Debra Webb - Depraved (Faces of Evil Book 10)

by Unknown

  “I don’t know which one scares me the most,” Lori admitted, “the prospect that he’s gone totally crazy or the notion that he might just up and disappear.”

  “I was thinking we should preempt his next move.” Jess hoped Lori would see the potential in her plan rather than the risk.

  “How are we supposed to know what his next move is? His MO is all over the place now.”

  Jess inhaled a deep breath and took the plunge. “Instead of waiting helplessly, we make the next move. We lure him in, and then we take him down.”

  “What does Burnett say about your plan?”

  Jess cut her a look. “He doesn’t know and I want it to stay that way. Before he’s finished, Spears will try to kill him, Lori. I can’t let that happen. We’ve wasted too much time already being reactive rather than proactive.”

  “We weren’t exactly in a position to be anything other than reactive until now. What else could we have done?”

  “I know. I know.” Jess held up her hands in surrender. “That’s my frustration talking. But things are different now. Spears’s desperation is showing.”

  “His pride is driving him,” Lori suggested. “He can’t lose. Or…”

  “Or?” Jess held her breath.

  “He can’t bear the thought of not having you. Like you said, the old Eric Spears would disappear, regroup, and appear again when you least expected him. But he can’t do that now. He’s grown so obsessed with you, he’s lost all semblance of control.”

  Lori was right. Eric Spears was a torturer-murderer. He and his kind sat at the very top of the evil scale. As complicated and layered as his evil psyche was, what drove him boiled down to a single basic element: obsession. Evil began and ended with obsession.

  “Whatever he has in mind,” Jess agreed, “he needs a way out of the corner he’s in while still looking brilliant. His loyal followers have obviously dwindled so he may be on his own at this point.”

  “When you say lure him in,” Lori ventured, “what do you have in mind?”

  A rap on the car window made them both jump.

  Gant stood outside the car. “You coming or what?”

  “We’ll talk about this later,” Jess suggested as she reached for her seatbelt. She emerged from the car and gave Gant a pointed look. “Let’s see what you found.”

  Jess focused on steadying her nerves as they went inside. She didn’t have to look as they passed the parlor to know the painting was gone. Dan had made sure it was removed and logged into evidence ASAP.

  In the basement turned torture room the walls had been taken apart. Behind a built-in refrigerator was a door. The opening was lower than a typical door and slightly narrower.

  “It’s an escape tunnel in case the house collapses during a storm. This way the residents wouldn’t be trapped under all the rubble,” Gant explained.

  “Clever. Have you been in there?”

  He nodded. “I have. You walk about fifty feet and there’s a ladder up to the farthest boundary of the backyard. The exit above ground’s well concealed by shrubs and trees.”

  Jess stepped into the tunnel. Gant followed her. He flipped a switch and light filled the close space. The walls, floors, and ceiling were concrete.

  “The message is next to the ladder.”

  Jess walked to the ladder that provided an egress to the yard above and stared at the words scrawled in a felt-tip marker.

  The rules have changed. You won’t know who or what to trust, not even yourself.

  18

  23rd and 10th Terrace South

  Wednesday, September 15, 11:30 a.m.

  Three cups of coffee and Buddy still felt like hell. He’d celebrated a little too much last night. The blonde who’d still been in his bed when he woke up this morning reminded him why he never drank himself into oblivion anymore—last night being a major breach of that policy. He ended up in bed with strangers. He did dumb shit like pick fights, which might explain the shiner he was sporting today.

  He glanced at his reflection the rearview mirror. “Idiot.”

  If he was smart he’d go home, crawl back into bed, and sleep about three days. The last five days had been crazy as hell. He’d seen Spears with his own two eyes. Most had doubted him at first, but then yesterday Gant had found the escape route Spears used. Even better, Spears had left a note. Jess let him know last night that Gant and his uptight pals all had to acknowledge that Buddy had been right.

  Spears was the one doing the reacting now, by God.

