by K'wan
“Did it get messy?”
Captain Marx laughed. “That’s just it. We were able to put it to bed without firing a single shot, thanks to that little black flower.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither did we. When we rushed the warehouse, instead of finding the dozen or so shooters we’d prepared for, we found a warehouse full of corpses. There were eight or nine of them all together, all gutted and hung from the ceiling by chains like cattle. Same as Father Fleming.”
“And the girl?” Wolf asked.
“Physically, she was fine except for the fact that she was covered in blood. Mentally, she was stir-fried. It was days before we could get her to do anything besides mumble incoherently in Spanish. When we were finally able to question her, she had quite a story to tell. She said that the Angel of Death had come and killed the men.”
“So you mean to say that one person came in and took out a room full of armed cartel gunmen?”
“Sounded like a tall tale to me too, until I asked her to describe the Angel of Death, and all she would say was, El Loto Negro.”
“The Black Lotus,” Wolf translated, drawing on his high school Spanish skills. Something about the name sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure why.
“Right,” Captain Marx nodded. “I did some digging and found a few other cases that mentioned a black flower at the scene of the crime. Just about all the victims had been criminals of some sort, or had some black mark on their record. The causes of death were different, but there was a flower at every scene.”
“So, you think we’re dealing with some type of serial killer?” Wolf was growing more interested. He hadn’t officially agreed to help with the case yet, but his brain was processing the information as if he had.
Captain Marx chuckled. “A serial killer would’ve made this too easy. I believe this is way bigger. During my investigation into the Black Lotus I kept getting stonewalled by the department, so I called a buddy of mine who works for the feds. From the way he reacted you’d think I’d just asked him to help me whack the president. Officially, he refused to comment on the Black Lotus killings.”
“But unofficially?”
“Unofficially, he told me that the Black Lotus is an assassin rumored to be tied to the BHOB. You might know them as the Brotherhood of Blood.”
This surprised Wolf. He didn’t have any official information on the Brotherhood, but from what he’d heard they were a secret fraternity of assassins, who were hailed as the best of the best when it came to taking lives. The Brotherhood of Blood was alleged to be connected to some of the most infamous killings in American history, but they moved like ghosts, so law enforcement was never able to put anything other than speculation on paper about them. Their members were said to be composed of men from all walks of life, and none outside of the Brotherhood knew the true identities of its members.
“I’ve always thought tales of the Brotherhood were ghost stories to keep rookies on their toes,” Wolf said.
“Ghost stories don’t leave priests strung up like meat in a slaughterhouse.” Captain Marx glanced over at the murdered man.
Wolf turned his gaze as well to the mess that had been Father Fleming. He reassessed the crime scene, the chains, the worn wooden benches . . . the red baseball cap lying on the floor . . . He hadn’t noticed that cap at first because it was soaked in blood, and almost blended in with the bloody floor. Something about it tugged at his brain, but before he could dwell on it further, the captain broke his concentration.
“So, are you with me or what?”
Wolf weighed it. “Let’s say I go along with the theory that the priest was killed by someone from the Brotherhood. What does it have to do with me? It isn’t drug related, so why should I get involved? You said yourself that the department was stonewalling you and the feds don’t wanna talk about it, so why not just leave it alone? Or better yet, let those two idiots from homicide deal with it. I’m sure the department will be more inclined to lend their support to the donkeys than they would the wolf.” He didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice.
“If I go to my superiors talking about secret societies and assassins, they’re likely to slap me in a white coat and lock me away somewhere. Brown and Alvarez are good cops, and given enough time I’m sure they’ll piece it together, but by then the shit will already have hit the fan and the Brotherhood will be in the wind. Once they’re called in to do a job, they don’t waste much time.”
“For someone who doesn’t know much about the Brotherhood, you seem pretty well informed as to their tactics,” Wolf said. It was more of an observation than an accusation, but it somehow felt like the latter.
Captain Marx shrugged. “You’re in the streets so you know how it goes. Sometimes you hear things. Listen, James, you know I wouldn’t come to you unless it was a last resort. I need someone I can trust to help me out on this one. I’m not asking as your captain, I’m asking as your friend.”
Wolf took a few minutes to mull over what Captain Marx was asking him. It would be a difficult case, with him having very little to go on, and obviously dangerous, but those were the elements that got Wolf out of bed every morning to put on his badge. “This could get very messy, captain,” he finally said.
“I’m sure it will, but I’ll make it worth your while. You crack this case and I’ll make all that Dutton business go away.”
Detective Richie Dutton had at one time been Wolf’s partner and mentor. They called him the Chameleon because of how fluidly he slipped from one criminal persona to the next. He was so good that sometimes it was hard to tell which side of the law he was really on. He taught Wolf how to survive working undercover cases by embracing the personas of the criminals they were tracking. When Wolf and Dutton were on the job they moved like rock stars, indulging in money, pussy, and drugs—and it was the drugs that eventually tore them apart.
