The Assassin

by Rachel Butler

  “Not particularly. The vigilante called Tranh, set up a meet, and planned to kill him that night, but Tranh called us instead. Maybe it was the same with Samuels, only the vigilante got to him before we could.”

  “Don’t you think if Dwayne thought he was the next target, he would have made more of an effort than just one call? Don’t you think he would have been anyplace other than the lab if he knew a killer was looking for him?”

  Simmons shrugged. “Who knows how these guys think, Chee? Hell, all of ’em have fried half their brain cells and some of ’em have fried all of ’em.”

  “Not Dwayne. He manufactured the stuff and sold it, but he didn’t use it.”

  “You believe that?”

  “He was my informant for three years. Yeah, I believe it.”

  “So what’re you saying?”

  “Just . . . I think the timing’s odd. Like . . . maybe Dwayne had something to tell us and the vigilante knew it.”

  “And how could the vigilante know?”

  “The call came into the Detective Division,” Tony said with a shrug.

  For a moment Simmons just stared at him. “Jesus Christ, Chee, do you know what you’re saying?”

  He knew too damn well. “Look, I don’t like it any better than you, but think about it. If the vigilante is just a fed-up citizen, how has he been able to pull off ten damn-near-perfect murders? People aren’t that smart about murder. They screw up. They leave clues—but not this guy. How’d he know to pick Javier to give me a false description?”

  “Javier was a dirtbag. Everyone knew he ratted people out.”

  “He was my informant. How did the vigilante know that?”

  Simmons shrugged uneasily. “Lucky guess.”

  “How did he know to drop Juan Arias’s name with Dwayne? How many average citizens knew that Dwayne’s cook did time with Arias down in McAlester?”

  “Okay, so maybe he’s not a vigilante. That doesn’t make him a cop. The bad guys know about snitches, they know who works for who and who’s served time with who.”

  “How would a bad guy know his accomplice had been arrested? How would he know he could take him out here? There were two cars of undercovers right behind the marked unit, and all of us from the warehouse were here within a minute. How did anyone without a badge get out of here?”

  Simmons dragged his fingers through his hair, then shook his head. “You’re crazy. A cop wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh, come on. Cops and corruption go hand in hand.”

  “Not here. Not our cops. We know these guys. Some of ’em are assholes, sure, but they’re our assholes. They wouldn’t—they couldn’t—”

  Tony didn’t say anything. Hell, he wanted to agree with him. He wanted to believe they were all honest and moral and upright. But the truth was, given the right motivation, anyone was capable of taking another life.

  “So you’ve given up on the idea that it’s another drug dealer taking over the market.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  He wouldn’t have thought Simmons could turn any paler. “Holy shit, Chee, you think one of our fellow cops is not only a multiple murderer but a major drug dealer, as well? Goddamn, son . . . Have you talked to anyone about this?”

  “Just you, so far.” If things were different, he would have gone to his father for advice, but that wasn’t possible. Same with his uncles—investigating cops was the sort of thing that engendered hostility among the ranks. If he was wrong, he didn’t want to have dragged Uncle John or Uncle Vince into it. As for Henry . . . sooner or later he would have to talk to him. Having a murdering, drug-dealing cop on his payroll wouldn’t reflect well on the chief. He needed to know before it went much further.

  “Why me?”

  Because he wanted to be sure whomever he confided in couldn’t possibly be involved. At the moment, he could narrow that down to only four people—John, Vince, Henry, and Simmons. Frankie won by default.

  Tony scowled at him. “What the hell do you mean, why you?”

  “Why did you decide to tell me? Why not Garry or Watson or Collins? Hell, why not Lieutenant Nicholson?”

  “Because you’re a royal pain in the ass, but you’re my pain in the ass.”

  Unexpectedly, Simmons grinned and made a kissing gesture. “I love you, too, Chee.” Then he went totally serious again. “Maybe the vigilante had a scanner, and that’s how he knew his partner got popped.”

  “Potter got arrested while the vigilante was still at the warehouse. You think he was sitting there in the dark, waiting for Tranh to walk in so he could blow him away, and listening to a scanner?”

