“Whatever are you talking about? Has there been a murder committed in my name?” The glare turned into a delightfully bright smile. Arrogance thickened the man’s words. “I’m honored really. Fans! They are wonderful, begging and pleading for tidbits of knowledge. They love to touch the horns of the beast. But a killer doing work in my name is...” He filled his lungs as though the dank air were perfumed with a high Gulf breeze. “…freedom really.”
After the things Keen had witnessed he’d thought himself hardened, but the coffee in his stomach fermented or curdled or whatever the hell coffee did when it went bad. He banked the urge to swallow. “Does your really big fan have a name?”
“Oh,” his fingers flitted about, “there are so many. Who’s to know which one is the actual killer?” He leaned forward, seeming to forget his daughter sat only feet away. “Why don’t you tell me a little about his work, his bloody woman? Maybe I can help.” One shoulder bobbed.
Keen knew what he was doing, living vicariously through his zealot. He wanted the gory details, a picture of the scene painted in his mind by Keen’s words. As much as Keen hated the pleasure his words would give the monster, he’d set the scene. He would set Hardy up to watch him fall because Keen had a hunch he was ready to play.
“The murder took place in a town house in Alexandria, Virginia. The killer did not force entry, but was most likely allowed entrance by the tenant.”
Hardy reclined in his chair. His entire body relaxed. He chuckled and said almost to himself, “I’ll bet she was pretty.”
“The victim was rendered unconscious by a blow to the head. There was no struggle.”
“Of course not,” Hardy mused. His eyes closed and a smile played across his lips.
“The victim was stripped. No clothes were found at the scene. Then the victim was laid face down on the neatly made bed with head and arms hanging off the foot of the bed.”
“Artful.” He chuckled.
“The victim’s throat was sliced with one deep lateral cut. There was no blood found at the scene. No walls were painted. A lock of red hair was found laid at the center of the victim’s back.”
Hardy’s lids popped open. “And the second?”
“The second was much the same,” Keen said.
The killer’s fingers balled into a fist. His gaze rolled to the tiles as though looking for the strength to bust the bolt and choke Keen to death with the restraints. A sigh humidified the air. “I’ll need details, soldier, if I’m to figure out who committed these honor killings. You see, each person adds their own flair to a murder. They can’t help but leave their own signature. It’s their flawed nature.”
“You can’t change nature, huh?”
“Not from in here.” Hardy rattled his cuffs.
Ava stiffened, but the killer didn’t seem to notice. Her father would have. But this man wasn’t her relation.
“There were some differences in this second murder,” Keen offered. “The victim was found in a hotel room.”
The wrinkles in Hardy’s face trenched deeper.
He didn’t like that. Keen schooled his features, but inside he rejoiced.
Just wait fucker.
“The victim was rendered unconscious by a blow to the head. There were no signs of a struggle.”
Hardy’s chin eased from his esophagus where he’d stuffed it.
“Like the other one, the victim was stripped,” Keen continued. “No clothes were found at the scene. Then the victim was laid facedown on the neatly made bed with head and arms hanging off the foot of the bed.”
“What about the throat? Tell me about the throat.” Desperation frayed Hardy’s reserve.
“One lateral cut bisected the neck.” Keen used his thumb and mimicked the cut on his own neck. “No blood was found at the scene. No painted walls. A lock of red hair was found laying at the center of the victim’s back.”
“All her blood, gone? No one cared about the first few, the ones where I didn’t slap their blood on the wall. I can understand that. People appreciate the artistic prowess of the other killings.” Hardy grinned.
Ava sat forward now. Her posture matched Keen’s as she administered the death blow.
“You mean his blood.”
“Whose blood?” Hardy’s bloated eyes shifted back and forth between him and Ava. “What are you talking about?”
“The victim’s name was William Boston,” Ava said.
Hardy’s eyes narrowed. “No. What kind of trick is this?”
