The man kept trying to reach the bench to sit down, but the length of the chain had been adjusted so there was no possibility of that happening. He would stand or hang himself.
Still, the Advocate experienced no remorse. The Offender should have thought through to the consequences of his actions before he outworked his madness on one of the Defenseless.
“Why are you doing this?” the Offender called out.
Rarely did the Advocate respond. They didn’t deserve to be heard, to be granted a say. He had tried that in the beginning, but their speeches about their being guileless fell not only on deaf ears, but on a mind forged by retribution.
The Advocate pushed the button that would allow his voice to carry into the room. He wasn’t worried about being identified—there would be no escape for an Offender—but he had modified the output anyhow. The speech distortion would toy with their minds even further.
“You brought this on yourself.”
“I—” The Offender buried his face in his hands, the muffled sobbing still loud enough to hear.
The crying always reaped the opposite of their desired outcome. Instead of it tugging on the Advocate’s humanity, his mind went to the Defenseless, to those who wept internally, in darkness.
“You deserve to die!”
The man slid his hands down his face and sputtered, “I haven’t done anything.”
“Drink your water, animal.” It pained the Advocate to equate this mammal to the four-legged variety. The Defenseless were superior to Offenders in many ways.
The man’s legs buckled beneath him, the choker, doing its job, tightened its hold against his larynx. The Offender righted himself and his hands rushed to his throat, where he tugged on the collar without much success.
“Drink!”
“Why are you—” Vomit spewed across the room, splattering some on the camera lens.
The Advocate rubbed his hands, sat back, and swiveled in his chair.
Now things were coming together. The man would break, and when he did, the Advocate would be there to watch him take his final breath.
Chapter 4
Jack had Paige call Nadia at head office to request a more in-depth background on both the journalist, Kent Fields, and the garbage man, Craig Bowen.
Nadia Webber was our contact at Quantico, who managed to gather any data we required. Her expertise and know-how contributed toward solving every case.
We reached the police station and two shiny, black SUVs were parked in the lot. Based on the lack of accumulated snow, I surmised they had just recently been dropped off. Our coffee break and discussion wasn’t a waste of time.
We handed over McClellan’s keys and requested that he be picked up at Lynn’s Bakery. A few officers heard us mention the name and were eager to volunteer for the task. I have to admit the Christmas cookies would serve as sufficient payment.
After retrieving the keys for the SUVs, we reconvened outside.
Jack lit a cigarette and waved it toward Paige. “I want you and Zach to visit Gene Lyons’s wife. Find out when she saw him last, what he was up to. Brandon and I are going to speak with Simpson’s wife.”
“Figures. You guys get the hot one. Be sure to keep it in your pants, Pending.” Zachery laughed.
“Come on.” Though what I had with Paige was not exactly a committed relationship, it still had the confines of one. I angled my head to the side, concerned about her reaction.
She was smiling. Her eyes teased. “He does have a point, Brandon.”
If she kept acting like that, we’d have a really hard time keeping our attraction from Jack. As it was we flirted with the edge of insubordination. As members of the same team there wasn’t to be any fraternization. It was too late for that a few times over. And, factoring in the possible repercussions, it was stupid. There was a lot at stake. I was a probationary agent and Jack probably wouldn’t have an issue knocking me out of the bureau. Paige faced removal from Jack’s team.
I returned her smile, opting to play it light. “Why? Are you going to get jealous, Dawson?”
“Jealous? Of you? Hardly.” She laughed, but the spark in her eyes revealed the contradiction.
Jack suctioned in on his cigarette with a definitive piff. He was calculating.
“Let’s go.” I wondered why we gravitated to congregating outdoors when we could have talked in the warmth of the station. Then I realized the blasted cigarette in Jack’s hand was to blame.
“Seems someone is eager to get going.” It served as one last jab from Zachery before he walked away with Paige toward their SUV.
*****
For the second time that day my fingers gripped the armrest and dug into the foam—they alternated between there and the dash. My legs were extended, feet flattened to the floor, pressing on imaginary brakes.
“You do know you have no control over there.” Jack tapped his cigarette on his lowered window.
“Even in the frigid arctic, you still need that stick bad enough to let in the cold air.”
“This is hardly the arctic.”
I rolled my eyes and faced out the passenger-side window. Another frustrating attempt at conversation with Jack. I might as well go for the gold. During a recent interrogation he had let something slip and I was determined to get full disclosure. “You never told me about your kids.”
He inhaled and flicked the butt out the window, closed it and continued to drive, with his eyes on the road.
According to the GPS we were still twenty minutes out, but the technology didn’t account for treacherous roads and weather conditions. Maybe we’d sit in silence the entire way.
When Jack still hadn’t responded a minute later, I tried another tactic. “You think I’m going to give up, but I’m not. I’m going to find out—”
Jack faced me.
I peeled one hand off the dash and pointed ahead. “The road.”
He ignored my plea. His eyes were still on me. “You want to know about my kid?”
Faced with the direct question, under his burning gaze, I wasn’t sure if I cared anymore—and the road conditions…his focus should be there.