  “Maybe that wasn’t the vigilante. Maybe both him and Potter work for the vigilante.”

  “Maybe. Probably.” The time frame was pretty tight— from the time of the arrest to the time the motorcycle crashed through the doors to the time Potter was killed. It was very likely there had been a third person someplace else, pulling the strings—maybe pulling the trigger. “But a scanner wouldn’t have told him to be at that intersection at that time to take out the prisoner. A scanner wouldn’t have helped him get out of downtown without being stopped. The perimeter was up in a matter of minutes. They questioned everyone, searched vehicles, and found nothing. Maybe because the guy they were looking for was right there with them, pretending to be looking, too. It makes sense, Frankie.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Simmons disagreed. “A cop, for Christ’s sake—!”

  They fell silent for a time. The rain turned into a torrent again, and the thunder reverberated against the ground. Water streamed along the sidewalk, flowing over and around Tony’s shoes, but he was already so wet he couldn’t feel it.

  Simmons heaved a sigh. “I hope your brothers can make room for me at the lawn service when our asses get fired. Suz’ll kill me, and I’ll probably never get laid again. Holy shit, Chee, you’re gonna be the death of me.” Clapping Tony on the back, he moved out of the shelter. “Come on, son. It’s late, I’m tired, and if I don’t get dry soon, I’m gonna grow gills. Let’s talk about it Monday.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Tony unlocked the ’Vette, grimacing when he squished as he slid inside. He wouldn’t object to a warm shower, a cold beer, and a little food—or hell, just skip all that and go straight to bed with Selena.

  He slid the key into the ignition, turned it . . . and got nothing. He tried again with the same results, smacked the steering wheel with one hand, then got out. Simmons pulled alongside and stopped, rolling down the passenger window. “The damn thing won’t start. Can you give me a ride?”

  Simmons gave a shake of his head. “I don’t know why you don’t sell that piece of junk to your brothers and be done with it. Come on, get in.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Tony muttered as Simmons made a U-turn on the deserted street. He remained silent until they reached Twenty-first Street, when he abruptly asked, “Drop me off at Henry’s, would you?”

  Simmons gave him a long look, then made a right turn from the left-turn lane. “You sure you want to do this now?”

  “No.” Truth was, he didn’t want to do it at all. There was no good time to break the kind of suspicions he had. But if the department was facing a problem of that magnitude, Henry deserved to know. Besides, he was a damn good cop himself. Maybe he could help Tony figure out what the hell was going on.

  After a few blocks, Simmons said, “I can talk to the chief with you.”

  Tony glanced at him, little more than a sodden shadow in the driver’s seat. Frankie hadn’t been kidding earlier when he’d talked about getting fired. Cops stood together. They didn’t turn on their own, not without indisputable proof. This could be a career-ending move. “Let’s just keep it my neck on the line for the time being, okay?”

  “I don’t mind—”

  “I know. Thanks, but no.”

  William knew Joe Ceola, had once been friends with him, and yet had ordered the death of Joe’s son.

  Selena had thought nothing he did could sh
ock her, but this did. Hands shaking, she returned the picture frame to the shelf, then headed for the guest room and the balcony where she’d left her belongings. She stuffed everything into the backpack except the shoes, gathered it all to her chest, and slipped back inside. With the alarm off, there was no need to make a clandestine escape down the rope.

  Moving silently, she went downstairs into the kitchen, through a utility room, and out the back door. The landscape, so impressively manicured, took on an eerie feel in the storm—pitch-dark one moment, the next moment wind-whipped trees looming up in the lightning and leaves and debris littering the grass. Stopping in the shadows where the north wing joined the main house, she shoved her feet into her shoes, then headed to the corner nearest the rear gate.

  She’d taken one step around the corner when a flash of headlights broke through the night. Retreating once again, she crouched against the house’s foundation, hoping she blended into the shadows, and watched as William’s Mercedes drew to a halt on the parking court that fronted the garage. A motorcycle was already parked there, its driver taking shelter in the overhang of the garage roof.

