An owl's throaty hoot interrupted my thoughts. I turned right—a camouflaged bird sat somewhere within a sprawling, leafless red oak.
“Michael, you there?”
“Uh, yeah.” I wiped my eyes. “Listen, Guidry, I think I have something here, and it might be big.”
“Big as in important information related to this...this freakin' case?” I heard papers snap.
“Yep.” I paused, knowing that communicating this would feel like I'd helped slit those girls' throats.
“Jesus, Michael, don't be bashful. Every day that goes by is another day a girl could be brutally killed. It's got to stop.”
“Almost two weeks ago, a man showed up at my home. My half-brother that I didn't know existed.”
“Shit. That must have felt like a kick to the jewels.”
“We saw him, Jeremiah, two or three times, but he and I never quite clicked. He was a hit with the ladies though...I think Marisa and Brandon's girlfriend, Carrie, were smitten with his sculpted body.”
“Sibling rivalry?”
'Not really." I struggled with how to get to the point.
“Guidry, you know we've been invested in this case from day one. We've found witnesses, made connections to those emails from Yours Truly.”
“I know, I know. A true partner with the FBI. And the press no less. Who woulda thunk it?” He chuckled.
“Guidry...shit.” I choked on my words and pounded the railing.
“What?”
I let it go. “I think my half-brother, Jeremiah, is mixed up in all of this...these murders, somehow, some way.”
The owl hooted twice more, but I heard nothing on the other end of the line.
“Guidry?”
“Sorry. Multitasking. Just got an update from the cyber unit. I'm reading it as we speak. Anyway, what gives you the impression your long-lost half-brother is involved in these murders?”
"A gut feel mostly, but also some information we just came across tonight. Let me give it to you quick and dirty. He arrived in town just before the two local murders in Denton and Dallas. On top of that, Jeremiah is a lady's man, but in the most subtle way, almost where they don't notice it—although Brandon and I did.
“Yeah...”
He didn't sound convinced. “I kept staring at the Oxford Facebook photo and then read all the descriptions we'd gathered. They didn't... they don't go together. But, if you don't look at the face, and think about the torso, his hands, there's a similarity with Jeremiah.”
“Okay...”
Still not convinced. “Andi knows this brilliant computer programmer, Satish. He accessed the national adoption agency database. The person who visited my home was not who he said he was. Jeremiah Weldon was adopted by two people in North Carolina, but they all died in a train crash eight years ago.”
“Hmm. I'm listening.”
“Satish kept digging, beyond what a normal person can do.” I coughed to release more phlegm. “He determined that three months ago someone deleted a record...the boy's name was Gerald Clancy. Again, Satish did his thing—”
“Is this kid a hacker?”
“He's...gifted.”
“Yeah. Okay...”
“Gerald was adopted out of an agency in Naples, but we learned he was transferred or sold from Big Heart down in Houston, where his original first name was Jeremiah.”
“That's the agency you guys, Andi, just exposed. An FBI team raided their offices yesterday, right? Assholes.”
“The kid's birth mother was Teresa Gilbert. My mom used her maiden name.”
Finally, it was all out. I leaned on the rickety, wooden railing.
More silence.
"You there?
“Shit. Double shit!” Guidry screamed. “The note from the FBI cyber unit?”
“Yeah?”
“The Chinese computer hacker sent one final note to all of their customers just before officials raided the office. It was sent hastily, without all the encryption, and it didn't bounce off hundreds of servers worldwide. The note said all emails should be deleted and they should take the necessary precautions. One of the recipients was to an IP address in Miami, the Clancy Construction office building!”
“Good God.” I closed my eyes. More evidence that pointed to Jeremiah...Gerald... my half-brother.
“Guidry, we still don't know what Jeremiah...Gerald has done.”
“We'll figure it out on the way. He's involved in some way, and we don't have the luxury of waiting to figure it out. I have to make a call. I'm taking the FBI jet down to Miami first thing in the morning.”
“I'm going with you.”
