
Help me, he tried to cry out.
Arms reached down. He was lifted and carried out into the night air. He couldn't focus on anything, not the person who carried him or his surroundings. The shadow unceremoniously leaned down and dropped him in some kind of…box?
Monty struggled to blink as his limbs were maneuvered until they fit inside the cramped space. Fear gripped his heart and he could hear its frantic beating.
Wait! No, please…why are you doing this?
He wanted to cry, and for a moment he thought the cool droplets on his face were tears until he smelled their overpowering scent.
Gasoline.
Oh Jesus. He's going to burn me to death.
Bile rose in his throat. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and he felt his entire body ebbing and receding. He heard a haunting violin composition, a sputtering engine and a slapping sound. Music symbols floated through his mind.
He wanted to relax, give in. Surrender.
Fingers of fire scorched him. Intense heat engulfed the top of his body. He screamed silently. He was melting, burning…dying. He could smell his flesh burning, but he couldn't move, couldn't do anything but lie there.
God help me!
The violin melody merged with the pitter-patter of rain, the bittersweet sound calming him.
Maybe the rain would put out the fire. Maybe not.
Marilyn, I love you. I always have. James―
A gasoline tear on his cheek sizzled and ignited.
His life flashed before him.
Did my life mean anything?
The glow that encircled him was brilliant and he fought for air, while a sudden cold permeated his skin.
This is it then. End of the line.
Gradually, the blazing light was extinguished and Monty released his fear and floated away. It was peaceful in the great Nothing. He could float there forever.
No, you can't!
The part that was Natassia struggled to gain control and return to her body, but the calmness seduced her, threatening to pull her back.
Something stung his arm―her arm.
She heard a muffled yell and spiraled away from the iron grip of Monty Winkler's spirit. But not before she felt another painful twinge. Finally, Natassia began the painful task of separation.
Time to go…
"Yeah, baby!" a woman yelled.
Even in her half-conscious state, Natassia grinned. When she opened her eyes, she saw Jasi standing beside her, a worried expression on her face.
"It's been twelve minutes," Jasi said.
"I'm fine."
"Your pulse was slowing."
Natassia shrugged. "That happens sometimes."
She realized Jasi wasn't going to leave it alone, so she said, "I'm really fine. You got me out. That's all that matters."
Jasi's expression was dead serious. "I did exactly what you told me."
Natassia chuckled. "I can't believe you fell for it."
"For what?"
Natassia couldn't hold back any longer. Her eyes watered and she burst into laughter. Jasi watched her, confusion filtering across her face.
"Come on," she said. "I'll explain on the way back to the hotel. Then I'll tell you what I saw. Maybe you can make sense of it." She pushed open the door. "Shit."
A crowd of five men backed away from the door. When they saw the two women, there was a mix of gasps and snorting laughter.
"What's their problem?" Jasi whispered.
"I'll tell you outside."
Muffling a snicker, Natassia dragged her down the hall, praying that her partner had a sense of humor.
"So, spill it," Jasi demanded once they reached the car.
"Yeah, baby?"
Jasi eyed her suspiciously. "That's not what brings you back. Is it?"
"Nope."
"The pinch?"
"Yup."
"So the 'yeah, baby' was…"
"Just for kicks."
Jasi's cheeks turned red. "Oh God. Those men in the hall. They'll think we…"
Natassia winked. "Yeah, baby."
"You aren't…uh…"
"Gay?" Natassia shook her head. "No, I like men."
Her partner seemed frazzled.
"Well, now that we've got that out in the open," Jasi said, "let's focus on the man of the day. What did you see?"
Natassia gave Jasi the details of her vision, then allowed her thoughts to dwell on another man. Benjamin Roberts. She'd read up on him during the flight from Quebec City. He fascinated her almost as much as Jasi did. But for different reasons.
With Jasi, she felt a kinship born from their extreme abilities. Ben, on the other hand, was touted as one of the best CFBI profilers. His gift as a Psychometric Empath was understated, mainly due to the fact that his was an unreliable skill. He never knew if he'd get a vision or not. So he saved his energy and his visions for the most important witnesses. Or suspects.
What would happen if he touched me?
She pictured him. Tall, dark, serious.
And very handsome.
She wondered what he was doing.
At that very moment, Ben was thinking about a certain CFBI agent. One with dark, messy hair and piercing blue eyes. He sat on the bed, three pillows bunched behind him as he read through Natassia Prushenko's file. Over the past four years, the woman had been credited with breaking sixteen major cases, some with live victims, some with corpses. A Level 1 who could read a victim was invaluable.