“No trick,” Ava sing-songed. “That’s right, your guided hand has his own big-ass mark to place on the world.”
Hardy jerked against the bonds. His jaw clenched and his gaze narrowed to a spot on the wall. He shifted over and over again in his chair, clanking the shackles, making them sing.
The guard opened the door and stepped inside. “Let’s go, Hardy.”
“I need a minute.” Keen held his hands up in surrender.
“Sorry. Orders are orders.” The man’s big boots clopped a large step into the room. His hand slid from his Glock to his keychain.
“Please,” Ava stood. “This man is our only link to a burgeoning serial killer.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but like I told him—” The guard pointed to Keen, but Ava cut him off.
“If we don’t catch the killer now, he will become more notorious than yours truly.” She thrust a finger at her father.
“Hardy, settle down,” the guard barked.
“Or what, you’ll put me in the box? Oh, wait, I’m already there,” Hardy countered.
“You still have an hour a day to lose.” The guard’s gaze narrowed on Hardy for a heavy second before he nodded at Ava. He reversed to the door and pulled it closed.
“Give us his name,” Keen coaxed. “We’ll punish him for you.”
Silence resounded like a gong. The fragments of emotions he’d seen in the man’s eyes when he’d looked at his daughter disappeared behind a glacier.
They sat in silence for five minutes with no change. Keen had expected the meticulous killer in him to win out, but if anything would, just maybe the father would. He slapped his knees, signaling Ava. She shoved her chair back, screeching the legs across the floor. She shot to her feet and headed for the door.
“Wait,” Hardy shouted. “Ruby don’t go…I—”
“I can’t wait, I have to go back and clear my name.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your disciple is trying to pin the murder on me. He planted my hair at the scene.”
Hardy filled the small room with a bellow.
“That fucking bastard! It was supposed to be my hair, not yours. Never yours.” His fists met the table, making it a gong and rattling his chains louder than any ghost Keen had ever heard. Keen stood by Ava’s side. Neither feared an attack. Hardy was trapped in the tormented hell of his own making. Angry at himself and the killer, not Ava.
Three guards rushed the room. Hardy was unaware of their presence. He battled something inside himself. Well, himself and now three guards.
Hardy’s apprentice had gone off course. They all knew, if unchecked, it wouldn’t end well for Ava.
“Into the lobby and wait there,” their escort ordered.
“No.” Hardy went slack. “Hunt, you have to protect my little girl! Protect my Ruby and Sarah. He’ll come for them before he’s through. Promise me you’ll keep them safe.”
Ava and Sarah. A chill ratcheted its way up Keen’s spine. “I will.”
“Thank you.” Hardy’s chest sagged into the guards’ arms, defeated.
“His name,” Keen demanded.
“His name is Rory Coghlan.”
15
Stan loosened the noose around his neck—the slow silken death some asshole invented a thousand years ago—and kicked the door shut with his foot. The pizza box nearly toppled to the floor from his shifting weight. It would’ve been a fitting end to the pisser of a day he’d endured. Stan saved the pizza at the last possible instant
and grumbled all the way to the kitchen counter where he plopped the box. He walked back to the entryway, removed his badge and gun, and placed them in the entry table drawer.
At least Ava had gone and flipped off the edge of psycho like he’d always known she would. That’d leave the head profiler position—a position he deserved—open soon. If only every shitty day had a silver lining as thick.
While lumbering back to his pizza Stan looked around the supremely unsophisticated bachelor pad. Most of the walls were blank and the white they’d been when he’d moved into the place five years ago. The carpet was worn, as were the dining table and chairs squatting atop it. An overstuffed Italian leather sofa and love seat with the extra-large flat screen and entertainment console opposing them were the only signs of new the apartment offered.
The apartment itself was bigger than small and had potential. Two tiny terrace doors looked out over a small park. With a fresh coat of paint the crown molding and intricately designed ceiling could boast history and class. He kept the place picked up, but it could use a deep cleaning. Maybe he’d look into hiring a cleaning service to come in once a week. Better yet, maybe he should find a steady broad. The place could sure use a woman’s touch.
