Painted Beauty

by J. M. LeDuc

  Rand waved his hand at Monroe, asking him to speed it up. “I’ve got stacks of bullshit to plow through,” he stabbed the files with his pen, “so stop beating around the bush and tell me what you came in here for.”

  “They mentioned some place in Key Biscayne. Some old school that was left abandoned. They were talking about a raid on the place happening tomorrow tonight.” Monroe leaned forward in the chair. “I was thinking. Let’s say, for the sake of legality, that I received this information from one of my informants. We might be able to get a warrant and head down there tonight. If we crack this case, it would get you—us—off the bench and back in the game.”

  Rand’s expression changed from stone-faced disinterest to teeth-baring joy. “Round up Clark and Monahan. I’ll call in some markers and get the warrant. And I’ll see what I can drum up on this school. We’ll meet back here at eleven p.m.”

  “There are two schools in Key Biscayne that are not in use,” Rand said, pointing at an image he’d downloaded off the internet. “One is a small elementary school that the county closed in 2011 when they built the newer one. It’s in the process of being gutted and refurbished to become the National Bridge Tournament Center. Bordering that property is a much bigger school. A whole damn campus, in fact. It’s the old Water’s Edge Academy.”

  “I remember that place,” Clark said. “Real ritzy and expensive. Everyone was surprised when it closed and nothing was ever built on the property. It’s fucking oceanfront.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson,” Rand said. “The old elementary school is well lit, has workers crawling all over it, and sits right on Crandon Boulevard. It would be difficult for traffickers to move merchandise in and out of that location. This,” Rand once again pointed to the picture, “makes more sense. Water’s Edge Academy has been abandoned longer, has a lot of buildings on the property, and sits back from the main road. There’s a long, winding road that leads from Crandon to the school.” He looked at the men. “Gear up. This is where we’re headed.”

  CHAPTER 34

  The following morning Sin met Jack, Evelyn, and Gonzales at the office. They were going over the new information she had found. She wanted confirmation on her ideas. She wanted others to see the very real possibility that the Painted Beauty Killer was somehow connected to the Midwest Mauler.

  “There are similarities in the victims’ appearances,” Jack said, “but the MO’s are different.”

  “This is what ties it all together for me,” Sin said handing out a sheet of paper to everyone.

  “Not the damn poem again.”

  “Shut up and listen, Jack,” Sin said. “Vincent Ash was a poetry professor and a huge fan of William Blake’s work called, Songs of Innocence. Part of that work is a poem called, The Divine Image.”

  “The one our killer keeps quoting.”

  “No,” Sin said. “Our killer is quoting a poem that was written in a later collection that’s known as, Songs of Experience.”

  “I’ve already got a headache,” Jack said.

  “Me, too,” Gonzales chimed in. “I hated this crap in school.”

  Sin rolled her eyes. “Let me break it down for you two juvenile delinquents. The first work, The Divine Image, was part of Songs of Innocence. The collection was all about the good things of the world and how God, the Divine, gives Man mercy, peace, and love. The second, A Divine Image, was part of Songs of Experience. And this later collection was about the good being twisted into something evil.”

  Gonzales scratched his head. “Like Adam and Eve?”

  Evelyn, who had been quiet till now, cleared her throat.

  Everyone turned toward her.

  “Poetry can be very dry when you read it. It might help if I try to summarize it.”

  Sin smiled, needing all the help she could get. “Please.”

  “Blake’s first collection is all about compassion,” Evelyn explained, “but his later work is all about hatred. They’re polar opposites.”

  Sin looked at her and smiled. “Thank you.”

  She then turned her attention to Jack and Gonzales “So, why would our killer use lines from Blake’s poem?”

  Jack scratched his head, “And why would Vincent Ash, a known serial killer, be fond of Blake’s work on compassion?”

  Good point, Sin thought.

  “Maybe our killer is familiar with the Midwest Mauler,” Gonzalez suggested. “Some of these nuts like to emulate serial killers who came before them.”