If I didn’t calm myself and carry out what I had started, he’d never comply. Both my hands went to the dash, but it was freezing. I pulled them back and blew on them, doing my best to be nonchalant. “Only if you want to tell me.”
“Hmm.”
His eyes went back to the road, and I drew a full breath.
Seconds passed in silence.
“Why not just pull my background?” Jack asked.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“I’d need a reason—and clearance.”
“You could have Nadia do it.”
The gears in my head moved. What could I say to that? That I’d thought of it but would never dream of following through?
“Of course, if I found out you did, you’d be off the team faster than a shooting star.”
We slid to a stop at a four-way. To hell with it. I’d brave the cold plastic. “I never have…pulled your background.”
“Good.”
The GPS showed one minute from our destination. Why did I have a feeling we’d get there and I still wouldn’t have an answer?
“You know it doesn’t really matter if you have a kid.” I shook my head. “Really. It changes nothing.” Just adds a little character…
“I don’t have a kid.”
He pulled into the Simpsons’ driveway.
“What do you mean? You told that guy months ago—”
“Yeah, I know what I told him.”
I studied Jack’s profile. The intensity in his gaze, how he now avoided eye contact, he was lying.
*****
The house was in a nice neighborhood. I imagined all the lawns would be manicured in the summer months and the garden beds alive with color. The structure itself was gray block, lending it a modernistic design perfect for the architectural types. The front face of the building was broken up
by numerous large windows that would let in natural light. Today, there wasn’t much of it; the sky was heavy with cloud cover. There was only a faint hope that the snow would stop falling anytime soon.
I rang the doorbell and it chimed a beautiful rendition of some classical song I recognized but couldn’t name. That wasn’t within my realm of expertise, but I’d say the bell had been custom-designed.
A brunette, obviously struggling on her tiptoes, peeked through the high window in the door. Her eyes scanned us from head to as far down as she could see. She lifted a hand and waved us away. “We have religion.”
She was still in the window when Jack hit the doorbell again.
The door whooshed open, fighting against its seal.
“I told you—” Her attention went to Jack’s credentials.
“Can we come in?”
She slid her bottom lip through her teeth. “Sure.”
“We want to speak with—”
“Jenna,” the brunette yelled over her shoulder. “The FBI is here to see you.”
“The FBI?” She pranced, in bare feet, into the grand foyer. When she saw us, her steps slowed.
Jenna Simpson was slight, like the woman who had let us in. She wore tights and a large sweater that fell off her right shoulder and exposed the strap of a teal tank top. Based on appearance and genetic structure, the women were not related but merely friends. Jenna had a quality that made men take notice, though. It was hard to ascertain whether it was her physique—which had the necessary female curves—the platinum blond hair, or the tastefully applied eye makeup that made her gray eyes appear mysterious. Her cheeks held a healthy glow.
“They’re with the FBI.” The brunette turned to Jenna.
“I heard you.” Jenna laced her arms and addressed us. “What do you want?” The tip of her tongue peeked through her lips.
“Your husband was murdered,” Jack said.
Just when I thought he couldn’t possibly be any blunter in his phrasing, he managed to surpass my expectations.
“I’m fully aware of that.” Her eyelashes fluttered but she stood her ground.
“Do you have somewhere we can sit and talk?” I asked, doing my best to add a little more delicacy to the situation.
“I’ll put on some tea,” the brunette said.
Jenna placed a hand on her friend’s forearm. “They won’t be here for long.”
Jenna’s eyes disclosed that she was a tangled mess. She was a complicated woman, who many might perceive as less intelligent, given her favorable genetics.
“Remove your shoes and follow me.” She hooked her finger and spun on her heels.
I noticed her pedicure matched her french-manicured fingernails.
She led us to a sunken living room. I took in the lavish space, wondering what it would be like to actually live in a place like this. It must make one feel as if they were royalty. Maybe it was immersion in that emotion that bred entitlement and arrogance.
The floor-to-ceiling windows contributed a sense of enchantment and awe. Outside, the snowflakes appeared to be getting larger. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you.” She smiled—the expression carrying the hint of seduction.
“You’re welcome.” I would be strong, or Paige would kill me. I broke eye contact and looked at Jack.
He dropped onto a cream colored leather sofa, utilizing the edge of the seat cushion and not getting too comfortable. I sat beside him and took full advantage of the plush hug.
Jenna’s eyebrows jabbed upward. “I see this is good cop, bad cop.”
I found it interesting that, for a woman who recently lost her husband, she didn’t give the impression she was overly affected by his death.
I unzipped my jacket but left it on. The heat of the home had sweat gathering at the nape of my neck and trickling down my back. Even the marble floors were heated, which also explained Jenna’s bare feet. Unexpectedly, with the thought, I couldn’t picture the woman in socks. She fit better with the imagery of a lingerie model—in high heels and silk.
“Tell us about your husband.” Jack’s voice sliced through my fantasy.
Jenna peeled her focus from me and cast her gaze to Jack.
Her friend took a seat beside her, and her chestnut eyes narrowed in on me, harboring a glare.
