One In A Million (The Millionth Trilogy Book 1)

by Tony Faggioli

  Her laugh bounced wickedly across the cold porcelain floor and echoed against the stall doors. Tamara began to feel a strange pressure in her eyes.

  The Gray Man took note of Tamara at last. “Child. Close your eyes. You aren’t meant to see any of this.”

  At his command, she closed her eyes and lowered her head, oddly both overjoyed and utterly terrified by his presence.

  “Woman, you tempt him to evil, and yet still he repents, time and again, struggling to forgive himself for what he did back then.”

  “He’ll never make it. I’ll see to it.”

  “You know. I believe you’ll try,” The Gray Man said, his voice lowering. “But The Father will try harder.”

  Crackling energy began to envelop the room, bringing a sudden, carnal fear to the woman’s voice. “Charlie. Run to me! Now! Mama’s going away. Quick!”

  There was a rapid scampering of feet across the floor, then a lightning bolt of force shot through the room, singeing the hair on Tamara’s arms. When the crackle passed, the room went still, the only sound that of Tamara’s weeping.

  Seconds passed, but Tamara sensed that he was still there.

  Suddenly, she felt his hands cup her cheeks and his thumbs gently rest on her eyelids. Instantly the pain in her eyes was gone.

  “Shhhh. No more tears, Tamara Fasano.”

  His voice, soft now and loving, only made her cry all the more.

  “You’re real. It’s all real. Please. Will I forget all this?” she asked him.

  “Do you want to?”

  Her heart swelled as she shook her head gently. “No.”

  “Then you won’t,” he said. Then he and his touch were gone.

  She opened her eyes to the cold glare of the fluorescent lights as they reflected off the mirrors. Instinctively, she forced herself to run to her car, and mostly stumbled her way there before she crawled inside, her legs like jelly. She started the car and desperately looked at the dashboard clock in disbelief. It was just past 4:00 p.m. How? How had she lost nearly four hours?

  She prayed, trying to calm her nerves as she pulled back out on to the highway, the road ahead stark beneath the glare of her headlights, only the yellow strips of the dividing lines offering any proof at all that she was really moving as they sped by at a rapid-fire pace.

  She would get to Kyle. She would.

  CHAPTER 31

  The cold chill of the night kicked up off the ocean as Napoleon and Parker walked the length of the beach, the couple growing closer with each step.

  “How you wanna do this?” Parker asked.

  “If it’s him, the steps up to the street are right behind him, so that’s the only direction he can run without trying to get past us.”

  “Hard to tell for sure if it’s him from this distance.”

  “Yeah. And two guys walking up the beach in dress shirts and ties towards them is hardly low profile.”

  “He probably changed his appearance too, right?” Parker asked.

  “I dunno. The hair dye, beard and mustache growth, all that shit. Might be hard. But I got a plan.” Napoleon moved wisely to the wet sand, which was easier to walk on.

  “Yeah? Okay. Well, you share that plan whenever you’re ready, but I think I’ll at least be able to recognize her.”

  “Yeah? Okay. Make sure. Those internet photos, the newspaper pic, they might be outdated.”

  “Got it.”

  Fortunately, the couple was arguing so heatedly and their attentions were so riveted on each other that they didn’t even notice Napoleon and Parker approaching.

  The closer they got, the harder it was for Napoleon to fight the urge to just break into a bold run. The man was in a navy jacket and jeans, and looked to be about the same height as Kyle Fasano; the woman was a brunette with the same frame as Victoria Brasco, as best as he could recall.

  This could be it. Finally. It was one thing to track down a professional felon, but to have a normal Joe put them through the ringer like this was getting to be embarrassing.

  At ten yards Napoleon made his move, motioning Parker to the left as he stepped to the right of the couple. His plan was nothing fancy, just to walk right up with his fists clenched and say…

  “Kyle Fasano?”