Wolf dabbled in drugs when the job called for it, but Richie was over-the-top with it. He was notorious for his cocaine and alcohol binges. One night he had gotten coked up out of his mind and beat a prostitute they’d had working as a CI nearly to death. When she threatened to blow his cover, Richie decided that she had to go. Wolf had done some things that he wasn’t proud of while working undercover, but he wouldn’t sign off on cold-blooded murder. The two got into a heated argument over it and one thing led to another. When it was all said and done, Dutton and the CI ended up dead and Wolf was left to answer for the killings. In his report he said that Dutton had been high on drugs and trying to kill him, so he’d shot his partner in self-defense. The toxicology report confirmed that Detective Dutton had elevated levels of cocaine, marijuana, and alcohol in his system, and being that there were no witnesses, no charges were brought against Wolf. The shooting was ruled justified, though there were still some people who weren’t convinced.
“I was cleared of that,” Wolf replied.
“Yeah, for now. You think I don’t know that IAD is still sniffing around, trying to find a home for that dirty kill?”
“They can sniff all they want, but they won’t find anything,” Wolf replied confidently.
“Yeah, because it was me who taught you how to cover your tracks. Look, whether it went down the way you say it did or not isn’t my call to make. I’m not judging, but as long as you have that hovering over your head, your service record is going to always be tainted. I’m offering to wipe your slate clean. You might even be able to pull a promotion out of it if you solve the case.”
“And if I blow it?”
“If you blow it, some heads are going to roll, starting with yours. I’ll deny any knowledge of your investigation, but will do what I can to see that you’re not brought up on charges,” Captain Marx said flatly.
Wolf couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re one cold old bastard.”
“The least I can do is be honest with you. It’s no secret that with all the complaints filed against you, you’re one dumb-ass decision away from going to state prison
. You need this break as much as I do. So what do you say? Can I count on you?”
“If I do this, captain, I do it my way.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. With this case, the rules go out the window. This is your baby to put to bed,” Captain Marx agreed.
“Fair enough. Do you at least have a starting point for me?” Wolf asked.
Captain Marx pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. “I’d say pay them a visit first. They’re members of the late Father Flemming’s congregation and amongst the last people to see him alive.”
“I’m on it,” Wolf said, slipping the paper into his pocket.
“Remember, Wolf, I need you to be discrete. Try not to kill anyone or destroy any property, okay?”
“I’m not making any promises, but I’ll do my best.” Wolf gave him a wink and started for the chapel door. On his way out he had some last words for Marx: “And just to give you fair warning, if your boys Brown and Alvarez get in my way, I can’t be held accountable for what happens to them.”
Long after Detective Wolf had gone, Captain Marx continued staring at the exit. A part of him felt bad about sending Wolf off half-cocked, but he was desperate. He knew more about the Black Lotus killer than he’d let on, but to admit this would mean opening up a can of worms that he wasn’t ready to address. If he didn’t get the situation under control there would be a shit storm that would surely rain on his head. Being fired and losing his pension were the least of his concerns, though. He was more worried about someone finding him hanging from a ceiling like Father Fleming.
* * *
Wolf jumped back in his truck and fired up the engine. He had a lot to do and not a lot of time, so he would get started immediately. He would visit the people Captain Marx had suggested and work from there. When he pulled the sheet of paper from his pocket to put the address in his GPS, he realized that he knew the location. His last visit to the address was the reason he had transferred out of missing persons and joined the narcotics task force.
CHAPTER 3
Kahllah sat at her desk, hunched over a copy of the latest issue of the Village Voice. She chewed the tip of her highlighter, as she often did when she was deep in thought, scanning through the pages like she was looking for a needle in a haystack. She had been up half the night trying to catch up on a backlog of editorial work, and was in dire need of a nap, but there was too much to do. Sleep would have to wait. When the letters started dancing on the page in front of her, she knew it was time to take a break.
She stood up and stretched her five-nine frame, trying to get rid of the stiffness in her back, and flinched when she felt the soreness in her arms. “I need to cut back on the training,” she said to no one in particular.
Kahllah walked over and stared out her office window. She could see the park a few blocks away and New Jersey just across the water. When they’d purchased the dilapidated brownstone to build what would be their first official office, she knew she had to have that room, just for the view. Kahllah had even had the contractors knock out the wall and make it one big window. She would sometimes stand there for hours watching the city and the people in it. It filled her heart with pride when she reflected on how two college kids with a crazy idea had managed to build the foundation of something special.