“Michael, you've been a great help. But—”
“I'll write a scathing editorial tomorrow blaming the FBI for everything, and I'll put Tucker's mug right next to it. I'll make sure all of our partner papers carry it, and I'll ping CNN and Fox to see if they want me to jump on their news shows and discuss it.”
“Damn, that came a little too easily.”
“I'm serious. I want to be there. I've got to be there when you pick him up. I gotta look in my half-brother's eyes and see if he's really a cold-blooded killer.”
The call ended, and I vomited over the side of the railing.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Spears of sunrays pierced early morning clouds and bounced off nearby buildings, as I looked east through the oval window of the FBI's quickest mode of transportation. According to an otherwise mute pilot, I was sitting on a Gulfstream V, the engine purring as they finished pre-flight checks on the tarmac at Love Field Airport. Guidry was roaming around outside, demonstrative arms moving this way and that, his slicked-back hair still a shell on top of his growing frame.
I pinched the corners of my eyes, hoping to infuse a second, possible third wave of adrenaline in my tired body. After my call with Guidry last night, I went through a late-night fast-food drive-through and downed a greasy cheeseburger and onion rings on my way home—just to put a topper on my college night out. Knowing I'd do nothing more than flip over a hundred times and keep Marisa from getting good sleep, I slipped into the bedroom and felt the side of her face. Her legs shuffled, and her shoulders bunched up. I kissed her cheek, then her forehead, and whispered where I was going, although I was unsure if that registered. I wrote her a note in the kitchen with a high-level summary of where I was headed, then I told her how much she meant to me, and once this was over we'd take a getaway trip. I finished with God love Ireland
I sipped a bottled water and popped a knuckle, knowing my job—once again—was getting in the way of the most important relationship in my life. Marisa was more than supportive, but for her, for us, I'd need to reassess my approach to this part of my life once we arrested this killer—my half-brother—which could be in a matter of hours.
“Saddle up.” Guidry said, entering the plane.
I nodded then sat quietly as the jet ascended above gray and white clouds and banked east, directly into the sun. I lowered the window shade, then stretched out my legs and crossed my arms. My eyelids grew heavy.
I awoke to a thick Cajun accent speaking in an animated tone.
“We're thirty minutes outside Miami.” Guidry read his computer screen. “Need any coffee, anything to wake up? Hot, cold beverages are over there.” He pointed but kept his eyes locked on the screen.
I went for the cold side and twisted the cap off a beverage with plenty of carbonation and caffeine—I was just the picture of health the last few days. I found a package of saltine crackers and scarfed down the carbs.
“Found another body overnight.” Guidry glanced at me, his emotions in check, then back at his laptop. “Waitress from local bar in Tallahassee.”
“Florida State.”
“Yeah. This one was ugly, vile, from our reports. Seems that the girl, Vanessa, was into some type of S&M, and our killer went along with it, for a while anyway. Found her hanging by her wrists, a nipple ring yanked off her body, larynx cut out from her neck. Lots of blood. Good news
is that they think they might have two types of blood—maybe a chance to get DNA on this bastard. If it's the same guy.”
My gut twisted into a knot so tight it made me feel like I had a six-pack. Then I thought about the night I got home from work and Jeremiah, rather Gerald, put on the rippled muscle show for the girls. I really just thought he was a brainless cheeseball, all brawn and no brains. It's seems likely I'd underestimated him. Then I wondered if who I met was actually the same person. So many names, different looks, I wasn't sure who we'd find in Miami.
“One more thing. Found a story online. Your little brother—”
“If you don't mind, stop referring to him as my little brother. If he had anything to do with this shit, that's the last thing I want to hear.”
“Sure. Gerald was just named CEO of Clancy Construction. Two hundred million in revenue last year, fourth biggest homebuilder in the southeast.” Guidry raised an eyebrow.
I shook my head, baffled that the person I met—the same guy who wanted nothing to do with an office—was named CEO of anything.