  Sin tapped a dry erase marker on the table. “Maybe, but if that’s the case why paint the victims? Ash didn’t. Why all the artwork?”

  “It could be someone who is familiar with both Vincent Ash and Miranda Stokler,” Jack reasoned. “She was the artist. So maybe the killer wants to use them both? Maybe he’s even someone who knew her when she was still Joanna Ash.”

  That got Sin’s attention. “The Midwest Mauler case is public record, but who would have the most information about both people?”

  “The family,” Gonzales said, “but Vincent’s only family seems to have been his wife, who’s dead.”

  “We need to take a closer look at Miranda’s family,” Jack said.

  “Exactly,” Sin agreed.

  She went to leave and Jack grabbed her arm. “There’s that look again. Where you headed?”

  “I need you and Gonzalez to bring the Stoklers here. I’m going to go draw the moth to the flame.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Sin met with Tiffany’s nurse who told her that the reporter was in better condition than they would have expected considering what had occurred. Most of Tiffany’s burns were first degree and none worse than second.

  Tiffany’s movements were slow and guarded when Sin entered her room. She appeared scared and her bandaged hand shook when she raised it in greeting.

  Sin told her it was natural to be frightened after what she had been through. Tiffany asked her about the case, but cried more than anything else.

  Sin thought about how to respond to her questions about the case. The truth was, she wasn’t any closer to catching the killer than she was when she first arrived in Miami. She was about to tell Tiffany just that when she remembered why she came.

  “I’m going to arrange for Action News to meet me here at the hospital.”

  Tiffany’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “I’m going to send our friend a message.”

  The corners of Tiffany’s mouth turned skyward. “I’d like to help.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for that?”

  “I look worse than I feel. Besides, getting my mind on work might help me stop feeling bad for myself.”

  Sin silently chuckled. She’s a brave girl. “Okay,” she agreed. “Do you feel up to making the call? I want to go live at noon.”

  “I’ll do better than that, I’ll make sure Cheyenne comes along.”

  Who’s Cheyenne? Sin thought.

  At eleven-thirty, Sin was sitting in a chair while a Lady Gaga look-a-like applied makeup to her face.

  Sin was exasperated. “Is all of this necessary?”

  “Yes,” Tiffany answered, “so sit there and let Cheyenne do her magic.”

  Sin rolled her eyes as her face was poked and painted. Cheyenne sounds like a stripper name.

  She moved her gaze to Tiffany while trying to sit like a statue and talk out of the side of her mouth without moving her lips. “You should be in bed, not down here bossing me around.”

  Tiffany, who was wearing a hoodie to hide her face and hair, shook her head slowly. “This is the best I have felt since I got here. I’m staying.”

  “Fine,” Sin responded, “but I swear if I end up looking like some sorority bimbo, your injuries will be the least of your problems.”

  Tiffany squeezed Sin’s arm and winked. “Relax, sorority bimbo is my gig, yours is bitchy cop.”

  “At least we’re playing to your strengths,” Cheyenne mumbled in an Eastern European accent as she stepped back and admired her work.<
br />
  Sin looked at her reflection in the mirror and was suddenly speechless. The transformation made her green eyes appear more mysterious. The base that had been applied to her face brought out her olive skin tone, and the dark burgundy, almost black, lipstick added to her fierce look. Her ebony hair had been blown straight to complete the “Don’t fuck with me!” package. Coupled with her form-fitting black jeans and charcoal tee, she was a picture of authority.

  Sin brought her hand up to run her fingers through her hair, and Cheyenne slapped it away.

  “First rule of stage makeup,” she said. “Don’t touch.”

  Sin looked back to the mirror, grabbed a towel and began scrubbing her face. “First rule of Sinclair O’Malley,” she announced, turning her face and the white towel into a smeared mess. “I let my words and actions speak for me. Stage makeup isn’t necessary.”