  As William got out of the car, engine still running, headlights on, the man pushed away from the garage and stepped into the rain to meet him. He wasn’t tall—under six feet—but muscular, and even though he clutched his right hand to his upper left arm, his movements were controlled, taut, power waiting to be unleashed. If she got close enough, she would see a nasty bruise on his hand; if she let herself, she could remember the feel of his hand across her face.

  “I was expecting a quiet Saturday night at home, and instead I had to go out to take care of your Mr. Potter. What the hell went wrong?” William demanded, his voice cutting through the rain.

  “You tell me,” the other man replied. “The cops came to the warehouse instead of Tranh, and they fucking shot me.”

  Selena smiled. Too bad the wound was to his arm instead of his heart.

  William swore viciously, but the rumbling thunder blocked his words. Frustrated, she watched them gesture, each clearly upset. Then William’s voice rose again. “. . . discuss how Mr. Tranh will pay.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Moving closer to the car, the man bent to take a look at his arm in the headlights’ bright glare. When he turned for a better view, the beam lit up his face like a spotlight.

  Selena stared. Oh, God, it couldn’t be . . . it wasn’t possible!

  But it was. The harsh light left no room for doubt. His hair color might have changed, as well as the style, but his nose, the shape of his eyes, the full set of his mouth . . . it was the friendly stranger who’d befriended her two years ago while jogging. The charming date who’d flattered and seduced her all through dinner. The angry man who’d tried to rape her when she’d rebuffed his advances.

  The dead man who had made this whole blackmail scheme possible for William.

  Greg Marland.

  The two men exchanged a few more words before William shut off the Mercedes’ engine, then started toward the guesthouse with Marland a few steps behind. As her heart thudded, the scene blurred, meshing with a similar scene two years ago. That night had been sultry and calm, and she’d led the way, unlocked the door, invited him inside. That night she’d killed him . . . and yet here he was, walking inside again.

  Her shoulders sagging, Selena clamped one hand over her mouth. The urge to crawl off and empty her stomach was almost as strong as the rage slowly building. The worst night of her life, the guilt, the regret, the blame, the remorse that she’d lived with for two years . . . Dear God, she’d believed she had killed a man! And it had all been part of William’s plan to bend her to his will.

  Marland wasn’t dead. William had lied. Had set her up. Had concocted this whole elaborate plan. Had let her believe she was a murderer. Had deliberately let her suffer, had fed her guilt and shame, while waiting for the chance to use her nonexistent crime against her. Oh, Christ . . .

  Scrambling to her knees, she crawled a few feet away and vomited into the grass. When her stomach was empty and hollowness had started spreading through her, she got to her feet, stumbled across the parking court to the safety of the garage, then set out at a run for the gate. Her feet automatically lifted and fell, setting her usual pace, keeping rhythm with the words echoing over and over in her brain. William lied. Marland’s not dead. William lied.

  Mr. Tranh would pay, William had decreed. In his world, someone else always paid. He committed the crimes, but others died, got shot, suffered. But no more. No damn more.

  Anger pounded through her with every step, knotting in her chest until she could barely breathe, feeding her hatred. She ran through the neighborhood, then turned south on Riverside, her lungs bursting, her muscles tight and burning. Staggering to a stop, she bent over, fists knotted on her thighs, and sucked in a harsh breath. She wanted to scream, to break something, to hurt someone—to hurt William. How dare he put her through two years of hell because it suited his needs? How could he care so goddamn little for her? How could he—

  “Are you all right?”

  Slowly she raised her head to find one of William’s guards watching her cautiously from twenty feet away. Looking past him, she saw that she’d stopped just short of the estate’s driveway. The big gate was open, and a second guard stood just outside, also watching.

  Breathing shallowly, she straightened, her gaze locked on that open gate. William was inside. Greg Marland was inside. All she had to do was get past these two guards, hardly even a nuisance, and she could walk into the guesthouse and kill them both. It would be so easy . . . so satisfying.

  “You picked a hell of a night for a jog,” the guard said. He looked ridiculously young, and the uniform and gun belt did nothing to age him. One punch, and he’d be unconscious for the next thirty minutes. Plenty of time to do what she wanted.

