“Checking your phone messages? Today’s generation can’t seem to leave their electronic toys alone.”
She recognized Cole was having a light-hearted dig at the ten-year age difference between them. He had no idea that gap meant nothing to her.
As she shoved the phone back into her bag, her fingers brushed the unopened box Remy had dumped inside. The pregnancy kit.
That was the answer to her panic, she thought.
She would take the test.
Just to prove Remy wrong.
THE END
KILLING TIME
BOOK 6
Detective Bex Wynter Files
About this book
An unsolved crime. A desperate cop. A relentless killer.
Seeking justice for her dead husband brings Detective Bex Wynter back to New York to face enemies both old and new. Driven to risk everything for the truth, a shocking connection begins to emerge and she must face the question: who wants her dead?
In a case that hits too close to home, the reappearance of an old enemy means she must confront her most dangerous opponent. When Bex’s past crashes into the present, she finds herself locked in a bloody showdown. In the killer’s terrifying game there is only one rule – it’s killing time.
How deep is Bex willing to dig to uncover the truth? Or is this one adversary she’ll never have the chance to bring to justice?
16 months earlier
Trinity Hospital, New York
The glaring light sizzled her retinas but she refused to blink to relieve the dryness.
Beeps from bleating machines faded into a barely discernible background of audible wallpaper. Even the sterilized smell that enveloped her ceased to register.
When she moved, agony flared from every joint, tendon and muscle. Her body ached without her twitching so much as a finger.
None of that bothered her. She could ignore the sounds, the smells, the pain. What she couldn’t bear were the pictures lodged behind her dry, unblinking eyes; the endless loop of horrific images from the accident that had killed her husband and reduced her to a shredded pile of taut nerves in a hospital bed. They were the reason she kept her eyes wide open hour after hour.
“Bex, the doctors say you’ll make a full recovery,” Neil said.
He rested his forearms against her bed. She knew he didn’t take her hand because he was too conscious of her pain. Instead he clasped his own hands, arthritic fingers entwined, burly knuckles whitened with strain. Despite losing his son she could hear the genuine relief in his voice that she was still alive.
“You’re going to be alright.”
A vision of Zane being smashed against the side window as their car whirled into a skid invaded her memory.
I’ll never be alright again! she wanted to scream at him. Her teeth clenched so tightly together she thought she might break her jaw. The man I love is dead! That thought caused more agony than any broken bone or bruised flesh. The gnawing emptiness resting in her heart was unbearable.
“It’s okay to cry, my dear. No one expects you to be brave at a time like this.” His own voice was hoarse from the tears he had shed.
A vague part of her was aware that Neil was hurting too, but she couldn’t cope with his pain on top of her own. She turned her gaze from Neil’s bowed head to stare with dull eyes out the full-length window where flimsy snowflakes batted at the glass.
After a couple more minutes of silence, he said, “Captain Ortiz and Walt are here. Are you up for visitors?”
Bex grasped at the opportunity.
“Yes, yes, I want to see them!”
Neil disappeared behind the sterile blue curtain separating her bed from public view to allow the two police detectives to take his place. Both men were dressed in dark suits, plain white shirts and black ties. Gabriel Ortiz was slender with the honed features of a bird of prey. He ran the homicide squad that Bex worked for with calm precision and the occasional flare of temper when he considered his officers had stepped beyond bounds. Walt Slusarczyk was her homicide partner and Zane’s best friend. He held his body stiff, but his mouth drooped and his eyes looked tired and anxious. Walt was grieving Zane’s loss too.
Ortiz settled a basket of Casablanca oriental lilies the size of footballs on the shelf beside her bed, stealing space from the other floral arrangements.
“It’s from the entire squad,” Ortiz said. “Bex, everyone’s so sorry.” He coughed to clear the roughness from his voice. “We want you to know if there’s anything we can do —”
“Yes there is!” she interrupted.
The two men stood erect like soldiers awaiting orders. She had her instructions ready.
“You’ve got to charge the other driver!” Her voice cracked out sharp and angry.
Walt leaned closer. “Take it easy, Bex. Don’t get yourself agitated. You need to rest.”
Bex brushed the sympathetic words aside.
“I told you I saw headlights coming straight towards us. We had to veer out of the way.”
She stared at Walt, but what she saw was Zane slumped over the steering wheel and her hands reaching frantically to yank the wheel to pull the car aside.
“Have you located the other driver?”
Ortiz and Walt exchanged furtive glances. With awkward embarrassment, Walt reached out to pat her on the arm, avoiding the intravenous cannula and tubes linking her to machines and monitors.
“Bex, Zane had a heart attack. That’s what caused the accident. He died instantly and the car went out of control.” His voice was gruff but gentle.
“Damnit, Walt, a crime was committed and someone deserves to pay! Someone drove straight at us. If it wasn’t deliberate then they must’ve been drunk or affected by drugs. Either way, I want you to charge them!”
“Hush, Bex, don’t get so worked up. I inspected the crash site myself. There’s no indication of any other vehicular involvement. The ME’s verdict is massive coronary infarction as the cause of Zane’s death, leading to loss of control of the vehicle.”
