No One Left To Tell no-2

by Jordan Dane

  "No. I'm sure everything is fine. Thanks for your help."

  Christian switched off the phone before the man replied. If Fiona had gone to so much trouble to disappear, he'd honor her wishes. But he ached with the emptiness of her departure. She was his anchor, his only semblance of family.

  Christian looked up. His eyes fixed upon the mirror. A stranger stared back. He'd grown used to the stark look of grief. Robbed of his innocence all those years ago, he'd never shaken the sense of loss. The tragedy cleaved to him like a malignancy, never letting him forget.

  Yet the greatest cruelty was the things he'd never remember. He still kept his old baseball glove, but came up empty when he tried to recall his father giving it to him. An old photograph of a birthday party felt like the remembrance of a stranger. Joy lay buried in his brain, a casualty of violence. The intrusion of death into his young life had left him maimed beyond hope, leaving him to wonder why he'd been the one spared.

  Then Fiona had rescued him from the institutionalized care of the state. She made sure he received the best treatment for post-traumatic stress, even taking him into her home. Never judging him, she was the only one who understood his rage—and his fear.

  But now, he had never felt so alone. It reminded him of the first time he'd stared into a mirror, looking through a child's eyes yet no longer a child. Fiona had aligned herself beside him back then. Too numb to understand her reason for caring, he had resisted her tenacity at first, fighting her every move. Eventually, he drew from her strength, and accepted her nurturing.

  But his demons had come for him at last, peering out of the shadows of his past. Now, they brazenly hovered like vultures, eager to strip him of what remained. The image made him weary. He'd grown so tired of hurting.

  "Shake it off, Delacorte," he chastised. "Put an end to it."

  Fiona needed him for a change. He owed her far more than he could repay. She'd gotten him to this point. The rest was up to him. His desire for revenge had become a weapon, an obsession to overcome his fear of the dark. It gave him purpose, a reason to crawl out of bed each and every day. His weakness flourished into strength, and darkness had become his ally—a link forged despite the countless nightmares he'd endured over the years.

  Prepared to fight, he tensed his jaw. A stern resolve fired his eyes. He wouldn't let Fiona down.

  The old clapboard house on Elm Street looked more like condemned property than the residence of Logan McBride and his men. Logan had always despised the accommodations. They were beneath him. The locale allowed him anonymity, decreeing the respect he earned. But fear had been the real driver. Anyone in the surrounding neighborhoods who knew of his reputation gave him a wide berth.

  On the outskirts of the warehouse district, in a section of Chicago even the police feared to tread, the dilapidated, two-story structure was the property of Vinnie Buck, his number two man. Vinnie had earned his status after allowing Logan to leech off his good fortune, such as it was. And McBride's mercenaries soon followed, slowly rebuilding his followers after his stint in prison.

  His quarters were extravagant compared to the others. Wall-to-wall cots dotted the interior of the house while he enjoyed the privacy of his well-appointed single room. It was good to be king!

  Lying on his unmade bed with only a sheet over his bare body, Logan read the newspaper, his shoulders propped up against the old wooden headboard. A naked whore lay sprawled beside him, her dark hair splayed over his bed linens. For the entire afternoon, she'd taken his abusive and forceful behavior, whimpering in a tantalizing fashion when he got too rough. At one point, the pathetic wailing reminded him of a rabbit he'd set on fire when he was eight. This, of course, only spurred him on.

  Now after reading about the dead body found at St. Sebastian's, a part of his anatomy grew rigid again as he relived the moment he'd robbed Mickey Blair of his future. Yanking the covers off the woman, he clutched her bare ass with his hand, squeezing it hard enough to earn him a yelp.

  "Don't hurt me. I'm awake. What do you—" Before she finished, he'd grabbed a fistful of hair, forcing her head between his legs.

  "I don't pay you to talk. Get to work," he demanded, closing his eyes and burrowing into the pillows at his back. The newspaper fell to the floor. Through his eyelashes, he watched her and grinned. The bob of her head and the feel of her warm, wet mouth really charged his blood, but her humiliation and willingness to take his abuse had been an even greater turn-on. A soft knock on his bedroom door disturbed his reverie.