  Cheyenne threw up her hands and stomped away on her six-inch heels, as if testing the thin plastic to see how much the stilettos would take before snapping beneath her.

  Sin spent the next ten minutes washing off all of Cheyenne’s hard work. And as she finally turned back into the woman she knew, she heard the cameraman yell.

  “Two minutes to cue.”

  Hearing the command, Sin reached for her gun belt. She strapped it on, placed the palms of her hands on the cold pearl inlay of the grips, and calmed her nerves.

  Sin eyed Donny, Tiffany’s cameraman, and then her gaze rested on Tiffany. Her jade green eyes grew darker with her steely expression. “You stay inside,” she ordered. “I don’t want our killer to get even a glimpse of you. Understand?”

  Tiffany pointed to the doors and nodded. Sin walked out of the main entrance of the hospital and into the mid-day heat.

  Sin stared at Donny who cued her to begin. She had one hand resting on her gun belt, and her hip was cocked to the side. The glare from the sun caused her to momentarily look away. She adjusted her vision and once again fixed her sight on the camera.

  For a moment, she stayed silent and continued to eyeball the camera, squinting until her eyes had turned into mere slits.

  “For those of you who don’t know, my name is Special Agent Sinclair O’Malley of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There was an attempt on Tiffany Swenson’s life late yesterday, and she is now in protective custody. Unfortunately, during the murder attempt, Ms. Swenson received burns to her face and body. Luckily, there was no permanent damage. I assure you she is a strong young woman and will recover fully from her ordeal and injuries. I’m not here to give you a medical status report, there are others better equipped for that. I’m out here for one reason and that is to speak directly to the person now known as the Painted Beauty Killer.”

  Producing a piece of paper from her pocket, she read a piece from the Songs of Innocence. “Then every man, of every clime that prays in his distress, prays to the human form divine, love, mercy, pity, peace.” She folded the paper and calmly placed it in her back pocket.

  Focusing in on the camera, Sin made sure to speak to the one person out there who she wanted to shiver in their chair wherever they might be. “I don’t know what happened to you that caused you to become twisted. Frankly, I don’t care. I am here to tell you that I will show no pity, no love, and absolutely no mercy in my hunt for justice. And you will have no peace.”

  Sin deepened her stare and added a slight smirk that only a person who was absolutely sure of themselves could wear. “I’m coming for you, you sick freak. And when I find you, I will be the only one to walk away.”

  Turning, Sin walked back inside the hospital; the doors closing behind her.

  Ash was on his knees rocking back and forth, his hands cupping his ears. A silent scream exploding in his head.

  “That bitch!” the voice wailed. “How dare she quote those misguided words? I’ll show her.”

  Ash shook his head and whispered, “no, no, no,” over and over again, praying she wouldn’t say it.

  But it was inevitable.

  “We have found our final canvas!”

  CHAPTER 36

  “Are you out of your damn mind?” Frank yelled. “You just called out a psychopath. You dared a cold-blooded killer on national television. One, by the way, whose identity we are no closer to figuring out than we were when this case first began.”

  Standing at Evelyn’s desk, Sin listened to the tirade and jerked the phone away from her ear. “That’s right. And I hope my words might have changed all that,” she screamed back into the receiver.

  “Damn it, Sin. There are ways to catch criminals without putting yourself directly in the line of fire. There are rules and regulations that need to be adhered to.”

  Just outside the glass, she watched Ashley and George walk by along with Jack, Gonzales, and another man.

  Jack motioned that they were headed to the conference room.

  “Hold that thought, Frank. I’ll call you back later.”

  “Sin, don’t you dare hang—”

  Sin placed the receiver on the cradle and walked to where the small group had congregated in the hall.

  The man unknown to Sin was wearing an expensive suit and a cheap hairpiece. He pulled out a card. “If you intend to question my clients, you better have a subpoena.”

  Sin read the card and dropped it on the floor as if it was no more important than a gum wrapper.