Real Talk had started out as an online blog created by Kahllah and her roommate Audrey back in college. They’d noticed that there was a void of material that appealed to young women their age besides gossip sites and rap music blogs, so they decided to try and fill it. In the beginning they mostly wrote about stuff like how to navigate your way through college on a budget, the quality of food in the cafeteria, and the importance of keeping the toilet seat down in the coed bathrooms, but as their audience expanded, so did their content. Real Talk began to address more serious issues like the mismanagement of the school’s budget, diverting more money into athletics than any other program including campus safety. It was Kahllah and Audrey who forced the school to call in the state police when campus security botched the case of a girl who had been raped a few months prior. Though the assailant was never caught, the gesture pushed Real Talk into the spotlight. After graduation Audrey pursued a career in journalism, while Kahllah travelled the country with her father. A few years later when the girls reconnected, Kahllah was able to finance their dream of turning Real Talk into more than just a blog and Audrey was able to quit her day job. Audrey never asked where Kahllah got the money, and Kahllah never offered to tell her. Kahllah and Audrey were more like sisters than friends, but she wasn’t sure Audrey would be able to handle the truth about what she had really been doing during their years apart. She hadn’t lied when she said she’d been continuing her education, but the things she been studying weren’t taught in any classroom. It was best to leave that part of her life buried and enjoy seeing their dream finally come to fruition.
Kahllah ran her hands through her jet-black hair and began massaging her scalp. Her fingers got a little tangled at the roots and she tried to remember the last time she had treated herself to a trip to the beauty parlor. Kahllah rarely went through the hassle of primping, or bothering with makeup. A little lip liner and a ponytail and she was good to go. Though she didn’t put much stock in physical appearance, you couldn’t deny she was a beautiful girl. She had bronze-colored skin and eyes that danced between butterscotch and deep brown, depending on her mood. It was nearly impossible to guess her ethnicity, though she got a kick out of watching people try. Some people mistook her for Dominican, while others thought maybe she was of Arab decent. Neither was correct. Kahllah was born in a small village outside East Kalimantan, Indonesia, to a dirt-poor family. Her mother was a native, and her father a black man from the United States doing charity work overseas. Cancer took her mother when Kahllah was six and a burglar took her father when she was nine. For the next few years she wandered the countryside, stealing when she could and starving when she couldn’t. She eventually found herself a captive of a group of slave traders, who specialized in child prostitution. The things they did to Kahllah they called “conditioning,” but rape by any other name was still rape. When they were done abusing her, and allowing others to sample her sweet young flesh for a few coins, she was sold to a rich man in Africa. She thought this man might be her salvation, but he turned out to be worse than the slave traders. The African subjected Kahllah to all forms of mental and physical torture, and just about every night she spent with him she wished for death to free her from the living hell. Her wish wouldn’t be granted until years later, but it was the African who death came for, not her. He was murdered in front of her over a debt owed, by a masked assassin. Kahllah expected to join her master in hell, but for reasons that were unclear to her at the time, the assassin spared her. She spent a short time in what was essentially a foster care system before she was adopted by an important man from America, who had the money and connections to bypass all the legal red tape. Her adopted father was a hard man and a war veteran, but he wasn’t cruel. Before long, he whisked Kahllah away to the United States where the orphan girl was given a fresh start, a top-notch education, and a purpose.
Since obtaining her freedom, Kahllah had devoted a good portion of her life and her income to helping young women who were in dire situations. Though she had made it out, there were thousands of young girls across the globe who never would, unless someone took a stand. Kahllah was determined to do whatever she could to see that no woman was ever subjected to the same horrors she had faced while growing up.
* * *
Kahllah turned when she heard the office door suddenly open. Audrey walked in, balancing a cup of coffee and a doughnut in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Audrey was pretty girl who leaned toward chubby, but still had a nice shape and a style all her own. She was wearing a pair of black leggings and lime-green shoes, with a purple leather jacket that looked stolen from a Prince video shoot. At five four, Audrey was a woman who was short in height but big in personali
ty. She was so engrossed in whatever she was reading that she didn’t even notice Kahllah standing there.
“I guess knocking has become a lost art,” Kahllah announced, jolting Audrey out of her newspaper article.
“You scared the hell out of me!” Audrey gasped. “What are you doing skulking around here like that?” She placed her wide ass on Kahllah’s desk, inadvertently shoving the laptop aside.
“The last time I checked, it was still my office.” Kahllah picked up the coffee cup Audrey had just set down and sipped from it. She frowned at the bitter taste. “How can you drink this shit?” She handed it back.
“I need something to keep me up and moving while I’m running the company and you’re jet-setting. Where were you this time? Dubai? Paris?”
“Actually, Queens.” Kahllah slid her a white folder with the name Margaret Stone written on it in red marker. Margaret Stone was a well-known advocate for women’s rights and wife of a high-profile district attorney. Some called her a Joan of Arc for the modern era. “She’s just cut the ribbon on a new women’s shelter her organization helped build and I was doing a piece on it, so it was work related.”
Audrey ignored the folder. “It’s always work related when you disappear without a trace. One day I’m going to have to tag along on one of these excursions.”
“Audrey, you and I both know you wouldn’t last five minutes on the streets. I do the dirty work and you’re the cute face of the company. That’s always been our arrangement.”
Audrey rolled her eyes. “You make it sound like I don’t pull my weight around here. I do my part digging up stories.”
“I agree, but most of your stories come from motel rooms and seedy bars,” Kahllah joked.
“Fuck you, Kahllah,” Audrey laughed. “Just because I’d rather have a good time than stalk back alleys doesn’t mean my work is less important than yours.”
