Hunger Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 5)

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  There was a silence. Then she spoke. “This is a matter far beyond the threat to Lindstrom. Detective Ortiz is a serving law enforcement officer who is engaged in a criminal conspiracy to incite and/or commit rape, torture, and quite possibly murder. We have no idea who else he may intend to target. He is a clear and present danger to any number of people, perhaps anyone he comes into contact with. He is abusing his office in a manner that diminishes all of us.” Her voice, always so serene, was shaking with the force of her anger. “To ignore this threat would be indefensible. It is imperative that he be brought to justice before he can harm—anyone.”

  Roarke realized she was right, and felt a fresh guilt: he had been so focused on the danger to Cara it hadn’t occurred to him that with an obvious sadist like Ortiz, other women might be in danger.

  “I’m in Palm Desert,” he confessed.

  “Of course,” she replied softly.

  He was about to speak when the lights snapped on in Ortiz’s living room. Even from a distance, Roarke could see him grabbing his coat, heading for the hallway to the front door.

  Roarke whispered to Singh, “I have eyes on Ortiz. He’s on the move.”

  He shoved his phone in his pocket and ran for his car.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Isla Vista was in full party mode. Blowouts raged at every other house on the block. Strings of red lights festooned the yards and patios, along with clusters of heart-shaped balloons, laser strobes, mirror balls. Students and civilians lined the sidewalks, hoping to get past the yard guards into the houses.

  Jade and Kris pushed their way through the chaos in the streets, weaving through the mass of young humanity toward the Tau house. The ground under their feet rumbled like a small earthquake with the combined force of dozens of sound systems, bass turned up to the max.

  Jade’s snakeskin costume was well hidden under a light coat. No point in drawing attention to herself until she was inside. Not that anyone was likely to take note of her in this chaos. Especially because the majority of people were already stumbling drunk.

  Which made all of this so much easier.

  Her eyes focused ahead on the four-frat-house complex.

  Dudebros guarded each gateway, with backed-up masses of hopeful partygoers waiting in line. The sorting process was obvious even from a distance. Sorority girls in lingerie got in, after a whole lot of ogling. Guys in groups of more than two were turned away.

  As they neared the house, Kris grabbed Jade’s arm. She was suddenly white as a sheet, breathing shallowly. “Wait. Wait. You don’t have to. Maybe we should just go back.”

  “I’ve got this,” Jade muttered. “Hold up.” She pulled Kris into the shadows between two buildings. In the semidark, she turned her back to the street and fished the snuff bottle on its chain from between her breasts. She dipped the spoon, snorted powder, felt the tingly rush . . .

  And feels herself blasted into the absolute present. Her eyes gleam as she wipes her nose.

  Are you ready for me, asshole? Tonight’s your unlucky night.

  She slips off her coat and hands it over to Kris. “I’ll text you.”

  Getting into the party is no big. She’s dressed like a hooker and underage, the biggest frat-boy bait there is. She can see the door guards drooling as she slinks up to the gate in her glimmering bodysuit.

  One of the guards leers at her while he stamps a red heart on her hand. Kris’s story flashes through her mind: She had these—Ks—stamped on her back.

  Yeah, Jade knows something about branding.

  She moves past the guards, through the wide front doorway into the hall. The party is ear-crushingly loud. The strobe lights are blinding. The pounding of the speakers is like being compressed in some factory grinder.

  In this crush of humanity there is no such thing as walking. Instead, she lets herself be carried by the human current, into a dark room throbbing with techno, jam-packed with lingerie-clad college students. Sorority sluts in their Vicky’s Secret sequins, dudes in their Calvins, reeking of beer and sweat. Despite her level of undress it is stiflingly hot.

  Guys shout in her face and she just smiles. She can’t hear a thing over the sucky electronic music.

  Kegs are lined up on a long table. The floor is already wet with spilled drinks and God knows what else, so disgusting no one would dare take off their shoes. Not just the floor, everything is covered in some unidentifiable sticky liquid. She knows the bathroom will be grotesque—puke in the sink and piss in the shower.

