With Ties that Bind: A Broken Bonds Novel, Book Two

by Trisha Wolfe

  “Avery.” Carson’s concerned voice breaks through my flaring panic, and I shake myself out of my morbid thoughts.

  I press Record. “The victim’s breasts were excoriated from her body, probably with the same bladed instrument used to flay the dermis. The jagged, grooved pattern carved into the muscle and nicks to the breastbone indicate the offender applied a saw-like motion to amputate the breasts from the torso.” I squeeze the device, aware of the trembling in my hand. “Other contusions mar the victim’s face, but the face was left otherwise in tact, unscathed. Below the naval, patches of skin and muscle were abraded from the bones. Mutilated genitalia and other injuries inflicted upon the pubic region could indicate sexual trauma. Need further analysis to confirm.”

  “Time of death?” Carson prompts.

  “Oh—” I restart the recorder. “Core body temperature was ninety-two point eight degrees upon initial examination. Estimated time of death is determined to be between three to five hours prior.” I glance at my phone. “Between six and nine a.m. Approximately,” I amend.

  Subconsciously, I may have avoided calculating the time of death formula. The vic died not long ago…and her beastly, extensive injuries took hours to achieve. She suffered. She suffered excruciating torture like no human ever should.

  I begin collecting samples, bagging any noticeable trace, as Carson crouches near. “So the lab coat. And the skin flaying. None of this really matches the previous vics. Could be to hide the fact they wanted to remove the mark or brand on the thigh; make this look like a different perp.” He gestures toward the vic’s leg, his features strained at the gruesome sight. “Any way to determine if she did in fact have a brand?”

  “There may be,” I say, but I don’t need to examine the surrounding muscle tissue for evidence of a brand. The evidence that this was done by the same suspect who killed the first two vics…and who hurt me…doesn’t need to be found within the victim.

  She’s wrapped in it.

  I want Quinn’s input on that, however, before I confirm with anyone else on the team.

  “You have any insight into what the perp was thinking when they did this?”

  I blow out a long breath. “I’m not a behaviorist, Carson. Sorry. I can only give you the facts as to her death, and the likeliness of the murder weapon.”

  “Right. I know that.” He glances around, as if looking for something, or someone.

  I realize then that he’s pretty much on his own, and a swell of shame slams into me. I’m used to working by myself. I prefer it that way, actually. Carson, on the other hand, has probably never had to head up a crime scene on his own. And with Quinn out for blood, having been not-so-gently removed from the case, Carson most likely feels a lot of pressure not to fuck this up.

  “Hey.” When he turns my way, I lighten my tone. “I do think the chances of this being the same suspect, or suspects, is good. Better than good.” I eye my coat. “Though I can’t say this with any degree of certainty…with this level of overkill, the perp is likely a sadist. Possibly even of the psychopathic variety.”

  Maybe Sadie should be called in. As a high-functioning sociopath herself, Sadie would have perfect insight into this assailant’s profile. A twinge of guilt nudges my conscience. The traits that help her identify psychopaths are also the attributes that helped her eradicate my abductor.

  Carson watches me closely, and I add, “The offender either caught the vic by surprise, a blitz attack, or she was drugged. Possibly a combination of both. She has no defensive wounds.” I glance down, sickened. “But then again, I may find some deep tissue bruising once I examine her.”

  “Noted,” he says, literally noting my inferior guesswork down in his black notepad.

  “This may be part of the scheme, throwing us off their scent, but the handiwork looks like one of a sexual sadist. Or at least, that’s what he wants us to think. And if I had to make an educated guess as to the reasoning behind the brutal torture compared to the first two vics… More than the fact that he or they did enjoy their work, I’d wager the second part was misdirection.”

  His eyebrows draw together over his youthful features. “Misdirection? From what?”

  I press my lips together, considering the real threat. While my colleagues are busy trying to protect me, no one is focusing on what’s being hidden. “If we’re chasing a killer, we’re chasing ghosts.” At his confused expression, I say, “We need to be chasing the living. The women that are still alive.”