A vision of Natassia's sultry eyes and shapely curves flashed through his mind. Was that what they were churning out in Russia now? Sexy female detectives?
"Damn," he said softly.
He was certain about one thing. Someone had slacked off on dress code regulations during her basic training. He'd have to talk to her about that. Lay down the law, show her who was in charge.
Except he wasn't in charge. Jasi was.
10
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Ottawa, ON
While Jasi and their new partner went to interview some of Winkler's associates, Ben perused the files o
n his laptop. The police hadn't found any usable evidence outside of Winkler's body.
He blinked a few times to moisten his dry eyes.
If we don't get a break soon, this case will be shelved.
His data-com beeped. "Matthew, what's up?"
"Another politician is missing," Matthew replied grimly.
"Shit." Switching to speaker mode, Ben clipped the 'com to his jacket pocket and brought up a new folder on his laptop. "Who is it?"
"Porter Sampson."
Ben labeled the folder. "The Minister of Finance?"
"The one and only. His wife just reported him missing."
"How long's he been gone?"
There was a brief pause.
"Since Monday night," Matthew said.
Ben opened a document file and made some notes.
"You think the two cases are connected, Matthew?"
"It's too much of a coincidence not to think that."
"Give me a quick overview."
There was a rustle of paper before Matthew answered.
"Lorraine Sampson said she went to bed Monday night, shortly after eleven. Porter was in his study going over some documents. That's the last time she saw him."
"Anyone try calling him?"
"Lorraine's been calling him nearly every hour. So have some of his associates on Parliament Hill. We've tried too, but he's not answering."
"News has already leaked out about Winkler," Ben said. "Why did she wait so long?"
"She called it in yesterday afternoon when she couldn't reach Porter at work or on his cell. Someone at OPS dropped the ball and told her she had to wait twenty-four hours. They didn't make the connection."
"Jesus, you've gotta be kidding. He's the Minister of Finance, for crying out loud."
"I know," Matthew said tiredly. "We put a trace on his cell phone, but it's probably been dismantled and disposed of already."
"What about phone records?"
"I have them in my hands as we speak. There are no unusual phone calls on his cell, nothing we could trace back or triangulate."
"What about at home?"
"That's where it gets interesting. There were numerous late night calls, all originating from the same phone number. One of the calls came in the night Sampson disappeared. But we won't get too far with that."
"Let me guess. They came from a payphone."
"You got it. The same payphone where Winkler's calls had originated from."
"Did you get the phone records from his office there?"
"We're still waiting for those."
"So Monty Winkler gets a series of calls from a payphone, then disappears and ends up dead. Then Porter Sampson, the Minister of Finance, gets phone calls from the same payphone, then mysteriously disappears without a word to anyone, not even his wife."
"I know you're thinking what I'm thinking, Ben."
There's a serial killer loose in Ottawa.
That's what Ben was thinking.
"I hope we're both wrong, Matthew."
He strode to the window, parted the hotel's plush drapes and stared down at the busy street below before glancing across to the mammoth Parliament buildings.
Ben paced the room for a moment.
"What the hell is going on, Matthew?"
"Hell if I know. But one thing's for certain, we'd better find out soon. God knows what'll happen to Porter Sampson if we don't."
"Someone has a hate-on for our esteemed lawmakers, and we don't have one solid lead."
"Speaking of leads, that photograph Jasmine sent to Ops might help. The speedboat near the crime scene came back registered to someone high up on the political food chain."
Ben perked up. "Really?"
"Victor Cahill, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. See if he's connected to the case."
"I suspect that if he is, this case won't remain quiet."
"Not in the least," came Matthew's reply. "To change the subject, I take it Jasmine and your new partner are out following leads on the Winkler case."
"Yeah. I'll fill them in when they get back."
"How's Prushenko working out?"
Ben straightened, his eyes wandering across the room. Should he tell Matthew about his misgivings, or just suck it up?
"Ben, you still there?"
"Yeah. Prushenko will be fine. It's only temporary, right?"
"Far as I know, she's here for this case only. She'll be sent back to Quebec when it's over."
Ben let out a slow breath. The thought of Natassia Prushenko leaving once the case was closed made him feel relieved. She made him nervous.
"I'll send you the files on Sampson," Matthew said.
"After I visit his wife, I'll head over to Winkler's house. Did the X-Disc pick up anything at Winkler's scene?"
"Not a thing. Makes me think that area wasn't the primary crime scene."
Ben let that sink in for a moment.
"Anything else?"
"Let's just hope you get a vision."
Matthew wasn't chastising him. But still…
"I'll start cross-researching when I get back," Ben said, knowing that his psychometric skill wasn't nearly as developed or reliable as Jasi's gift. "There has to be a connection to these men outside of the phone calls."