He ran through the list of candidates for woman-of-the-house and attacked a slice of pizza. A knock sounded at the door. Perhaps the knock was the answer to his unasked prayers. He and Holly had engaged in sexual marathons over the last few months. It could be more. And if not, he was still interested in what she had to offer this evening. He smiled and hollered through a mouthful of pizza. “Just a minute.”
Stan stared at the half-eaten slice and waffled back and forth. Shove it down the hatch while making his way to the door or set it in the box? He tossed it into the open box with a grunt. If their last meeting was any indication, he’d need both hands and his mouth when answering the door.
He grabbed the deadbolt, but habit made him check the peephole first. Habit paid off. It wasn’t Holly. He immediately wished he’d brought his slice with him to the door. His stomach whined. His cock did too.
The guy on the other side of the door hunched a bit. A ball cap hid his eyes. He held a pizza box in his left hand. His right was out of sight.
“Wrong place. I didn’t order a pizza.”
“You sure? I got the address as building four oh six, apartment thirty-one.”
“I’m sure.”
“Look man, could you help me out? It’s my second day on the job. I’ll get in deep shit if I bring it back.”
“Any other night, but I’ve got one already.”
“Can I use your phone and get this straightened out?”
Instinct kicked in. Stan stepped back into the apartment. Something about this guy wasn’t right.
“My battery is dead,” Stan lied.
What kind of scam was this, a simple robbery? Open the door and wham. Give me all your money. Or was he just one major screw up who couldn’t even get a pizza delivery right?
Before he figured out exactly what was wrong the doorframe splintered into a hundred pieces. The door snapped open like the mouth of a lion about to devour him whole.
The man barreled into the apartment with no pizza box in sight. He used his body as a battering ram. Stan lunged for the drawer. The blow caught him in the side. Fighting for air, Stan also fought to right himself. The glint of gun metal set his heart to free fall, but the guy didn’t shoot.
Stars, however, shot in all directions. They sparked new stars and pinged into the universe. After what seemed like an eternity Stan gulped in air. With the air came the taste of blood, and outrage.
By God, he was an FBI agent. No way would some punk rob him.
Through the blows Stan aimed one ball-fisted uppercut to the intruder’s jaw. A crack split the air. It was so much more comforting than the thuds that had echoed on his skull. The man staggered back. Stan teetered to his feet.
The two men stood eye to eye, evenly matched in girth. Stan was five eleven, well muscled, and trained in hand-to-hand combat. His rage fed his skill.
The haze clouding the man’s eyes lifted too quickly. Stan had little time or option. He grabbed the man’s gun hand, stepped in close, out of the line of fire, and jerked the man’s hand in an unnatural position. Stan tried to grab the gun, but the man’s other hand latched onto his neck.
The gun clattered to the floor.
He barred the man’s arm, keeping him close. Stan pivoted away from the gun, bent at the waist, and dropped to one knee. The intruder flipped over him onto the floor, and then Stan made a critical error.
Instead of striking his already disoriented opponent, he lunged for the gun.
The intruder’s biting grip dug into Stan’s legs. Stan crashed to the ground, taking the dining table with him. He tried to stand. Searing pain annihilated all thought. His leg went limp. It refused to obey.
Stan dug his forearms into the dingy carpet and army-crawled. He inched toward the shining metal just inches out of reach.
His whole focus shrank to that gun.
Pain eased from his ankle. Relief pushed him on.
Stan screamed. No amount of reason, no determination would mute the sound. Something sharp split the flesh of his right thigh. He gave up on the gun. He turned over to fight his opponent any way he could.
He kicked out. The connection possessed all the impact of a wet noodle.
Blood streaked across the floor. It pooled around his lower leg. A knife protruded from his leg. The intruder grabbed the handle and pulled, trying to extract it from his thigh.