  The man turned, not aware of how close he was to getting clocked in the face. Napoleon didn’t need the bewildered, quizzical look of the man to confirm that he wasn’t Fasano. His body language was neither aggressive nor flighty. He turned, irritated at being interrupted, and looked right at them. Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon saw Parker pull up short too. The man was ten to fifteen years too old to be their guy, and that only added to the obvious; up close he looked nothing like Fasano.

  “Do you mind?” the man asked while the woman he was with looked away in embarrassment.

  Out of habit Napoleon scanned the woman’s neck, shoulders and arms for bruises. He’d walked away from too many domestic dispute calls as a patrol officer only to have to go back again later to see the carnage that happened afterwards. Seeing she was clear of any marks, Napoleon looked to Parker to do the mop up.

  “Our apologies, guys, we thought you were somebody else.”

  Napoleon could tell the man was about to pop off before the woman took one look at Napoleon and pulled on her companion’s arm. But of course. She looked like money, from her Lacoste shirt to her Gucci bag. They raised them the same in all the nice neighborhoods, to beware of the darkies. Napoleon shook his head and turned on his heels, heading back down the beach.

  “The bar?” Parker said aloud as he caught up with him.

  “Yep. It’s next on the list. Let’s hope they’re slow drinkers, or ordered a second round to reminisce about their first kiss or some shit.”

  They double-timed it back to the bar, Parker taking it in easy strides, unburdened by the extra twenty years or twenty pounds that Napoleon carried. By the time they got back to the pier, Napoleon was completely out of breath. Still, he took the salt-bleached wooden steps in twos, feeling the strain on his heart, and kept moving until he reached the front door of the bar, the word “Tully’s” emblazoned on a neon sign in blue and red over the entrance.

  This time they did split up, perusing the dining tables one by one, from opposite sides of the restaurant area. The place was pretty full, with only a few tables open and one stool left at the bar. They stayed within sight of one another, walking deliberately through the place, giving the hostess the impression they were just looking for someone they were supposed to meet.

  When Napoleon got to the bar, he motioned for the bartender.

  A stout man with a gray goatee and a round face, the bartender threw a towel over one shoulder and approached. “What can I get ya?”

  Wanting to expedite the process and demand the desired attention, Napoleon flashed his badge, sparing the LAPD bit this time.

  It worked. Raising his eyebrows the bartender asked, “What’s up?”

  “Did you see a guy in here, around six feet, dark hair, athletic? He might’ve been with a smallish brunette?”

  Napoleon watched as the bartender scanned his memory, and then he tried to nudge him a bit more. “He would’ve had brown eyes and a square jaw.”

  The bartender shook his head slowly, and then something registered. “No. Not tonight. But there was a dude in here last night, jumpy as shit actually, that might’ve been your guy.”

  Parker finally joined them at the bar and Napoleon wasted no time. “Last night?”

  The bartender’s nod became more affirmative the more he thought about it. “Yeah. Brown eyes. Built like a baseball player.”

  Again with the baseball player description. Evidently it was accurate.

  “That might’ve been him,” Napoleon said. “And the girl?”

  “No. He was alone.”

  Parker reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He’d saved a photo of Kyle Fasano on it and he showed this to the bartender. “This look like him?”

  �
�Holy shit! Yeah. He has a beard started now but, yeah, that’s… wait a minute! Is this the guy who killed the girl in LA?”

  He’d said it too loudly. The patrons at the bar stirred, some even looking over as their hushed conversations stopped.

  Napoleon shot the bartender a look. “Keep it down, will ya?”

  “Yeah, man. Sorry. But is it?”

  Napoleon nodded.

  “Shit. In here? Damn. What’re the odds?”

  “Not good if we don’t find the girl he’s with.”

  “Well… we get a lot of girls in here, guys. Tourists and shit.”

  Parker shook his head. “No. This one’s a local. She owns a business nearby.”

  “Really? Who?”

  Napoleon and Parker exchanged looks, visually agreeing that they had no choice but to clutch at straws now.