  Understanding dawns, and he nods his head slowly. “This is the part I’m purposely being kept in the dark about.”

  A stab of shame pierces my chest. I don’t know how much to reveal, how much to involve Carson, now that Quinn is no longer leading the case. “I’m sure you’ll be brought up to speed soon,” I say, trying and failing to encourage him.

  “It’s all right.” He stands, brushing his hands down his slacks. “I made my bed. Guess I’ll have to lie in it until I can prove myself.”

  Confusion forces me to my feet, questions as heavy as lead on the tip of my tongue. Before I’m able to voice them, Carson’s attention is pulled toward another detective storming the scene.

  “Phillips, where have you been? What do you got?” Carson fires off as the detective approaches.

  The detective is momentarily distracted by the sight of the body. His dark features contort. “Jesus,” he says.

  I pack away the samples and my kit; I’ve done all I can here. I try not to think about the transport van that will soon be arriving. Just get back to the lab and focus on work.

  “The FBI have been called in,” Phillips announces, triggering both Carson and me to swap glances.

  “Yeah, that was expected,” Carson says, recovering quickly.

  We knew Sadie would be reaching out to Special Agent Rollins. But really, this is a rather rapid response—considering it was only a fishing expedition on her part. The Alpha Omega crime ring is believed to be an urban legend within the criminal justice departments. I assumed Agent Rollins would blow off her inquiry.

  “Expected? The FBI taking over was expected?” Phillips glares at Carson. “And were the two other bodies expected, too?”

  A cold sensation prickles my skin, encasing me in sick dread.

  Carson is already calling in to the precinct. “Captain—” He’s cut off, and all I can do is hold my breath, awaiting to hear my fears confirmed.

  The other women.

  Detective Phillips sidles up beside me, his tall and stocky presence a shield against the biting wind.

  “Who was called in?” I ask him. Sadie’s call to Special Agent Rollins couldn’t have done all this. Not when I heard it was Special Agent Proctor leading the charge on the last case.

  His sigh is heavy. “Organized Crime Division.” His dark eyebrows hike. “How’s that for fucked irony? Pardon my French, but the other reports didn’t even make it to us. The damn FBI intercepted them first. Big Brother politics.” He shakes his head.

  I turn toward him, while still trying to hear pieces of Carson’s conversation. “What report was intercepted?”

  He leans in, lowers his voice. “This wasn’t the main attraction.” He nods toward the victim. “The captain put us on this scene while the FBI took over the others. Probably to keep any link among them out of the press.”

  A sinking feeling burrows beneath my feet, like crashing waves dragging me into sand. And when Carson mutters into his phone and ends the call, I know before he even finds my eyes.

  “It’s official,” Carson says. “The case has just been upgraded to a serial killer hunt. Sorry, Avery. Looks like we’re chasing those ghosts.”

  6

  Whore

  Alpha

  My mother was a whore.

  I remember the stench of filthy sex in our little rank, dirty apartment. It permeated the air, mingled with the sour stink of curdled milk left out on the counter and the moldy scent of old carpet and rain-ruined wallpaper.

  I recall the g
roaning sounds coming from behind her bedroom door. Trying to silence the infuriating cries by cranking the volume of my cartoons on the small, static-lined TV. The muffled sobs when one of her johns got too violent.

  Some sounds can’t be drowned out.

  Or forgotten.

  It’s the glare on the television that brings this memory racing back. There was always an annoying glare from the sun-bleached windows that never had any shutters. The first thing I did when I got my own place was put up blinds.

  “Shut the fucking curtains.”

  Donavan does as instructed, and my hand relaxes on the remote as the widescreen display becomes crisp and vibrant in the dimmed room. I inhale a deep breath, taking in the fresh scent of leather and oleander. A combination that reminds me nothing of my mother’s home.