Stan grabbed the man’s lapel with one hand. He rammed the heel of his palm into the man’s nose. Crimson exploded. His next blow connected to the man’s ear.
The man staggered.
Again Stan turned his body toward the gun. He had to get the gun or die trying.
THE LAST GURGLES of air left his severed throat. The killer patted him on the shoulder with a blood-covered hand.
“Sorry, Stan. You should have just cooperated. This would have been a lot easier for you.”
He straightened and looked around the room. Broken glass littered the floor. Pools, splotches, and smears of red also ruined white carpet and walls. The large flat screen TV slumped over in the corner much the way its owner lumped in the center of the room.
“So much for no blood at the scene.” With one hand he smoothed back a tuft of red hair. With the other he grabbed his broken nose and yanked. He walked over to the mirror hung over the couch to appraise the damage. The front of his shirt hung wide, ripped at the buttons. A swollen eye stared back at him.
Stan had been a fighter. Stan had royally messed up the plan. Then again he’d certainly sent a message.
He walked back to Stan and reached over his prone form, fishing in the dead man’s back pocket. He extricated the wallet. It was a simple tri-fold and held three-hundred-forty bucks. Rory pocketed the dough. He flipped the identification over and read it for giggles.
“Supervisory Special Agent Stanley Watts, F.B.I.” He glanced down at the crumpled heap. “Pretty weak for FBI, if you ask me.” He inserted a lock of hair into the wallet, closed it, and set it on the corpse’s back. He thought about moving him to the bed. But really, what was the point? The bitch would get the message.
16
“Y ou did it.” Keen looked at her with wide, reverent eyes.
Like she’d done anything more than hold on while he dragged her into hell and out the other side. She panted from the proverbial sprint. “I can’t believe it worked.” Her head thudded on the wall outside the door that read Records. The cool surface felt great against her heated face. “Part of me didn’t want it to work,” she whispered.
Keen paused with the phone halfway to his ear. The man of action already poised to move again. He kept silent, waiting for her to fill it.
“If he didn’t tell us, it would mean he didn’t care. I could go right on hating him with a clear conscious. Now…it’s muddy.”
&nbs
p; His smile slipped. Something that made her naughty bits tingle moved into its place and held. “A lot of things are muddy right now.” A guard churned boots down the corridor passed them. The connection splintered. “But we’ll deal with first things first.”
He punched in a number, hit the speaker icon, and waited.
She looked a question at him.
“Winslow.”
“As in Special Agent Winslow Gray?” she squeaked.
He touched the tip of her nose.
The lead investigator for the case—despite all Lara’s posturing—answered on the third ring. “Who is this?”
Keen’s smile reappeared. “That’s a terrible greeting for the man who’s going to solve this case for you.”
“Right. And my wife loves me for my money.”
“No. She loves you for your cheerful demeanor.”
“What the hell do you want, Hunt? I don’t have time for bullshit.”
“Me neither, so listen up. You need to find out everything you can about a Rory Coghlan.”
“Who the hell is that? And what the hell are you up to?”
“I’m finding out more, but I need you to trust me on this.”
“The only thing I trust is you’d do anything to get Shepherd out of this mess. Anything.”
“You’re right. I’d do anything, unless she actually killed Josie Ackerman and William Boston. Ava Shepherd didn’t kill them and you know it. That’s why you have an uneasy feeling in your gut. Look up the name.”
“It’s called indigestion. Where are you?”
“Later, Winslow.” Keen disconnected the call and then punched more numbers.
“Who are you calling now, WABC News to tell them wanted murder suspect Ava Shepherd skipped town and is currently conspiring with her father on the next string of murders?”
His brows knitted, but his fingers continued dialing. “How can you whisper and scream at the same time?”
“It’s a gift.” She jabbed him in the stomach with two fingers. They hit immovable abs and she gulped.
Painted Walls Page 15