Bex felt her body crackle with frustrated tension. “Tire marks could’ve been erased by the snow. It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Stop telling me to relax, Walt! There’s a driver out there who murdered my husband with his reckless driving. A crime has been committed and I want to know what you’re doing about it!”
Neil barreled into the room, brushing aside the privacy curtain.
“Is this true?” His voice quavered, his eyes pleaded. “I didn’t realize another driver was involved. The doctors said Zane suffered a heart attack. He was dead before the car left the road.”
“You were given the right information,” Ortiz said. “There are no suspicious circumstances, no evidence of any other driver. No witnesses to anything like that happening.”
Bex shook her head violently from side to side on the pillow, her long hair thrashing around her face. “I was there! I know what I saw! Find that driver! Find the man who killed my husband! Find him! Find him! Find him!” Bex howled.
“Don’t, Bex, please don’t break down like this…”
Walt’s voice was almost inaudible, yet it felt like a catalyst triggering her panic. No one believed her! Sweat broke out on her forehead. She felt it trickle down her back. She opened her mouth, trying to drag in enough air to breath. She couldn’t breathe. What had happened to all the air in the room?
“Her skin’s clammy. She’s gone white!” Neil’s voice rose with alarm.
Gasping through short, shallow breaths left her hyperventilating. Her vision blurred. Why wouldn’t they believe Zane’s death was a crime?
Neil pressed repeatedly on the emergency buzzer. Walt raced into the corridor to flag down a nurse. A compact woman in pale blue scrubs swept into the room, flapping her hands at them to leave.
“Try to relax,” she addressed Bex, while snapping an oxygen mask over her face. A warm hand rubbed circles on her back.
When Bex was able to drag more than a spoonful of air into her lungs, the nurse re
moved the mask. She had a kind but weary face.
“How are you feeling now?”
In response, Bex let out a piercing wail, so much like a tortured animal that the nurse shuddered. The sound was a harbinger of loneliness, of a loss she was convinced would haunt her for the rest of her life.
When Bex felt soothing darkness flow through her veins from the sedative injected through the cannula in her arm, her last thought was to hope that she would never wake again.
Chapter 1
Upper West Side Manhattan
Friday 20 April
Grabbing hold of the Jesus handle, Kristian hauled himself into the passenger seat of the Mercedes SUV. With its straight lines and lack of curves, the exterior looked sturdy enough to plow through brick walls, he thought. It would be a handy car in a heist, yet he had to admit it didn’t look out of place on this tree-lined residential Manhattan street.
He’d barely parked his frame in the roomy leather seat when the driver barked at him, “Lift up your shirt!”
The stranger wore a crew sweater over a button down shirt and military style black pants. His expression was closed, his eyes diamond hard. His right hand rested on the steering wheel, his left dangled out of sight. Kristian narrowed his eyes. Was he carrying?
“That’s a friendly greeting, Mr Irlas.”
“Need to see that you’re clean,” Irlas explained.
Kristian nodded in understanding and complied by jerking up his T-shirt. He tensed his abs but they still didn’t boast the ripped look he was after. Before he knew what was happening, Irlas thrust a hand down Kristian’s jeans, fishing around before Kristian shoved him away.
“Eww, man! Cut it out!”
“My bad.” Irlas shrugged but offered no further apology. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I can see you’re not wired, but I can’t be too careful. FBI and SEA have been flooding this area since they arrested Gonzalez last month.”
Shit! Where the hell did Karen source these deals? Rattled by the man’s actions and words, Kristian’s head swiveled in a full circle, his body twisting with the motion. All he saw outside the tinted windows was a clean street with family SUVs parked against the curbs in front of well-tended classic brownstone apartment blocks. He had no real idea where he was. He had merely followed the GPS directions Karen had tapped into his phone.
“You think you’re being followed by the Feds? Hell, man, I can’t afford to get caught either,” Kristian snapped.
“Not me, that’s why I take precautions so I can stay in this area. Can’t beat the West 80s for laying low, avoiding detection and escaping the stick up crews who view every dealer as an easy mark. The trouble is, since Gonzalez’s arrest brought attention here the old biddies keep a closer eye on what’s going on in the street. They write down strangers’ license plates. They know if Mrs Suburban next door books a new dog walker. That’s why I specified you had to approach me on foot. That way no one can note down the license plate on your beat up junker double-parked in this street. Relax. No one can see inside the car.”
Listening to Irlas’s voice, Kristian decided the man actually belonged in the area. He wasn’t a visiting lowlife dealer. Irlas was big time, probably moving kilos of cocaine every day, raking in millions of dollars per month. This thought made him more nervous than meeting in a dark alley behind a sleazy joint to nab his baggie of crack.
He hid his nerves, demanding, “You got the stuff or not?”
Irlas took his hand off the steering wheel and opened his palm, making a grasping gesture. Kristian pulled out some bills. He scrutinized them, noting their portraits. He slapped three green Andrew Jacksons into the other man’s open palm.
“Sorry, dude, since the fuss with Gonzalez the price has gone up. Supply and demand you know, supply and demand. It’ll cost you another twenty.”