Matthew grunted. "Politics is an incestuous world."
"Yeah, that's enough of a connection right there. But you're right. Someone has an obvious distaste for the lawmakers in this country. We'd better find Sampson before he ends up on a slab like Winkler."
"There is one piece of good news, Ben. The RCMP found Monty Winkler's Mercedes."
"Where?"
"In the river, east of the city."
"You think he was dumped in it?"
"No. All the doors were closed and the trunk was locked. It's quarantined in the police impound lot. A trace team is on their way."
Ben heaved a frustrated sigh. "I bet they won't find much. This perp has been too careful. Any trace would be washed away or contaminated, just like with Winkler. Which reminds me…has the pathologist released Winkler's body yet?"
"She signed off on it this morning," Matthew replied. "Marilyn has arranged a funeral service the day after tomorrow. I want you all there. And be alert. They're expecting quite a crowd."
"I take it you haven't found Porter Sampson's car?"
"The RCMP is searching the river, near where we found Monty's car."
Would Winkler's killer be stupid enough to use the same dumping grounds?
"We've got this under wraps for now," Matthew said. "Try to keep it that way, Ben. The last thing we need is the media to get their claws into these cases. They'll make mincemeat out of the CFBI for not protecting these MPs."
"I won't say a word."
As Ben approached the driveway of 501 Linden Terrace, he let out a muffled curse.
Someone's let the cat out of the bag.
Porter Sampson's driveway was buzzing with activity. The paparazzi had caught the scent of a story, and like a pack of mangy wolves, they weren't about to let go of their prey.
"Shit, shit, shit," he muttered.
He lowered the window and flashed his badge at a couple of burly police detectives. They quickly pushed back the crowd, allowing him through. Stepping out of the SUV, he gritted his teeth in frustration.
"Okay, people! There's nothing to see here!"
That didn't stop the rapid flashing of cameras in the slimy palms of trigger-happy photographers. A dozen questions were fired at him, shot from the mouths of news-hungry reporters.
"What exactly is the nature of your business here?"
"Are you a friend of the deceased?"
"Do you know Mrs. Sampson intimately?"
Ben smoothed his Armani jacket, suddenly wishing he'd changed into something less ostentatious. He set his mouth in a firm line and moved with purpose toward the front porch.
An Ebonic woman opened the door before he had time to knock. She resembled a slightly older, rounder version of Oprah Winfrey. Not tha
t he ever watched the TV icon's show or anything.
"Are you the CFBI agent?" she asked timidly.
"Yes, I am, ma'am. Agent Benjamin Roberts. You're Lorraine Sampson, I presume?"
"Come inside, please" she said. "Before those vultures have you on the front page of the Ottawa Sun."
He stepped inside the L-shaped bungalow. The sweet scent of baking wafted toward him. His stomach grumbled as Lorraine led him into the living room.
"I bake when I'm stressed," she said in a quiet voice.
He didn't even try to smile. "I eat."
Lorraine's eyes watered and her hands shook as she motioned for him to sit. "Are you here to give me bad news?"
"We have no news yet."
"No news is good news, I guess."
A soft ding came from the kitchen.
"Cookies are ready," she said, standing slowly. "I'll be right back."
A moment later he heard quiet sobs coming from the kitchen. This was always the hardest part of his job. Dealing with secondary victims of crime, the survivors. The ones who had to somehow learn to cope with their grief and move on with their lives.
Padded footsteps announced Lorraine Sampson's return.
"Here we go." She gave him a brave smile, but her swollen eyes betrayed her. She placed a plate of warm brownies―their edges slightly burnt―on the table. Then she handed him a mug of coffee. "I added some cream," she said apologetically. "I'm sorry I forgot to ask you. That's how Porter takes it. I could get you a fresh cup if―"
He took a sip. "It's just the way I like it."
The little white lie wouldn't hurt anyone.
"Don't you want to take your gloves off?" she asked.
"Cold hands," he replied.
Lorraine nodded. "Warm heart."
She settled into a colonial style armchair and slid her hands down the carved oak armrests, as if it were her only connection to the real world.
"Porter carved this chair himself," she murmured, staring off into space. "It was his gift to me on our last anniversary. We've been married forty-five years."
"You must have been kids when you married."
"We were high school sweethearts, Porter and I. He was on the track team, a long distance runner. I was just clumsy. The first time I met him I tripped and he caught me." She chuckled. "He always says I fell for him, literally."
Ben leaned forward. "I have some questions for you, Mrs. Sampson. I know the police probably asked you the same things, but people often remember more when some time has passed."
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