I tugged down on the sleeve of my shirt, which was riding up inside the arm of the jacket.
The brunette rolled her eyes.
Jenna crossed her legs, away from her friend, toward me. “What do you want to know?”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Typical question I’m sure you get sick of asking, but no. Not that I know of. I mean, who wouldn’t love him?” She spread her arms to take in the room. “The man was loaded. Even if people didn’t like him, you’d never know. They’d smile and wish him a good day. Know what I mean?” She hitched an eyebrow again.
“What did he do for work?”
Another smile. “You should know that from some file, shouldn’t you? Surely there’s more valuable information that I could provide to you.”
I faced Jack, but his profile held steady, his gaze settled on her. I wondered if he registered her good looks, or whether he remained oblivious. Part of me hoped he was aware. He was still a man. The other part of me wouldn’t be surprised if he were ignorant to the fact she was a beauty. He tended to lean more toward business than pleasure.
“There was quite an age difference between you,” Jack said.
“I prefer a mature man, and we made it work.”
“Did you?”
“Are you accusing me of killing him?”
“You don’t seem very upset?”
A bolt flashed across her eyes. “Would it work better for you if I were in a white, fluffy robe with matching slippers, had a puffy face and a red-tipped nose? If tissues were coming out of pockets because they couldn’t possibly hold anymore?” She simpered and sank further into the couch. “Please.”
This chick was cold as ice.
“You ‘made it work?’ Those were your words. You don’t sound like you were happy.”
She rolled her eyes, dramatically, and accompanied the motion with a deeply rushed exhale. “We were okay. All right? Is that what you want to hear?”
The brunette shot to her feet. “I’m not sure why you’re pushing her like this. Do you think she killed him?”
I held up a hand to encourage her to take a seat again. She disregarded the gesture, but it didn’t stop me from saying my bit. “We’re not accusing her of anything, but if we can get some straightforward answers, we’ll be out of your way, and you both can get on with your day.”
She dropped back onto the couch.
Jenna’s steel gaze went to me. “You want to know if he had enemies? Yes. Don’t ask me for a list though.”
Since Jenna seemed more inclined to talk to me than she did to Jack, I carried on. “Were any of these people angered because of what he did to his dog?”
Her composure faltered and had her going pale for a fraction of a second. “I suppose so. I wasn’t around then, but if they were, they had no right to be.” She shrugged. “There wasn’t proof he did it.”
“The dish with Warfin—that’s rat poison—and a bowl of antifreeze were pulled from this house. Is the house not in his name?”
Jenna hugged herself briefly and afterward tucked her hands under her thighs. “He didn’t do it.”
“Then who did?”
The house went silent as a tomb. There wasn’t even the ticking of a clock or the humming of a furnace.
“Listen, the charges didn’t stick, and what was that—twenty-some years ago? Some sicko targeted him after this long?” Stress tore at Jenna’s facial features, giving her hard lines. “I honestly believe that his bitch-wife at the time did it. I really do. That woman is a nut job.”
With her words, I remembered reading that she was his second wife in the file. Somehow I had forgotten, probably due to the fact my mind was a
cluttered mess from my personal life.
She angled her head to the left. “I took him from her. She didn’t deserve him.”
“You were his secretary.” The pieces were filling in.
“Yes. I noticed you didn’t phrase that one as a question. You know what he did for work. I love how cops know the answers but still ask. He ran Simpson Construction. He made it from the ground up. He didn’t stand on his parents’ legacy. He created one.” Passion ignited in her eyes. “He was a believer in dreams, but he—” Her voice went gravelly and tears filled her eyes. “He made them come true.”
The brunette wrapped her arm around Jenna, and Jenna leaned into the embrace.
I didn’t dare verbalize the thought, but it was apparent she’d loved Darren Simpson. The bravado presented was simply that, a façade.
“This person, the one who did this—” Jenna’s chin quivered and tears ran down her cheeks. “Was a sick son of a bitch. Darren didn’t deserve this.”
I was left speechless and somehow managed to keep my opinion to myself. This case was one of deep-seated conflict. The abused animals were given voice by the killer extracting vigilante justice, but on the flipside, our unsub was killing men and taking the stand as judge, jury, and executioner. The death sentence wasn’t even legal punishment in many states.
“You said he had people who didn’t like him. Anyone new in his life?”
“Not that I know of.”
The brunette straightened up. “What about that guy he mentioned?”
“Guy?”
“Yeah, you’ve been complaining about Darren spending more time away from you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, Emily.”
I inched forward on the sofa. “Jenna, it could be something.”
Her eyes pinched and her brow wrinkled as if a twinge of pain caught her unexpectedly. “You think he could be connected to Darren’s death somehow?”
“It’s possible. Everything helps to get us closer.”
“I don’t know his name. Gawd!” She put a flattened palm to her forehead and faced the ceiling. “I should have listened more when he spoke. I’m such a bad listener.”
“Do you know what he looked like?”
The Defenseless (Brandon Fisher FBI Series Book 3) Page 3