  "Go away!" he ordered impatiently.

  The hooker's eyes sought his, looking for approval. Most probably, she prayed for his dismissal at the intrusion. With a cruel sneer, he gave her neither. Hope left her eyes. She continued with even greater determination to please him. He held back his contempt at her pathetic display to curry favor.

  "It's Vinnie. I can come back." The muffled sound of the man's voice filtered through the closed door.

  His smile broadened as he bellowed, "Come in, Vin." Then, under his breath, he added, "This should be interesting."

  Barely opening his eyes, he glanced at the man's reaction as he waved him closer. Wide-eyed, Vinnie stared at the woman, in obvious admiration of her enthusiasm. Unable to ignore her, he licked his lips greedily, then eventually stammered, "You cut that pretty close last night. That little priest nearly got sent to his maker, paying a premature call to Peter at them pearly gates."

  Vinnie's version of small talk amused him. And he appreciated the man's attempt at being cryptic in front of the whore. No need for that. If she talked about anything within these four walls, she'd be fish food by nightfall.

  "I knew you could handle it. Nothing like the rush"—he gasped as he came, groaning his approval— "of almost getting caught." With a heavy sigh, Logan closed his eyes again. He shuddered at the woman's steadfast ministrations, then asked, "How did Krueger do? He have a sense of humor?"

  His eyes on the hooker, Vin elaborated on their latest recruit, Danny Krueger. "He was cool. Took two of us, like you figured. Would've given anything to see the look on that priest's face. Bet he had to change his drawers."

  A low chuckle rolled through Logan's chest. His hand brushed back the hair of the woman gazing up at him. An enticing mix of fear and adoration reflected in her eyes. As he glanced up at Vinnie, he noticed the man leered at the hooker once again. But his number two man kept up his end of the conversation, despite the lust filling his eyes.

  "Yeah, Krueger's gonna work out. The bastard got a rush out of the hunt, wants to know when we can do that again. He's got a thing for killing animals. Guy's even more twisted about it than you."

  Still stroking the woman's hair, Logan smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment. The hunt is more of a rush when it's up close and personal." His accomplice hadn't missed the insinuation to his work with the blade. He saw it in his eyes as he continued, "It's almost better than sex. Almost."

  Directing his next comment to the woman lying across his lap, he ordered, "Go wash yourself in the bathroom. And shut the door. I wanna hear that water running."

  She scurried away without question, not bothering to cover her bare body. He knew that by the look on Vin's face, the gesture titillated his depraved nature.

  "You look like you got something else on your mind. What is it?" Logan demanded when they were alone and the water was running in the next room.

  "Yeah."

  Vinnie's teeth were stained yellow. And Logan smelled the man's breath from across the room, the stench only outdone by his body odor. He tolerated the man because of his interminable devotion. But there were days when Logan contemplated slitting his throat just for the fun of it. He watched the man's Adam's apple bob in place, fantasizing the feel of his blade across it.

  "Thought you'd like to know. They had a female detective investigating at the church last night," Vin reported.

  "Oh?" He crossed his arms over his chest after pulling the covers to his waist. Logan hated all cops, but by the look o
n Vin's face, this cop might have his interest. "Is she my type?" He grinned.

  "Oh, yeah. I stuck around to check her out. Hung with the newspeople. I like the smell of that blond chick from Channel 4. I may need to get me some of that." The man laughed.

  Vinnie's keen sense of denial always astonished Logan. The imbecile would never score with a woman he hadn't raped or bought.

  "Not until the job is done. No more dead bodies until I say so. Those are my rules." Logan narrowed his eyes.

  The last thing he wanted to do was piss off Blue Blood, the code name he'd given to his latest contractor. Only Logan would make the rules for his growing legion of followers, but the money on this job got his attention. He'd adapt to his new circumstances for the right price, until such time as his benefactor became a nuisance. Then all bets were off. It was his world. And no one would define it for him.

  "Whatever you say." Vinnie never questioned him. One of the reasons the bastard still drew breath.