  “Victoria Brasco. She owns the—”

  “Wine shop,” the bartender said, cutting him off. “Yeah. I know her well. She and her husband come in here from time to time. No way was she at the bar tonight. I woulda known. Five hours into my shift and no break yet.”

  “Okay,” Napoleon said, deflated.

  “One of the guys that works for her said she was with him and might stop by here,” Parker added.

  The bartender bunched up his face, making it redder than it normally was, his eyes flashing with confusion. “Guy? Far as I know, only Lori and Becca work for Victoria, unless she just hired him or something, which is news to me.”

  Napoleon felt his stomach drop. There was no rational explanation, just instinct again, but he felt that something was profoundly off. He looked at Parker and could see the rookie was feeling the same way.

  “Anything you can tell us about last night?” Parker asked, breaking out his notebook.

  “Like what?”

  Napoleon sighed. “What was he wearing?”

  “Hard to forget: jeans, a blue t-shirt and Doc Marten shoes. And a blue hat.”

  In all his years, Napoleon rarely heard a witness rattle off facts in such a rapid-fire fashion. “It sounds like he made an impression. Did he get into a fight or something?”

  The bartender scoffed. “Yeah. With the damn flat screen.”

  This time it was Parker’s turn to make a face. “The what?”

  “The television. Too bad Lenny’s not in here tonight. He was right next to the guy when he flipped out.”

  “How?” Napoleon asked.

  “Ya know. He musta been high or something. All I gave him was a beer. The game was on, then…” The bartender was distracted by a guy who was motioning for another drink at the other end of the bar. “Hold on, Ted. I’ll be right there.” Turning back to Napoleon, he rolled his eyes. “As if he needs it. Anyway, where was I?”

  “The game was on. Benny was next to…” Parker prodded.

  “Lenny,” Napoleon interjected.

  “Yeah. Lenny was next to him…”

  “Oh. Yeah. So at halftime they do the news, that hurricane or whatever in Hawaii?”

  Being on the Golden State road tour the last few days, Napoleon hadn’t heard of any hurricanes, but he nodded anyway. “Go on.”

  “According to Lenny, the guy just starts freaking out over the screen, mumbling shit about angels and demons. Next thing we know he’s stumbling around… tripped on a table and knocked shit all over the place, tried to bail but I called him on his tab. He paid up and then off into the night he goes, like the Phantom of the Opera or something.”

  Napoleon squinted and bit down on the inside of his cheek. Everything with Fasano was just getting weirder and weirder.

  “Anything else?” Parker asked.

  The bartender thought about it. “Nah. Nothing I can think of.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Victoria’s not in any danger, is she?” the bartender pried.

  “We hope not. Here’s my card,” Napoleon said, sliding it across the bar.

  “Got it. Is it okay to tell her you guys are looking for her if she comes by?”

  “Absolutely. Let us know if she does.”

  The bartender nodded and turned back to the bar. “Okay, Ted. Calm down, brother. I got your scotch coming, for shit’s sake!”

  They left the restaurant quietly and more than a little bit confused. Napoleon could feel it in Parker, and he imagined Parker could feel it in him.

  “What now?” Parker said, exasperated.

  “Back to the wine shop,” Napoleon answered.

  “I knew that,” Parker said.

  “Then you shouldn’t have asked.”

  Parker chuckled and shook his head as they walked down the sidewalk. “Was your first case this jacked up?”

  At that, Napoleon had to laugh, in spite of his mood. “Not even close. Double homicide. Rival gangs. Easy as a cake in an Easy-Bake oven.”

  “Funny. My sister and I always used to burn ours.”

  They chuckled and turned right on to the boardwalk. The line at Bubba Gump’s had died down, and the rumbling of people within the restaurant was nearly extinguished. At the wine shop, they found the girl that was tending to the tasting bar earlier, now locking up for the night.

  “Excuse me,” Napoleon said.

  The girl jumped back, startled. Napoleon and Parker showed their badges before she could slam the door on them. “Police. We’re looking for Victoria Brasco.”