  She thanks her lucky stars she’s high. There is no other way this would be bearable. You’d have to be wasted out of your mind to think this was any kind of good time.

  She forces her mind off the squalor and makes herself inhabit her role, moving her body with the sinuousness of a snake. She sees jaws dropping around her as she glides through the crowd, taking in her surroundings in quick flashes as the body-thumping techno music blares.

  A swaying crowd around the beer pong table.

  Two girls making out on the dance floor while a circle of frat bros records them with iPhones.

  Another group of guys pointing at a younger girl, chanting, “Fresh. Fresh. Fresh.”

  Of course people are texting and snapping selfies like mad. ’Cause it’s irrelevant whether or not you’re having a good time as long as it looks like you’re having a good time on Snapchat and the Gram.

  She glances into another room, sees three sorority girls wall-twerking—doing handstands against the wall and pumping their hips frantically. Another sorority chick is bent over, hands on the floor, grinding her ass as a frat boy dry humps her from behind.

  Jade knows she’s done worse—way, way worse—but the sight fills her with disgust. It occurs to her that any kind of performing for men, boys, fucktards, whatever you wanted to call them, was doing way more harm than good.

  But she has no time to dwell on that. She has work to do.

  She steels herself and moves into the crowd in the main room.

  Being alone, she is instantly targeted. Which is the point. She can feel the ripple of electricity as she pushes her way through the crowd.

  She is a glittering serpent among all the trashy Victoria’s Secret Angels. Male eyes follow her and female rivals rage in her wake. She has left them all in the dust.

  It is so much more than the costume.

  After all—the whole party is packed with amateurs.

  What Jade knows comes from volumes of hard-earned experience. She knows the ultimate secret: that most people—men and women—are subs. Men who are all dom—those are the assholes you have to look out for. She’s had to deal with more than her share of those. And most men who are that kind can only pull that shit on kids, teenagers, or junkies. But men who are on the sub scale—all you have to do is take charge. And you can take charge with just a look—a look that says, “On your knees.”

  She doesn’t know which Topher will be, dom or sub. But she’s looking forward to finding out. Either way, she’s ready to play.

  She finally spots him as he steps up to a long table to play flip cup amid cheers from some of the bros and most of the girls.

  The two teams of three take their places at each end of the table. At the signal, Topher and the head player of the other team lift their full cups, chug beer. Topher gets to the bottom first, places his empty cup faceup on the edge of the table, and uses one hand to flip the cup over so it lands face down. He sticks the cup on his first try, to a huge cheer, and the next player on the team takes over, chugging his cup . . .

  Right.

  Is there a stupider game on the planet?

  But Jade watches as if old Toph is the most fascinating thing on earth. Watches him, until he feels her eyes on him and turns to look. She lets him catch her looking. That’s the key, to stare right into them. Works every time.

  And he sees her, all right.

  She’s a pro. Come on hot, then look away, pretend to falter, to be out of her depth.

  She sees
him start to strut, show off a little. Voice louder, gestures bigger. God, so easy.

  She watches the whole game. When he wins, because of course he wins, the crowd jeers and cheers.

  She makes a point of disappearing into the crowd as his friends are doing that pileup thing guys do, ’cause when do they ever pass up a chance to grope each other? So when he looks for her, which she knows he does, she is gone.

  Let him find her, think he’s the one in control.

  She moves into the one dancing room that isn’t playing shitty house music. Looks over the room, chooses her spot. A table solid enough to hold her weight, against a wall so she’ll be even more noticeable.

  Yeah, that’ll do.

  She sways along with a couple of dudes trying to coax her onto the floor, and then she sees him come into the room. Pretending not to be looking for her.

  Right, dude. You just keep pretending that.

  And at that same second, an actual good song starts.

  Meant to be.