  “Bastard.”

  Buddy shifted his attention to the bookstore sitting on the corner. He’d gotten a call from DeeAnn Garner about an hour ago. A book he’d ordered was in. He grunted a laugh. He hadn’t read a book since his freshman year in high school. What did he need with fiction? His life could be a thriller by one of those big shot writers. A bestseller.

  The book you ordered is in.

  The line was a code phrase. DeeAnn had a little extra revenue coming in by acting as a go between. Guys like Buddy, who didn’t want anyone who might be watching to know his contacts, used The Book Shop to order a book. DeeAnn handled the rest. If he wanted to get a message to somebody, like Roark, for example—poor bastard—he used The Book Shop. No calls, texts, or emails to trace.

  Buddy climbed out of his Charger and ambled to the entrance. The shop was carved out of the corner of an old apartment building only steps from his favorite hangout, The Garage Café.

  Maybe after this he’d grab a sandwich and a beer. Anything to ease the throbbing in his skull.

  “Idiot,” he grumbled again.

  Just because Dan Burnett owed him big time and Harold Black actually apologized for treating him like crap—well, he hadn’t said the last part but Buddy knew what he meant—was no reason to celebrate with too much Tequila.

  Damn if he lived through this day it would be a miracle.

  He pushed through the door and bells jingled overhead. Buddy groaned.

  “You don’t look so good this morning, Buddy.”

  DeeAnn Garner was a nice lady. She went to church every Sunday and always said please and thank you. She kept that good looking frame of hers wrapped up like a prim little librarian and those pretty eyes hidden behind big glasses. And she was a blonde, Buddy had always had a thing for blondes.

  Somewhere under all those modest layers, there was a big secret and one of these days Buddy was going to be the man to peel all those layers back.

  But not today.

  He pulled off a smile. “I feel a lot worse than I look,” he confessed.

  “You need to borrow a little concealer for that black eye?” Her lips quirked with the need to smile.

  “No, ma’am. It gives me a kind of bad boy charm, don’t you think?”

  DeeAnn laughed, the sound soft and tinkling. “No one would ever see you as anything else.”

  Not sure if that was a compliment or not, Buddy moved on. “I’m here to pick up that book I ordered.”

  “It came just this morning.” DeeAnn reached beneath the counter and pulled out a copy of Catch-22. “Interesting choice.”

  “Maybe my inner reader is trying to tell me something. Thanks.” He opted not to tell her that the only 22 he’d seen lately was the business end of the one Roark had been showing off. He tossed forty bucks on the counter and gave her a little salute. “See you next time I hear about a book I just have to read.”

  DeeAnn shook her head and waved him off.

  Buddy hustled back to his Charger and dropped behind the wheel. He skimmed through the pages until he found a small sealed envelope. As usual, there was no name on the front, only a number, #10. Buddy was #10. That meant there were at least nine others who received messages like this. Or maybe the numbers were chosen at random. Whatever.

  He tore open the envelope and there was a single typed sentence and no signature.

  Meet me at the Garage at two.

  Wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken a meeting with a stranger.

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nbsp; His gut clenched at the idea that Spears may have sent the message. He had the number Dan had given him… he could text the guy.

  No. That would be a mistake. He wasn’t about to set in motion a domino effect he couldn’t stop. Danny boy’s big plan to bait and trap Spears could seriously backfire. Buddy had to spend some sober time thinking it through before he opened that Pandora’s box.

  Going home and prepping for the meeting was the smart thing to do.

  Buddy intended to be a whole lot smarter today than he’d been last night.

  The Garage Café, 2:00 p.m.

  Buddy settled on a stool at the end of the bar. He was a regular here. The bartender, Casey, would ensure no one bothered him. When he’d entered he’d counted five or six patrons, mostly regulars. Two he didn’t recognize.