Kristian felt his temper flare. Karen had him on a tight budget. Damn it, handing over his last twenty meant he was walking rather than riding back to the two star budget motel on 47th street! Then he resigned himself. Karen needed this hit to get her through the weekend so she would be able to face the judge Monday morning. She had promised him this was their big chance. This time the money they could get was real. He’d only face her anger if he returned empty-handed. Because, of course, she would blame him.
Kristian glared at Irlas, who pocketed his sixty dollars and folded his arms. “Make it quick. It’s another twenty or you can get out of the car.”
“Show me the baggie first,” Kristian said, holding the bill just out of reach.
Irlas fished with his left hand in the door compartment to pull out a Ziploc bag. The two of them made a simultaneous swap.
“Good doing business with you, bro.”
Kristian didn’t bother answering. He pocketed the baggie and leapt out of the SUV, slamming the door behind him. Shoving his hands in his pockets, wrapping his fingers around the expensive plastic, he hurried away. Turning out of sight as soon as he hit the next street corner, he slowed down. He looked at the street signs but the numbers and words jumbled against one another.
Inside his phone Karen had input the address for the ShangriLa Motel so he could find his way back to her. Kristian continued walking. Although street signs meant little to him, he had managed to absorb the grid pattern for Manhattan. He had learned the big road cutting diagonally like a wildfire through the neat lines was called Broadway. Whichever side you were on meant you were either west or east. Generally the roads ran north to south, crossed by east to west streets. Most of which were mainly filled with one-way traffic. It was like understanding the bones of an individual. Once he had the skeletal framework fixed in his head, he knew he had a pretty good grasp of the city.
Still smarting from Irlas’s greed, he was glad that he had come out instead of Karen. He hated to think that his mother would have tried trading her body for a hit rather than pay the extra cost, but he knew it was likely. Karen was the wildcard in his life.
Whenever she told him she would be there to pick him up at the end of a school day, or take him shopping for new shoes when his sneakers had a blow out, or promise she would complete his school excursion form, she had never followed through.
He had been her minder since he was ten years old. That was the year he’d come home from school to find her wasted and badly beaten. Her injuries landed him in child protective services for six months until she finalized a rehab program and they were reunited. He had sworn to himself that he would never go back into institutionalized care. She was the only person in the world he belonged to and he had to take care of her. That meant safeguarding their existence by taking control of her drug habit. He went out and traded for crack, eking it to her. In the neighborhoods they inhabited he wasn’t the only kid buying drugs.
“I’m not a druggie, Ty,” she insisted. “You know that. When the chips were down I did the rehab for you. I got you back. Always remember that, baby. I will do anything to keep you. I always have and I always will. It’s just that I’m sensitive and highly-strung. Every now and then I need a fix to get me through life’s ups and downs.”
That there were more downs than ups was just a fact of life. As was the fact that his name changed every time his mother dragged him to another town, another city, another state. He answered to the name of Kristian, or Kris, or Ty, or Reese. Karen tended to keep the variations close because it was easier for him to remember, especially when he had been really small.
Long ago she had bragged to him that she bought a bulk pack of social security numbers for less than fifty dollars online. Karen changed their surnames regularly as she burned through the SSNs when they assumed new identities. With an SSN she had been able to open bank accounts, sign rental leases, find work and enroll him in school.
“We’re nomads, you and me,” she told him. “Like Bedouins in the desert, like Aborigines on walkabout, it’s in our blood to keep moving.”
Moving kept them one step ahead of child protection services, one step ahead of
the law, one step ahead of cheated dealers. Kristian had grown used to looking over his shoulder, for he knew not what, but Karen had engrained the habit in him from a young age. Be careful, keep to himself, don’t make friends, don’t ask kids back to their home, don’t let your guard down, don’t let people get close. It was second nature to him now.
He never knew what triggered her decision to move, to pull him out of school half way through a school year so he had to start over again in a different state. He had lost count of the schools he passed through. He had missed so many days, weeks and months of schooling that he hated the strain of fitting in, to pass under the radar of the one or two caring teachers who tried to help him. Wary because of Karen’s strictures to keep to himself, he managed to avoid their attention. Now he was sixteen he could legally ditch the classroom. What was the point? He was too stupid to learn even the basic skills.
Skirting Central Park, Kristian was swallowed into a sea of tourists, allowing himself to drift with them towards Columbus Circle. Two months ago Karen had revealed he had been born in this city. New York. The biggest. The baddest. The best. It was the one city she had never brought him to in their travels.
Now he understood why. She had been running from an abusive husband. His father, Zane Wynter.
Kristian rolled the three syllables around on his tongue.
Zane Wynter.
The asshole who had got his mom hooked on drugs and abused the hell out of her until she grabbed Kristian and ran.
Luckily the bastard was dead.
At least that’s what the letter from the lawyers said.
Two months ago Karen’s dry bank account forced her to haul him to her sister’s doorstep in Philadelphia, hoping to scrounge a bed and food.
Julia had refused to let Karen in, but she had handed over some official-looking envelopes addressed to Karen that had chased her through several addresses before arriving at Julia’s.
Bex Wynter Box Set 2 Page 41