  She makes eye contact with King Frat Dude so there’s no doubt at all that she’s doing this for him. And then she steps up on the table, all shimmering fish-scale legs and glittery fuck-me heels, and starts to work it. Dancing against the wall. Body waves, rippling, sinuous.

  The whole room is watching her, guys howling and cheering, girls fuming.

  Her hands are all over herself, her neck, her tits, her thighs.

  Oh, he’s watching now.

  Her eyes graze his a time or two, letting him know who this dance is for.

  All for you, douchebag.

  As the song ends she throws back her head and pins herself, legs spread, against the wall.

  The whole room—well, half of it—explodes in cheers.

  She holds his gaze across the room—then she reaches out her hands to two guys below her and they lift her down.

  Topher comes to her, silent, authoritative, the crowd on the dance floor parting for him like he’s some frat boy Moses. He stops in front of Jade, looking down at her, and they start to dance without speaking.

  His hands move slow circles on her hips. She stares up into his eyes, daring him.

  He bends to her and they are mouth to mouth. She sucks his tongue into her mouth, lets him taste the coke on her tongue.

  “Whoa . . .” he breathes, and plunges deeper. She pushes him away with one hand on his chest . . . then slides a finger into his mouth for him to suck.

  He licks her finger, licks her palm, groans with pleasure.

  It’s not just sex, this. He’s just discovered she’s dipped her nail in powder.

  “Oh, that’s what I’m talking about,” he purrs.

  “Want more?” she challenges him, letting her tone convey layers of meaning. He stares back into her eyes.

  “I want it all.”

  She runs her hand down her hip to one of the cutouts of the bodysuit. Besides the vial around her neck, she has another stashed there, a professional little tube.

  She pulls it out, discreetly flashes it at him in the palm of her hand. “Know someplace quiet we can share this?”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Roarke followed in the rental car as Ortiz drove his oversized SUV through the dark. The silhouette of the San Jacinto and Santa Rosa mountain ranges towered above them, massive and black against the deep blue of sky, outlined by the silver of the moon.

  Ortiz motored down one of the seemingly endless highways parallel to the mountains, past more golf courses, strip malls under development. He turned on a side street and pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant with a blinking neon cactus sign under the word NOPAL.

  Roarke idled his rental car outside the parking lot, watching Ortiz park near the front of the lot, then get out and go inside the restaurant.

  Only then did Roarke turn into the parking lot and park in a space with a view of the front door and Ortiz’s SUV.

  He sat in the car in the dark, itching to go in.

  Is he meeting someone? Is that someone already in there?

  Chances were there would be a vestibule inside the front door, where Roarke would be hidden from the diners in the main room. He could look over the scene without being spotted.

  He reached for the door handle—

  Wait, instinct whispered.

  He sat back in the seat. Slow minutes passed.

  He was just reaching for the door again when another car pulled into the lot. A bulky Tahoe that got Roarke’s attention.

  The driver parked at the edge of the parking lot, and a man stepped out of the car. Dressed in khaki trousers and a sport coat, thick around the middle—but he came out of the vehicle with a “don’t fuck with me” authority and was instantly scanning the lot in a wide sweep, taking in his surroundings. He shut the car door behind him while still keeping an eye on the whole lot. And there was the unmistakable giveaway—his right elbow kept bent and slightly pressed into his body, guarding the pistol in his waistband.

  Law enforcement. Present or ex, but yeah, this guy is a cop.

  This is the one Ortiz is meeting.

  The man walked toward the restaurant, back straight, a heavy and confident stride.

  Roarke waited for him to open the front door, to disappear into the restaurant. And then he got out of his own car and followed.

  At the restaurant entrance, he held his breath and opened the door, took a quick glance into the entry.

  He’d been right: there was a waiting area with a few leather benches, the cashier’s counter, and the hostess’s stand.