  "Did you get a name for that detective? In case I get the urge to confess."

  Vinnie snorted a laugh. "Yeah, the talking heads called her Detective Mackenzie, out of Central Station. But I didn't get a first name."

  Glancing at the clock on his nightstand, Logan reached for his TV remote. "Maybe that arrogant police chief will have one of his many press conferences. The news at six is about to come on."

  He turned on the TV with the volume low, keeping his eyes on the television set as he spoke, "Mackenzie?" When the other man shrugged, he grinned. "I must be the luckiest son of a— God, I just love it when a plan comes together."

  Maybe his benefactor knew his history enough to throw him a bone. Blue Blood always arranged such tantalizing side benefits. One of the reasons he hadn't moved on, looking for his next gig. The man paid him well and provided protection to operate freely. He could express his true nature without some idiot passing judgment. Blue Blood needed wet work done, and he loved to kill. A match made in hell.

  As the six o'clock news anchor announced the top stories, the water in the bathroom stopped, reminding him they weren't alone. "When she comes out of there, take her downstairs. Give her to the men with my compliments."

  Vinnie grinned, flashing his stained teeth. "Can I do her first?" Hunger in his eyes, Vinnie looked like a wolf tracking the scent of blood.

  "Do what you think is best, Vin. After all, you're my number two man. You've earned seconds."

  Vinnie laughed like a crazed hyena, as if they shared an inside joke. Logan wanted the man gone. Craving his privacy, he added, "Get her out of here. She's had enough time in there."

  Vin shoved the door to the bath open. The hooker, wet from her shower, wore only a towel. He didn't explain himself. Just grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and hauled her away, not giving her a chance to change. Where she was going, clothes would be needless. Her eyes pleaded with Logan from across the room, like staying with him would be a better choice. Knowing Vinnie and his men, perhaps she'd be right.

  As the news started, all his attention centered on the TV screen. "We start our broadcast with breaking news. Chief Sanford Markham is holding a press conference at. . ." The reporter's voice droned on.

  As predicted, Markham couldn't resist his face time. And standing behind him was a dark-haired beauty. The chief introduced Detectives Tony Rodriguez and Raven Mackenzie. Vinnie had been right. Mackenzie piqued his interest.

  And now, seeing her for the first time, Logan would make sure their paths crossed. He would want his shot at both cops assigned to Blair's case. No one was beyond his reach. He threw off the sheet covering his naked body and walked across the room. Plans to orchestrate their first meeting festered in his mind. He hunched in front of the TV screen, touching the glass. His fingertips stroked the detective's face, along her ample mouth.

  Surely, Blue Blood would understand his need. The hunt would soon be on. He wanted nothing more than to toy with his prey before the final confrontation.

  "Raven Mackenzie." He spoke her name aloud. By defining his choice, he sealed her destiny. Seeing a new target for the first time always aroused him. "You and I have a rendezvous with fate."

  After the press conference, Raven felt the tension from the long day in her neck and shoulders. The basement of the station house held the relief she needed. She spent more than an hour pushing her body to the limit with the usual workout, finishing by pounding her frustrations into a punching bag. She'd worked the muscles of her abs, arms, and legs until the strain poured from her like sweat.

  Hair pulled into a ponytail and still damp from the shower, she left work in the spare CPD sweats she kept in her locker. She tucked a .38 into a fanny pack by sheer force of habit. Her navy suit and holstered Glock were unceremoniously stuffed into a gym bag. Dry cleaning would definitely be in order.

  Tony had rushed home in hopes of spending some time with his kids before bedtime. His wife, Yolanda, had been a stickler for the family scene, but got her way on only few occasions. Such was the life of a homicide detective.

  As Raven headed home, the details of Mickey Blair's growing file picked at her brain. Without deliberating much, she pulled a U-turn, feeling the need for another pass at the vic's upscale condominium near Lakeshore Drive. With any luck, she'd find a new lead to work.

