by P. D. Martin
“What?”
“They built the place. We found Cook’s prints on some of the debris from the control room.”
“He could have been in on it. Or maybe these vics were some kind of test run.”
Darren shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Dusk just got off the phone to Steiner’s parole officer and he said that the last time he saw Steiner was three months ago. Steiner told him it looked like he had a real job in construction and that he’d give him all the details in a day or two. But the parole officer never heard from him again. I mean, think about it, the place had to be built somehow and I can’t imagine Brooke, or even Heath, out there swinging a hammer.”
Darren’s got a point, especially given Heath was the only member of the club who even knew where the bunker was.
Another part of the mystery solved. It certainly was a well-thought-out scheme.
38
Two weeks later
I sit at my desk back in DC and stare at the photos of the victims of the Murderers’ Club. I’m supposed to be working on a profile of a serial rapist in Indianapolis but I keep drifting back to the case. I close my eyes but still see the victims. It’s hard to forget. I remember the pit of bodies, the smell, as if I was still there. And the memory of Brigitte being dragged down the corridor by her hair, screaming, will never leave me either…another permanent reminder of the case. I shudder.
I focus on the positive, on the outcomes. We got almost all of them. Brooke’s DNA matched the three early crime scenes in which DNA was found and with the evidence in front of her she finally confessed to all the murders over the past fifteen years, including her most recent victim, Malcolm. She’ll probably get the death penalty, but one way or another she’ll be in jail for the rest of her life. Hopefully that’s enough justice and vengeance for the Jackson family.
DialM, Victor Petrov, is dead and out of the way for good. I knew it wasn’t his first murder, and a thorough sweep of his property, including imaging of the ground, revealed bodies in the barn. Forensics started digging and found the remains of twenty young girls. They’re still identifying the victims, and hopefully that will bring closure to their families. Sometimes it’s better to know your loved one is dead, than to live in hope.
Then there’s Heath, AmericanPsycho. Heath still isn’t talking, but Brooke wanted her vengeance, too. She’s signed a witness statement that AmericanPsycho was the mastermind of the whole thing, the president. She’s also pinned Cindy’s and Danny’s murders on him. Her statement, coupled with the computer evidence that identifies Heath as AmericanPsycho, should be enough for a jury. No doubt his fancy, expensive lawyer will have a few tricks up his sleeve, but all we can do is wait for the trial and trust our evidence and the court system.
I’d like to be content with three out of four but it’s not in my nature. I flick over to a photo of Brigitte. I’ll get the bastard—one way or another.
AmericanPsycho has entered the room.
Killer4Ever: Hi, Psycho, long time no see.
AmericanPsycho: Yes, I’ve been busy.
Killer4Ever: Don’t make me jealous. I’m still pissed I didn’t get into your club.
AmericanPsycho: Sorry, Killer. Maybe next time.
Killer4Ever: So it’s finished?
AmericanPsycho: Yes.
Killer4Ever: Fun?
AmericanPsycho: You’ve got no idea.
Killer4Ever: My name’s definitely on the list for next time?
AmericanPsycho: Yes.
EPILOGUE
He looked at each of the photos and smiled, reliving each moment. Things hadn’t played out exactly the way they were supposed to, but he’d still had his fun. Soon he’d destroy the photos—too much of a risk. But by then he’d have studied them enough that he could easily recall their faces, just like he could with all his victims.
What a world he lived in, a world where he could successfully lead a perfect double life. Not only was he able to fit into society, but he was revered by the business community, who were completely ignorant of his true nature. And that’s what he got off on. He loved keeping such a deep, dark secret. Not ten minutes went by when he didn’t think, even fleetingly, of murder. Past or future victims, methods, facial expressions, famous killers, famous victims. God, he loved it. He loved the power of his secret, loved knowing how vulnerable everyone really was.
It was a pity the game was over. A pity not all the victims had been killed—he’d been especially looking forward to Susie. She’d keep though.
He locked the photos away in his personal safe and took out the speech he’d prepared for the fund-raiser. He went over the main points. He enjoyed these functions. They either paid him or persuaded him to speak about himself—and who wouldn’t want to talk about themselves to a captive audience for thirty minutes? But he couldn’t concentrate on the speech.
He put the cue cards away and let himself think of the club. He’d had fun manipulating everyone—the contestants, the members of the club and, ultimately, the cops. That was the true challenge for him. How he’d enjoyed coming up with the appropriate calling cards for each murder—just enough to point the cops in the right direction without being too heavy-handed. He smiled, thinking about how BlackWidow must have reacted when she found out about the rose tattoo. He controlled everyone and that’s just the way he liked it. They were all puppets in his private play.
Thcaptivating Sophie Anderson plot, such as the captivating Sophie Anderson. Nowthatwouldbe aconquest. Shewanted her man—and he could give him to her. Although perhaps not in the way she wanted. He sighed and let his thoughts linger on Sophie, replaying the way she moved, the way she smiled. But the feature he loved most about her was her over-developed sense of justice, of righteousness. He smiled, smug in the knowledge that right now she’d be stewing over the one that got away. If only she knew the truth.
And she would feel guilt over the toll in the desert, the law-enforcement toll. It was her case, her call, and people had died. He did feel sorry for her, knowing she’d take it hard—that sort always did. But it had been fun setting off the explosives. He’d had to wait, of course, had to make it look like it was triggered by the bomb squad, not him. Otherwise the cops and FBI would have known. How could Heath Jordan, the president, warn the other members or set off the explosives if he was in prison? To keep his secret, he’d had to bide his time.
“Are you ready, sir?”
He looked up. “Yes.”
She was invaluable to him, essential for his public face. She didn’t know his secret, and never would. Heath, on the other hand, was essential for his darker side. He was a good scapegoat, and he knew he could trust Heath to never, ever talk. His little visit with Heath had reassured him of that fact. He would never reveal his true involvement, nor would he resent that he’d taken certain liberties to make sure the evidence pointed to Heath. He’d been good to Heath in more ways than one, and Heath would repay that debt now. Besides, they both knew the FBI didn’t have enough for murder, not enough to put Heath away forever. And he’d be there for Heath when he got out. The only murder Heath did commit, Janice Dust, they’d never get him on. He’d taken care of business and followed orders, like any good sidekick.
He buttoned his double-breasted Armani jacket and straightened his tie. He looked at the handsome reflection in the mirror and smiled. “You truly are the American psycho, Justin.” Reid’s smile was ear-to-ear.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
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Published in Great Britain 2008.
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
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© Phillipa Deanne Martin 2007
ISBN: 9781408906224