  Black had agreed to keep Buddy’s name out of the investigation into Roark’s activities. The guy was dead, it wasn’t as if they were going to be pressing charges against him. Fear wasn’t his reason for wanting his name kept out of the official reports. He was a PI, he depended on input from his sources. He couldn’t afford for word to get out that he’d rescued the chief of police by exposing one of his sources.

  Not good for business.

  He felt bad about Roark, but the guy had made his own choice. Buddy couldn’t let him destroy Dan the way he’d destroyed Harper’s partner all those years ago. Buddy had done the right thing this time.

  In his peripheral vision Buddy watched a man approach. The guy was tall with a distinguished bearing—scratch that, an arrogant bearing. Gray hair and a high-end silk suit.

  Damn. A fed.

  Buddy downed the remainder of his beer as the suit slid onto the stool beside him.

  “It appears you’ve found yourself in a bit of a Catch-22 situation, Mr. Corlew.”

  Buddy sat his empty bottle aside and eyed his guest. “Oh yeah? Who says so?”

  The man smiled. “My name is John Kurtze, Mr. Corlew. Unfortunately for me, my superior says so.”

  Buddy raised his hand and motioned for Casey to bring another round of the same.

  With business slow this time of day, Casey tossed aside the polishing cloth he’d been using on the bar and headed toward Buddy with two sweating long neck bottles of Corona.

  “Sparkling water for me, please,” Kurtze insisted.

  “You can leave both those right here.” Buddy nodded to Casey.

  Casey left the Coronas and rounded up a bottle of sparkling water for Kurtze. When the bartender was out of earshot, Buddy said, “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

  Kurtze sipped his water before giving Buddy an answer. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share very much with you, Mr. Corlew.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you are at liberty to share and we can both get on with our lives.” Buddy had stuff to do.

  “I’m the personal assistant to retired FBI Director Winston Drummond.”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell.” Buddy had never heard of him.

  “He’s been retired for more than two decades. I’m certain you haven’t.”

  “Does he need a private investigator?” Buddy reached for his beer.

  “What he needs,” Kurtze said emphatically, “is for you to stop digging around in the past.”

  Since the only past Buddy was currently digging into was Jess’s, it wasn’t necessary to ask for clarification.

  “I was retained to learn the truth about Lee Harris.” Buddy swallowed a slug of Corona. “I’ve never let a client down before and I don’t intend to start now.”

  “Chief Harris will have her answers in time.” Kurtze stood and placed a twenty on the counter. “For now, I would strongly encourage you to leave the subject be. Good day, Mr. Corlew.”

  “Same to you, Mr. Kurtze.”

  Buddy watched the man go. He hitched his head toward the door and the bartender nodded before disappearing through the kitchen. Buddy savored another long drink of his beer. Twenty or so seconds passed and Casey returned.

  “Black Cadillac,” Casey reported. “Rental.”

  “Hmm.” Definitely not traveling on the Government’s nickel. “Thanks, Casey.”

  Whatever Jess’s father had gotten himself into, it seemed some folks wanted it to stay dead and buried.

  19

  3:30 p.m.

  Dan Burnett was no longer a person of interest in Meredith Dority’s murder.

  Fury ignited inside Eric. He braced his hands against the wall and fought to repress his screams. North had failed him miserably… they had all failed him at this most crucial juncture. If only he had known that insignificant whore had been disloyal to him, he would have made her suffer so much more before putting her out of her misery. Months of preparation, weeks of orchestrating every facet of the perfect plan—all of it was obliterated.

  “Is there anything I can do, Eric?”

  He whirled around. “Get out of my sight.” The only thing he wanted to do right now was to tear someone apart. The need to hear the harrowing screams and to feel the heat of a victim’s blood in his hands was a living, pulsing thing.

  “It’s almost time,” the hapless troll dared to remind him. “I’ve attended to the other, just as you asked.”

  “I know perfectly well what time it is. Now get out.”

  Eric closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. This next step could very well be his last opportunity to wield the agony he so wanted Burnett to feel. He wanted Jess to cry out in anguish. The thought made him so hard he couldn’t help touching himself.