  She was a smart a girl and looked at the badges closely. “Victoria? She’s never here this late. She usually leaves at about six each day.”

  Napoleon nodded. “Really? The guy we spoke to earlier said she had left here about seven or so?”

  Napoleon knew what was coming before she even said it.

  “Guy?” the girl said. “What guy?”

  Parker seemed annoyed. “What’s your name?”

  “Becca.”

  “Hi, Becca. I’m Detective Parker. This is Detective Villa. We spoke earlier to a gentleman working here, and he said she left with a guy and was headed to the beach or over to Tully’s.”

  Becca was bemused. “Uh. Sorry, fellas, but we don’t have a guy that works here. You sure he wasn’t a customer or something?”

  Napoleon felt his face flush red. “Well. Maybe he was. He acted like he was an employee though.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. No. But Victoria will be back in tomorrow at ten. Do you need her number?”

  “No,” Parker said. “We have it, but we haven’t been able to reach her.”

  “Okay. Well. I’d offer to help, but I’ve gotta get home. My baby has whooping cough and my boyfriend is going out of his mind.”

  Napoleon nodded and stepped back. “That’s fine. We’ll try and reach her again.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Becca said.

  “No worries,” Parker said.

  Becca closed and locked the door.

  Napoleon turned to walk back to the car and had only taken a few steps when something on the ground caught his eye. He stooped down and picked it up. It was a business card.

  Parker’s business card.

  And it had a hole burned right through the middle of it.

  At his side immediately, Parker was stunned. “What the…”

  Napoleon turned the card over a few times. Something told him to smell it, so he did, bringing it up to his nostrils for a whiff before jerking his head away.

  “What?” Parker asked.

  “Sulfur,” Napoleon answered, his voice flat in his own ears.

  “What?” Parker asked. Napoleon offered up the card and Parker snatched it from his hand and smelled it with the same reaction.

  Putting his hands on his hips, Napoleon turned to the street and leaned his head back to look up at the stars before taking a deep breath and exhaling. “Man, oh man, oh man,” he said.

  “What does this shit mean?” Parker murmured in frustration.

  Napoleon gave a short laugh, but it was absent any humor. “It means that we’ve fallen right down the rabbit hole, rookie.”

&n
bsp; Swallowing hard, Napoleon closed his eyes and began to run through the options before he stopped himself. It was no use. This case was beyond him. Period. He thought of the trucker at the rest stop again. Drive back home. Stay there. Die lonely. He thought of Beecher’s devil worshipper’s theory. Lastly, he thought of Kyle Fasano, that great mastermind of crime, who had managed to elude them all this time, ranting and raving about angels and demons just one night before, while he tripped and stumbled his way out of Tully’s.

  Parker sighed. “I don’t even wanna say it…”

  “What next?” Napoleon guessed.

  “You got it.”

  Before them the night sky had finally arrived and was now in full bloom, stretched out over the sea like a shroud, its stars muted and the moon present but playing shy behind a bank of mostly invisible clouds.

  Napoleon sighed. “We’re going to Victoria Brasco’s house.”

  “I knew that,” Parker replied.

  CHAPTER 32

  Kyle flagged a cab from the front of the restaurant as soon as they left. There was no rush. He’d overheard where they were headed, Victoria’s house, and he still had her address scrawled on the piece of scrap paper from the library.

  When he got to the house, he quietly made his way to the front door and found it closed but unlocked. They’d obviously entered in a hurry, probably anxious to get on with things.

  Kyle couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he was.

  He entered the house cautiously; it was completely dark inside. He could hear the sound of a woman singing and strained to identify the song before it finally came to him: “Scarborough Fair.” It was playing from somewhere deep in the house, the words ushering him forwards.

  Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

  To his right was a living room with a couch and two chairs arranged around what looked like a glass coffee table; a massive flat screen television was mounted to the wall. His eyes hadn’t completely adjusted yet so it was hard to make out the smaller details of the room, but he could see some bookshelves with large and small framed photos neatly arranged on them.