  Driving through the intersection onto Lakeshore, she followed the perimeter of Lake Michigan beside the trail system of the park. The volume on her radio turned low, classic rock played innocuously in the background. Private residences glowed warmly along the thoroughfare, welcoming beacons against the night. In contrast, the few lights on the other side of the avenue reflected onto the blackness of the churning water along a lighted trail system. On a sunny day, the waterfront property would be spectacular. But at this hour, with the remnants of winter in the air, the undulating black looked ominous. The scene prompted a lingering twinge—her fear of the dark. Her phobia had been exacerbated after the death of her father. But in time, she had overcome it.

  Yeah, right. Lying to herself had to be a misdemeanor. She decided to let herself off with a warning.

  She'd been an investigator on more than a few floaters hauled from the water's depths. Those cases always brought back gruesome memories. Another hazard of the job. Bodies grotesquely bloated in death were impossible to forget. Her detective's perspective of the world would be tainted with such images, offset by the greater satisfaction of bringing murderers to justice. If the reward didn't far outweigh the horror, she would've quit long ago.

  Shaking loose the old cases, Raven cleared her mind as she pulled into the visitor parking for the Vista del Lago Condominiums. After locking the Crown Vic, she headed up the walkway to the secured front door.

  The pristine grounds of the complex were strewn with fall leaves that swirled in the interior courtyard amidst potted evergreen shrubs. The front step tiled in textured clay lay beneath a stucco portico, accented with decorative mosaics, giving the building old-world charm. After hitting the buzzer, she prompted the resident manager to answer the intercom and let her into the lobby. She greeted the young man she'd met only the other day.

  "Good evening, Mr. Walker. You remember me?" She showed her badge as he nodded. "I need into Mr. Blair's suite again."

  "Yeah, no problem. And just call me Brian." Handing her the key, he added, "When'll you be done with your investigation? That yellow tape is bad for business," he said, but quickly realized his callousness on the subject of a dead resident. "Mickey was a class act. I'm gonna miss him."

  "Yeah, well, not sure I can give you a time line. But we'll do our best." Hooking her finger into the key ring, she smiled and said, "Thanks. Not sure how long I'll be. If it's late, I'll keep the keys until tomorrow, give them back to you then."

  Mickey's past had been questionable, given his frequent collisions with the law as a young man. Then all that stopped abruptly after Dunhill Corporation hired him nearly twenty-five years ago. Raven suspected the man was anything but a class act. Still, Bri
an didn't need to know his recently departed resident had a shady past. Innocent before proven guilty in a court of law, Mickey wouldn't have his reputation sullied now—one of the benefits of making the grand exit from this life before his past came back to bite him in the butt.

  She stepped off the elevator on the eleventh floor and turned left. The elegant carpet runner covered the teak-wood flooring along the corridor, deadening the sound of her footsteps. Mickey had been one lucky stiff, enjoying a corner suite with a spectacular panorama of the lake. Now yellow police tape crisscrossed the entrance to his abode. His luck had run its course.

  But as she neared the door, her eyes caught a glimmer spilling into the hall at the base of the door. So faint, she thought she'd only imagined it. Reaching into her fanny pack, she retrieved her Smith & Wesson, glad she had her longtime companion from her training days. She listened at the door and heard a muffled sound.

  Recalling Blair's floor plan, she knew the entry looked onto a posh living area with two large bedrooms to the left and a study and kitchen to the right. A balcony overlooked the lake, only blocked by a set of French doors and strategically placed custom windows along the far wall.

  Where the sound originated, she had no idea. But given the layout, she assumed someone might be in the rear of the residence. Most probably the master bedroom or the study. The yellow police tape hadn't been disturbed. Whoever had slipped inside had done it with great care. Any other way into the condo would have been risky, but not out of the question.

  After quietly peeling away the crime-scene tape, Raven stood to one side of the door, so her shadow wouldn't give her position away. She slid the key slowly into the lock and turned it to the right. At the sound of the dead bolt, the subtle noise from inside the room stopped. Damn it! She winced and waited. Her patience was rewarded when she finally heard a drawer slide open. Turning the knob and testing the door, she knew she'd have only a second to slip inside. The light from the corridor would telegraph her entrance.