  There could be no mistakes. He would have this moment.

  He turned to the backup plan he’d been keeping to himself for days now. He wouldn’t have known about her and that breakdown all those years ago had the troll in the other room not discovered the dirty little secret. Perhaps he had proven his worth after all. His loyalty had thus far been unwavering. Since Quentin’s unfortunate lapse in judgment, the troll had been keeping a close eye on Jess. He’d kept Eric well informed of her movements when she wasn’t playing deputy chief.

  Of all the ruthless killers Eric had commissioned, wasn’t it poetic justice that the only truly loyal one turned out to be the least likely candidate?

  Finding an employee on vacation from the facility where Nina Baron resided had been as simple as a few clicks on the keyboard. After all, Eric had made his fortune in software security. Nurse Edna Bruhn had taken two weeks off to go visit an old friend in Florida. Sadly, she never left home and since she had no children or husband, no one had noticed. When she didn’t report back to work next week, someone would finally wonder what had become of the sixty-six year old. Too bad she hadn’t retired in the spring since her personnel file noted her eligibility.

  Too, too bad.

  Eric summoned a smile. “Now. Let’s start again, Nina.”

  Nina Baron lifted her face and stared at him, terror and disorientation rampant in her dark eyes, quaking through her slim body. Her brown hair fell around her beautiful face, making her look so innocent while the mental illness that no amount of money could evict churned her mind with delusions and paranoia.

  Eric leaned down and placed his hands on the arms of her chair. “What did he do to you, Nina?”

  She moistened those lovely, pouty lips. “He left me.”

  “That’s right, Nina,” Eric placated. Today was the first time she had given the correct response the first time. He had broken her. After nearly a week of fighting him, she had surrendered to him and to her own voices. “Dan deserted you when you needed him most because he wanted her.”

  The shaking worsened. “Where’s Dan?”

  “I’ll take you to him,” Eric promised. “You must remember what I expect you to do. You must stop him from hurting your family, Nina.”

  She wagged her head side to side. “He won’t hurt my family.” Her mouth worked for a bit before she managed to say the rest. “Dan wouldn’t do that.”

  “He will,” Eric roared.
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  She jumped, and then nodded adamantly. “He will,” she repeated, looking anywhere but at Eric. “I’ll stop him.”

  “Everyone is depending on you, Nina. You must stop him. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, the movement jerky now.

  “Very good, Nina. Now, tell me what you’re going to do when I take you to Dan?”

  She thought for a moment before she dared to lift her gaze once more. She blinked rapidly as if it hurt to look directly at him.

  “What will you do, Nina?” he demanded.

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  20

  Woodland Road, Bessemer, 3:45 p.m.

  The home of Edna Bruhn was a modest cottage. Newspapers had piled up outside and her mail was overflowing from the box at the end of her sidewalk. Her closest neighbor had insisted that Edna had flown down to Tampa, Florida, to spend time with her best friend from high school. Edna was an RN at the clinic where Nina Baron had resided for more than ten years.

  But Edna had never made it to Florida. She’d never even made it to the airport. The clinic’s administrator, Forrest Desmond, had received a phone call from Edna’s friend in Tampa. The friend was worried about her. Edna had left a message last Wednesday saying she wouldn’t be able to come to Florida after all. The friend hadn’t been able to reach her since. No one was more surprised to hear this news than Desmond. He’d been so concerned that he’d driven right over. Edna hadn’t answered the door when he knocked. With her newspapers and mail all piled up he’d decided to call the BPD.

  Lieutenant Hayes had kicked the door open and the smell of death had wafted out to greet them. The administrator was currently on the front lawn heaving his guts out.

  Lieutenant Hayes passed a handkerchief to Jess.

  Holding her breath, she managed to say, “Thank you.”

  “Dr. James is en route,” Lori said, her arm covering her nose and mouth. “Crime scene techs just rolled up.”