We landed at two thirty p.m. then met briefly with a team of FBI agents, all of whom had matching dark suits. I wanted to make a joke about Will Smith and God love Ireland, but I thought better of it. Six, black SUVs tore out of the airport going east on Airport Expressway, no lights and wasting no time. We took I-95 south, passing a huge medical complex on the right. We exited at 2nd Street, then hooked a left onto Flagler and stopped in front of a glass building.
Guidry made me put on a Kevlar vest, and I instantly thought about Richard Castle, the sarcastic writer and part-time sleuth from TV. Guidry was no Beckett, that much was certain.
Guidry marched with more authority and purpose than I'd ever witnessed. I almost had to jog to keep up, adrenaline pumping energy into my body. The building seemed new, clean, very Miami-like. Lots of metal and blue. Badges flashed at every turn, and the procession of FBI agents didn't stop any longer than a few seconds at each checkpoint. We exited the fifth floor and saw an assistant running around her desk to get to us.
“I'm sorry, what I can do for you?” The attractive blonde adjusted her glasses.
Guidry ignored her and strode directly for the double doors down a hallway. Perspiration formed on my forehead, and I swallowed once, knowing we'd finally look into the eyes of the person associated with all those disturbing, perverted emails, very possibly the person who killed all of those girls. I nearly held my breath as Guidry opened the door, hand on his holster.
The office was enormous, and the views through its glass walls breathtaking. But it was empty.
“If you'd listen to me, Mr. Clancy is not in the office,” the admin spat at us, hands on hips.
“Where is he?” Guidry said, while looking through items on Gerald's expansive desk.
“He left early. He had a fundraiser cocktail party to attend.”
I caught a waft of a familiar scent, and I wondered if my nose had already made the connection to the Jeremiah at our house.
The blonde gave us the name of the hotel.
“Don't call him and tell him we're looking for him. Got it?” Guidry warned.
“What's wrong? Is Mr. Clancy in trouble?”
Guidry ignored her, but left two agents, a CSI team and cyber team to begin dismantling his office, starting with his computer.
On our way out, I spotted a framed picture—a person holding a drink next to a fat, balding man. The nameplate said CEO Gerald Clancy. I stared so intently I forgot to blink. The stature looked familiar, but the face was deformed or not developed all the way. I wasn't sure how to process it. The person wore an expensive suit and smiled, but I couldn't stop looking at the nonexistent chin and flawed cheekbones. That was Jeremiah...Gerald. The face of a perverted killer.
“Take that with us,” Guidry ordered, pointing at the picture.
Five black SUVs pulled up to the Four Seasons Hotel. More orders were barked out. We found a marquee that listed a banquet room hosting a fundraiser for the Abused Children Foundation. I recalled the first three emails from Yours Truly, his stories of abuse as a foster child. Jeremiah...Gerald was an actual child at one point in time. Adults might have really hurt him—physically, his psyche. I considered how much that had influenced what he could have done these last few weeks.
Wide-eyed stares met us when we marched in. All agents had hands on their exposed guns in their holsters, and I heard a few gasps. I looked at each face to see if I recognized Gerald. Nothing. Guidry and team asked a lot of questions in a not-so-pleasant tone and had to threaten to arrest one couple who demanded the FBI leave the hotel. Four agents remained to continue the questioning. Guidry snapped his fingers and six agents and I followed him into the lobby. “I'm concerned he's on to us. Maybe he saw that last email from the Chinese hacker. I got his home address. Let's move.”
I realized I didn't know Gerald any more than I knew Jeffrey Dahmer—but they both might be wired the same way. I'd heard the debate for years. Are serial killers born with a missing link, or are they a product of their environment?
We hauled ass north on Brickell, turned right, then a quick left on Biscayne. We took the elevator to the ninth floor of a building with condos priced at one million-plus, from what the sign in the lobby said. The mammoth knot in my stomach seemed like it was being pulled into my chest as Guidry knocked twice on the door and announced himself with the FBI.
“Do you hear someone screaming?” He looked at me, then at his fellow agents. “I thought so.” Two agents appeared and, with two swings of a flat-edged, black steel pole, demolished the front door. We stepped in. Besides another amazing view and a few pieces of modern furniture and boxes, Gerald was nowhere to be found in the condo. Guidry called in a CSI team, who arrived in minutes.