  McGuire reached into his suit jacket and handed a court document to the attorney. “We only wish to question the Stoklers. I am also pretty sure we have enough information to hold your clients on the grounds of withholding information in a murder investigation. It would be in your clients’ best interest to answer our questions before we have ‘accessory by omission’ charges brought against them, as well.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I’m going home.”

  “Shut up, Ashley,” the attorney said. He viewed the papers that had been filed and a look of defeat immediately crossed his face; the egotistical tone disintegrated from his voice.

  “Excuse me, Anthony. Do you forget who has who on retainer here?”

  “No, I didn’t forget, but this is serious. I suggest you and George answer all of the agents’ questions and put this behind you as soon as possible.”

  Ashley huffed and George nodded as they were ushered into the conference room.

  “Does the name Vincent Ash mean anything to either of you?”

  Sin noticed George’s nonverbal cues immediately. He became rigid, sweat began to bead on his forehead, and his pupils dilated. Ashley’s reaction was less severe.

  “It means nothing,” Ashley said. “Can we leave now?” She went to stand, but Sin’s intentions were different.

  “Sit down, Ashley, before I make you sit.”

  Ashley glared at her attorney. “She threatened me. That’s police brutality.”

  “He said, she said,” Sin responded. “Isn’t that right, Counsel?”

  Anthony Freitas hung his head and rubbed his brow. Vexation seemed to build each time he kneaded his forehead. “For once, Ashley,” he bellowed, lifting his eyes to meet hers, “just do what you’re asked. Answer the questions, so we can all go home.”

  Ashley looked like she was about to start arguing with her attorney when George spoke up. “I think Vincent Ash was a serial killer back in the seventies. But what does he have to do with us?”

  Sin pulled up a chair and sat in front of him, softening her voice just a tad. “What else do you know about him?”

  “Not much. I’m not even sure why I know anything about him.” George’s expression was wrought with confusion. “What does he have to do with us?”

  “Why is his name familiar? You and Ashley were born here in Florida, Ash was from the Midwest.”

  His look of bewilderment increased. “I’m not sure.”

  Sin could see that he was being truthful, so she turned her attention to the ice queen. “What about you, Ashley? Anything you’d like to add?”

  Ashley’s attitude seemed t
o have changed. “When we were young…I was six,” her voice broke like glass along with her attitude, “George found a box of newspaper clippings in our mother’s stuff.” Her hand rummaged through her purse.

  “Here,” Sin said, holding up a pack of cigarettes.

  Ashley took one and placed it between her lips. Her hands were shaking so much that she was unable to light it. Sin pulled her Zippo from her pocket and lit it for her.

  An expression of thanks seemed to bloom in Ashley’s eyes as she sat back and inhaled. “That was when our loving mother changed. After we found the clippings, the beatings started.”

  “She beat you because you found some old newspaper articles?” Sin said. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nothing Miranda did made much sense. Later, I remembered seeing the name ‘Vincent Ash’ on the clippings.”

  “How come I don’t remember any of that?” George said.

  “You were only three,” Ashley remarked, “but I remember. When Mom found us looking through the box, she went crazy.”

  “Why?” Sin asked.

  Ashley shook her head. “Who knows?”

  “Tell me about the clippings,” Sin said. “Any information might help. Where did you find them?”

  “In her art room,” Ashley said. “She used the top floor of the main building at the school as her art studio. We weren’t allowed up there, but you know kids.”

  Sin nodded.

  “And we were just kids,” Ashley said. “We did what a normal six and three-year-old did when told not to do something—”

  “You did it anyway,” Sin said.

  It was Ashley’s turn to nod. She stubbed out the cigarette and continued, “While we were up there, George found a box of old newspapers and a pair of scissors.”

  “And you cut them up.” Sin’s voice grew quiet.

  Ashley’s expression turned cold. “And in return, she cut us.”

  Sin swallowed, or tried to, but her mouth was suddenly dry. Speechless, she waited for Ashley to continue.