  He stopped at the stand and reached for a takeout menu, then moved over to a wall, pretending to study it. With his head bent over the menu, he looked to the side, scanning through an archway into the dining room. Sure enough, Ortiz was in a back booth, with the new guy seated opposite him. They were already deep in conversation, Ortiz’s body language tense and agitated, the cop/ex-cop’s defensive.

  The hostess breezed by Roarke, leading a couple into the dining room. While she was occupied, he walked back out the front door.

  In the parking lot, he pulled out his phone and crossed over to take photos of the new guy’s vehicle and license plate. He checked quickly through the windows to see if there was anything revealing on the seats or in the seat wells—but the car was well kept, barren of any interesting evidence.

  Roarke turned away and returned to his rental car. Inside, he phoned Singh to report.

  “I need you to run a plate on a Chevy Tahoe.” He gave her the number.

  “One moment,” she told him, and he waited in silence, watching the front door of the restaurant.

  In no time, Singh was back on.

  “The owner of the Tahoe is Corey Parker. DOB 4-20-62. Resident of Rancho Mirage, home address 4525 Mariposa Avenue. Parker is formerly of the Palm Desert branch of the Riverside Sheriff’s Department. Retired four years ago, now does private investigation work. I am sending a file.”

  Roarke told her, “Ortiz is meeting with Parker right now, in a restaurant near Ortiz’s house.”

  Hiring him to track Cara? Or is it something else? He’d put out a general call for anyone willing to go hunting for her . . . so what is he doing with a PI now?

  “Chief?” Singh asked.

  Roarke realized he’d been silent for some moments, lost in his own dark thoughts.

  “I’m here.”

  “Do you intend to speak with this Parker?”

  Roarke didn’t see any use in pretending. “I’m thinking about it.”

  Instead of warning him against it, Singh continued carefully. “If perhaps Parker is communicating with these—bounty hunters—and you were able to obtain an email for them, I would be able to retrieve their IP address by sending an email to them, ostensibly from Detective Ortiz. I could put a pixel inside the email that would give me the IP if the recipient opened that email. And that would give us an idea of the hunters’ current location.”

  Cyber was not Roarke’s field of expertise. “So, you would send a
n email to them from Ortiz’s email address?”

  “I could, if I hacked his account,” Singh answered dubiously. “However, Ortiz is being quite cautious, using routers, encryption, scrambling his IP. He will certainly be monitoring for any hacking attempts. What we need is to induce him to send an email to us, to an account I will then have control over. As for the hunters, judging from their communications, these men are . . .” she paused, as if searching. “Rather dim bulbs. I believe I could compose an email they would open.”

  I bet you can, Roarke thought, with a flash of amusement.

  The amusement didn’t last. He fell into silence, and a mounting dread. Were the bounty hunters on the road with Cara right now? Bringing her back to Ortiz, subjecting her to inconceivable horrors along the way?

  His whole drive here he had been sick with escalating anxiety. He felt danger.

  Singh spoke out of nowhere. She was still on the line. “Why is it, do you think, that Lindstrom does not use firearms?”

  Roarke was startled. It was a question he was drawn back to again and again.

  It wasn’t entirely true to say that she didn’t use guns. His first real encounter with her had taken place just three months ago, at an abandoned cement plant being used by a drug and human trafficking ring. There had been a shootout, and Cara had taken an automatic rifle off one of the gang members. Her proficiency with the weapon made him think it wasn’t the first time she’d held one.

  But the team had never turned up another instance of her using a gun to kill. She used knives, fire, up-close accidents, and of course her default M.O.: a straight razor to the throat.

  It was exactly why his fear for her was so elevated now. These mouth-breathers were hunting Cara—and not with knives. She was without question a ruthless, skilled fighter, but all the skill and smarts in the world didn’t mean much against a high-powered rifle.

  He turned the question back to Singh. “Why do you think she doesn’t?”

  There was a silence on the line.

  “I do not know what occupies Cara’s head. But I know I could not be a field agent. I have my service weapon. I am certified. I keep my training current. But I never pick it up without feeling . . .” She hesitated. “Diminished.”