  As I knew they would, the press have sunk their greedy teeth into the serial killer epidemic. The media’s appetite is insatiable, easily fed. The craze inflamed. Give them the bait, and they gnaw at the hook until their gums bleed.

  The FBI have arrived. Not that they needed to make a special trip. They have a convenient office just outside of Arlington, the proverbial heart of the state. The press reporting the FBI’s interception of the Alpha Killer case that, just today, was upgraded to serial killer status, means my pretties have been discovered.

  I did so try to display my girls in a true sadistic art form.

  And oh, how I enjoy watching them all scramble. Fumbling with their little clues.

  The coppery tang of blood still lingers on my hands. When you spill so much, it’s impossible to wash it all away.

  I dig the tip of my finger into the pint of chocolate ice-cream, pop my finger into my mouth. Savor the metallic aftertaste of a job well done. Though I do take pride in my work, that’s all it is: a job. There’s little pleasure to be found in the demoralization of an empire.

  A whimper steals my solitude, and I set the pint down and mute the TV.

  I saved one of my treasures for the party. I have to have something to show for my hard work. She enters now, escorted roughly by her arms, Donavan and Micah directing her to kneel before me.

  She’s not the prize that I ultimately, intimately wanted, but… How did Dr. Lecter phrase it? All good things to those who wait.

  Such irony, really. To quote a fictitious serial killer amid the current circumstances. Rather fitting, in a sort of cheap way. There is always humor to be found, though. Even in the blackest of souls.

  And I am patient. My lovely medical examiner will make the perfect reward.

  The lithe creature before me shies away as I reach for her. I latch on to her jaw and jerk her face forward. “If you struggle”—I tilt her quivering chin up—“I’ll make this far more entertaining than it has to be.”

  Ready with the syringe, Donovan moves closer. I accept the serum with one hand as I hold the whore with the other. Her shaky whimpers slither over my skin as she extends a trembling arm outward.

  “Good girl.” I release her face only to grip her wrist and inject the needle deep into her forearm.

  She bites back a scream. More from the shock than the pain. I imagine how the burn courses her blood, heating her from the inside out, as I push the plunger down.

  She’s glassy-eyed in a matter of seconds, barely able to put up a fight if she so desired. Which now, as she rolls her head, body becoming languid, demonstrates her desires have become anything I wish.

  That’s the beauty of it.

  To all our desires, we are slaves. One must only know how to conquer these desires in order to fully possess another.

  I rarely quote one of the greats if I can’t do them justice—but what the hell? A little butchering never hurt anyone. That is, unless you’re literal in your butchering.

  “Those who restrain their desires, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.” I smooth her damp hair away from her face. William Blake would roll over in his grave, but I rather like the idea of making his sentiments my own.

  I tick my chin, ordering Donavan and Micah to leave us. “I don’t think this one needs the brute force.”

  As they exit the room, my whore arches her back, eases her hands up my thighs, seeking friction. “It’s so warm…” She begins to peel her shirt up, and I catch her wrist.

  “Your clothes stay on.”

  With a pout, she drops the hem, and is quick to move on to my thighs again.

  I kick her away, and she hits the hardwood floor with a yelp. “There’s a box of toys at your disposal.” I nod toward the chest I had Donovan cart in. “Satisfy yourself until you’re content.”

  I pull out my phone and thumb on the timer. Time to see how far my investment will go. And if my girl tires of pleasuring herself, Donovan or another can step in. Maybe a tag team approach to test the drug’s stability.

  I chose this specimen because she’s the healthiest of the lot. All her medical tests came back clean, and of course, I exercise my girls regularly. I’m not in the business of smuggling dirty skanks; I’m in the business of providing the finest quality for my clients.

  It was only logical, then, that the next step would be to rid the market of heroin-doped runts who snivel and cry. Thrash for release when they sober up. Of course, there’s a particularly lucrative clientele for that market. And I have dabbled in it plenty. But my sights are set higher now. Providing the rich and powerful, the men who control the world, with willing slaves to satisfy their every desire.