  She walked toward him, her first steps stiff. She hadn’t known disillusionment and rage could be as crippling as a real physical ailment, but her head throbbed and her body ached. Her very soul ached.

  The storm had let up, the thunder more distant, the rain a light sprinkle. Lightning illuminated the sky to the east as the cell moved in that direction, and to the west, as another one moved in, but for the moment the weather was calm.

  More than she could say for herself.

  When she was only five feet away—too close for the guard’s safety—she stopped. “I’d like to see Mr. Davis.”

  “There’s no Mr. Davis here.”

  A wind gusted out of nowhere, whipping her hair against her face and plastering her clothes to her skin. She combed her hair back even as she shook her head. “I saw him. Tall, gray hair, early sixties, distinguished?”

  His gaze shifted over her. When it returned to her face, the friendly concern was gone. “I’d like to see some ID.”

  She glanced down to see what her wet clothes had revealed—a narrow bulge at her waist and an inch or so of the switchblade’s bone handle gleaming against her middle. She tugged the clinging shirt away from her skin, then down over the knife. “I don’t have it with me.”

  “What’s in the backpack?”

  “A towel. Dry clothes. A bottle of water.” And a grappling hook and burglary tools. Fortunately, the forty cal was still in the back of her waistband, out of sight.

  “How about you hand it over and let me see for myself?”

  This was a stupid move, a voice in the still-rational part of her mind whispered. She should either put him and his partner out of commission or back off and get out before they called the police.

  She hesitated too long. His partner stepped forward, gun drawn, and Baby-face reached for her backpack. Rain trickled down her spine and her face was hot with the sheer recklessness she’d displayed. If the guard found the pistol— and how could he not?—he would call the police, and if they arrested her, sooner or later they would discover that Selena McCaffrey didn’t exist. She would face prison and/or deportation, and she would lose everything.
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br />   And she would tell everything.

  She backed away and injected a conciliatory tone into her voice. “Look, I just wanted to talk to Mr. Davis. Obviously, that’s a problem for you, so I’ll go. I’ll call him later.”

  “Hold it right there,” the guard ordered, but she kept moving backward. When she’d put about ten feet between them, she spun around and headed away, but the guard lunged, catching hold of the backpack despite her best efforts to wrench free.

  “Gun!” the other guard yelled, and Baby-face abruptly let go of her, sending her stumbling. When she caught her balance, both men were pointing their weapons at her.

  Oh, God, she’d done it now.

  His movements edgy, Baby-face gestured toward the iron gate. “Over there. Put your hands above your head and spread your legs.”

  She eyed the distance between her and the street. She could make a run for it. Odds were that the guards wouldn’t shoot, or would shoot wildly, but with the street-lights out, she wouldn’t make much of a target. But it was a dead certainty they would call the police. It would be easier to plead that she hadn’t done anything wrong if she hadn’t run.

  Cautiously she moved the few yards to the gate and wrapped her fingers around the wet bars, holding so tightly the pads went numb. Why hadn’t she just gone home? She could have confronted William the next day, could have broken in again if necessary. Now she was in serious trouble.

  “You watch her,” Baby-face said. “I’ll search her.” He was starting to pat her down when Selena heard two car doors slam, followed by a familiar voice.

  “Trust me, partner, you don’t want to do that.” Tony.

  “The hell I don’t. She’s got a gun,” the guard said resentfully. The fabric of her pants was pulled taut, then relaxed, as he jerked the holstered .40 free and, presumably, held it up for emphasis. “Who the hell are you guys?”

  The responding voice spoke with a definite Oklahoma twang. “I’m Detective Frank Simmons, TPD, and that’s Detective Anthony Ceola, golden boy of the Homicide Division. Son of the legendary Sergeant Joe Ceola. Godson of the chief himself. And do you know who she is? His girlfriend. Yep, that’s right. Do you know how bad it would look . . .” His words trailed off to an indistinguishable murmur as he led the guard away to give her and Tony some privacy.