“In here,” a female agent called out.
I followed Guidry into a swanky bathroom. The counter was filled with face prosthetics and makeup. It looked like a movie set, a sci-fi movie set at that.
“Son of a bitch.” Guidry picked up a piece of fleshy silicon rubber.
I spotted a plastic case with labels on it. Each of the labels had names of colors. I opened one and found a pair of contact lenses. .
I whispered, “The eyes. He must have been changing his eye color.” The story grew more disturbing with each stop, each piece of news. Gerald was a conniving, cold-blooded killer. Then I thought about the photo, the expensive suit, his role as CEO. I wondered: God love Ireland
At this juncture, did it really matter?
A parade of agents and specialized FBI teams marched into the condo, carrying metal boxes and wearing rubber gloves. Dozens, if not hundreds, of pictures were taken. Evidence was bagged and labeled and carted away. They looked like a colony of ants, each performing their assigned task as quickly and efficiently as possible. I stood in the main area, as Guidry talked on his phone in the kitchen area. He hung up, took another call.
He jogged back into the living area, calling out names of his comrades. “Agents are following a red Ferrari with two men inside.”
I panned the other faces. They looked serious, but confident, ready for any twist or turn. I wished I was as prepared.
“The car is registered to Gerald Clancy,” Guidry said as we marched out of the condo.
We hit the road again, moving north on Biscayne, then we took MacArthur Causeway east across the ocean toward Miami Beach. Small islands dotted both sides of the roadway.
Guidry's radio crackled, and he exchanged status updates with his colleagues who had found the car in question. Then he glanced at me, while keeping one eye on the road. “Apparently, every time the agents catch up, the Ferrari pulls away. I think he's toying with them.”
“Turning left on Collins. Suspect will not pull over. He just sped up and ran a light.” A voice provided updates through the radio. I listened intently.
A minute later, our SUV screeched around the corner, heading north on Collins.
“We're not letting this sick fu
cker get away.” Guidry slammed the steering wheel and gunned it.
“Just passed the museum. Suspect moving at accelerated pace,” the voice said. “Suspect just turned left on to 21st Oh wait, now turning back south on Washington. He's hauling ass. Shit!”
I looked up and saw the sign for 17th Street pass over the hood. Guidry slammed his right foot and the SUV squealed and twisted until it faced the opposite direction. I smelled burning rubber, and Guidry laid some more and clipped the curb while turning west onto 17th. Within seconds, out of my peripheral vision, I spotted a red car approaching the intersection. Guidry looked right and didn't slow down. God love Ireland I gripped the handle next to the window and tensed every muscle in my body.
Just before impact, Guidry hit the brakes, and the Ferrari swerved and skidded right, fishtailing into the pristine, green lawn surrounding the New World Symphony. Smoke and dust drifted around the scene, and agents jumped out with pistols aimed at the car.
“Get out with your hands in the air,” a booming voice barked from my right.
The passenger door opened first, and a man who looked like a Latin model got out. The driver's door opened, and a man showed his hands then stood up. I stared intently, wondering what disguise Gerald had on this time. Agents rushed him and took him down to the roughed-up turf. I couldn't get a close look, but the pounding in my chest slowed. I knew the killing had finally ended.
A few minutes later, Guidry walked back to where I sat in the SUV, a perturbed look painted on his square head.
“That's not Gerald. It's his fuckin' brother Vincent.”
My head started spinning, and I grabbed the dashboard. “What?”
“Apparently, Vincent had been the CEO, ever since his father died a few months ago. Something happened and Vincent was replaced by Gerald.”
“Why is Vincent in Gerald's car?”
“The Ferrari is Gerald's new toy, and he let Vincent take it for the night. He was running from us because he and his boyfriend had been smoking a little weed.”
Guidry mumbled something under his breath, possibly a string of Cajun curse words.
GREED Box Set (Books 1-4) Page 69