  Because when you control that market, you control the rich and powerful themselves.

  As I watch her stretch her legs wide and insert a dildo into her pussy, moaning from ecstasy, the Trifecta sensitizing her nerve endings, I toggle to my contacts and locate Maddox.

  “I expect everything has been arranged for tomorrow night.”

  There’s a shuffling noise, and my agitation peaks. This should’ve been handled by now.

  “One moment,” he says.

  “Take your time,” I say, nudging the whore away from me with my heel. She takes the hint that I’m in no mood for games and scoots farther away before proceeding to pleasure herself. “I do have others I can put in your place if this is becoming too complicated for you.”

  “I’m here,” he says, his voice hushed. I wonder who he’s trying to avoid. “But I’ve had some complications. There’s an agent analyst here—a profiler with the ACPD—and a detective.” He sighs a heavy breath. “They’re asking questions and poking around, making this a difficult venture today. I thought you were going to keep the heat off me?”

  My temper flares at his indignation, his assumption that I—in any way—work for him. I force my voice calm. “They’ll be preoccupied soon.” By now, Doctor Johnson has received my gift to her, and her team, I’m sure, is devising strategies to keep her protected.

  That should keep them busy enough, giving me sufficient cover to organize the show.

  “Besides,” Maddox says, interrupting my thoughts. “Larkin doesn’t appear to want to play by our rules.”

  I smile. “Just remind him of his obligation to return my favor. Or I can just as easily let him and his law firm take all the heat.”

  Caleb Mason—a former partner at Lark and Gannet—had a nasty habit of framing his clients for rapes he committed. When Mason decided to turn his sights on Larkin’s lovely little paralegal, I took it upon myself to intervene. Mason’s disappearance didn’t raise any red flags for authorities—I made sure it wasn’t reported. But it would’ve been inane on my part to dispose of Mason completely. I may just have need for him yet—at least, the easily identifiable parts of him.

  “It would be ideal for Gannet to make his move to acquire the power seat of the firm,” Maddox continues. “He’s completely onboard.”

  “What is Gannet’s hang-up, then?”

  “Dominating share holders.” A beat. “I’ve uncovered a failsafe in place if any of the partners attempt to procure majority of the shares. The Firm goes into a forced shutdown. Members
’ information is destroyed, and the members themselves disappear, as if they were never involved.”

  Interesting. Chase Larkin is one savvy businessman. A business model I can respect. But no system and no man is without a weakness. If he can’t simply be removed as an obstacle, I’ll find a way to suss out the chink in his armor.

  I’m sure his pretty paralegal can help me there.

  “Gannet has no theories?” I sit forward.

  “There’s a paralegal that Larkin seems particularly vulnerable to. I think we’re devising a plan.” Gannet seems to be on the same page. Good. “Otherwise, I’ll have everything prepared for tomorrow night.”

  “I know you will.” I end the call, annoyed by the tension in my neck. It’s been a long time since I had to worry over an operation.

  My lips tilt into a smile as I realize I’m rather enjoying the competition, though. It keeps a person sharp. And honestly, prevents boredom. Feeling frisky by this enlightenment, I stalk toward my little whore writhing on the floor.

  Beads of sweat dot her face, her body slick with pent-up need. I kneel beside her and grab one of the toys. “Are you ready to perform, lovely?”

  I sink my fingers into her hair and yank her head back as I drive the vibrator into her ass. She bucks at the pain, but soon she’s undulating her hips with the urge to come. “Yes,” she breathes.

  “That’s a good whore.”

  For the right price, we’re all whores.

  7

  Ally

  Quinn

  A thick smog rolls in off the river, blotting out the afternoon sun and covering the city in a wary mood. It’s an odd occurrence for this time of day. As if the atmosphere senses an impending shift.

  The scent of fall in the air usually puts me at ease. It’s crisp and clean, and denotes a settling for the usually chaotic flow of summer. I like it. My OCD nature relaxes against the calm.