by Rick Murcer
Gavin hadn’t moved, but Manny heard him clear his throat and felt him finally turn away. Buzzy was losing her lunch a couple cubicles down. Sophie swore again.
He clicked off the screen and bowed his head, his hands clenching a thousand thoughts.
The murders on the Ocean Duchess and on the islands had been bad, but Argyle had clearly taken his game up a notch. He wanted everyone to know that he was in control and that to even out the score, as he had put it, was still his number one agenda. This meant no one was safe. No one.
“Are you going to call him? Agent Corner, I mean?” asked Gavin.
“Yes. I don’t see a choice. You know Argyle’s no longer on the ship, but they’ll want to see if they can pick up his trail,” answered Manny. “They’ll need to get lucky for that to happen.”
“He’ll want you to go with him,” said Sophie.
“Maybe. But we do have a case here.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll reassign it to Wymer and Ross. We need to find that murdering son of a bitch.” More of that awful sadness crept into Gavin’s voice.
Buzzy walked slowly back to Manny’s office, her skin as white as a Goth junkie. “That was real, wasn’t it? I . . . I’ve never . . .”
“As real as it gets, Buzzy, as real as it gets,” said Manny, reaching for the phone.
Chapter-8
Special Agent Josh Corner looked at the clock and decided it was time to go home. He’d been in the office for over twelve hours and had earned the day’s wage. Besides, he had promised his boys he would read their bedtime story tonight, My New Friends at the Zoo, by Pops Burkett. The very best reason to get out of the office.
The phone rang as he turned to pluck his navy, pinstriped jacket from the coat rack, deciding to let it go to voicemail. He’d call back tomorrow because tomorrow was soon enough. It would have to be.
“Josh. This is Manny. Pick up. I know you’re there; you never freaking leave.”
Williams. He smiled. Maybe he’d changed his mind about the job offer. Fine with him. Any day the FBI could land a cop like Manny was a great day for the good guys. He rolled his eyes. He might as well answer. Williams would just call him on the cell if he didn’t. It’s what friends, and relentless cops, do.
He snatched the phone from the cradle. “Hey, big boy. What’s up, but make it snappy. I got a bedtime story to read.” Josh turned on the speaker phone so he could wiggle into his suit coat.
“Hi, Josh. What the hell do you mean you’re going home? Getting soft? Real cops are just getting warmed up about now.”
Josh shook his head. Next to most cops, he was the workaholic, but compared to Manny—well, there was no comparison.
“Yeah, okay. I’m slacking off after twelve hours. I want to see the boys again before they start shaving and dating.”
“Well, that’s weak, but almost understandable.”
“Thanks for your undying compassion.”
He waited for Manny to speak again and felt his own uneasiness grow. “This isn’t about the job offer, is it?” Manny didn’t speak. Not good.
“No, it’s not. Argyle’s back. He called me about an hour ago, just after he sent an e-mail showing what he did to a local reporter. I’m forwarding the e-mail as we speak. Josh, he’s escalated things, his MO. He’s gone deep.”
Josh rubbed his face with his hands. “Great. Do you know where he is . . . or was?”
“Yeah. He was on a cruise ship, the Ocean Empress, docked in St. Thomas. But you’re right; he’s long gone. He’s too organized not to have his escape route in place. Wherever he is, he’s not on that ship. But I don’t think he’s had time to leave the island.”
Just then, Josh’s computer told him he had a new message. “Hang on.”
He pointed the mouse and opened the communication Manny had forwarded.
This job was always full of surprises—demanding, at its best. But having Argyle show up now, like this, took Josh’s breath away. He turned away and laid his family picture face down on his desk, hoping it might insulate them from what was screaming through his monitor.
He let out a long breath. “Who was he?”
“His name was Eric Hayes, a local reporter. About six years ago, he wrote a series of articles about the complexity of the human mind and got some facts wrong involving Argyle’s research. There were threats, even a lawsuit, but nothing too desperate . . . until this.”
“I’m sending a plane. I’d like to have Sophie come too. Alex, if he can make—”
Before he could say another word, Sophie was talking.
“Josh? Sophie here. I’d be more than willing to help. Really. Thanks for asking. Maybe we can discuss some of the details over dinner, my room?”
Josh heard Manny tell her to go pack. She was in the background, talking fast, but he could make out her fading comments.
“Woo hoo. Road trip to St. Thomas. Best one ever . . .”
Josh laughed. “I guess she wants to go.”
“That’s an understatement. I’ll check with Alex. I know he’d like to be involved, if he can.”
“Good. Meanwhile, I’m going to call the folks at Cyril E. King Airport in St. Thomas and have them delay all outbound flights until we can determine if he’s trying to leave that way. I’ll meet you there. Okay?”
“Sure, Josh. We’ll be there. What about the ship? It’s due to sail in about ten hours.”
“I’ll see if they’ll delay until we get there. Carousel owes us that much.”
“Good enough. One more thing. I’m sorry about the story-reading time with the boys. I missed a few of those with Jen.”
“Thanks. But I’m going to go home and do it anyway. I’ve got an hour or so before they’ll have the plane ready. Besides, they ain’t leaving without the man in charge.”
“I’d do the same. Oh, I’m bringing my own gun this time.”
“Me too. And lots of ammo. Maybe we’ll get a chance to save the taxpayers some money.”
“Okay. Is that it? Because I can’t think of—ah shit,” Manny blurted.
His tense tone surprised Josh. Maybe scared him too. “What is it?”
“I just got another e-mail.”
That caused Josh to stand to his full six-feet. “From the reporter’s account?” His stomach somersaulted when he heard Manny’s reply.
“It’s from Eric’s wife.”
Chapter-9
Gavin Crosby did everything he knew to comfort the newest member of the Argyle Widow Club, Katie Hayes, before hanging up, knowing she was sitting on the bed of her stateroom aboard the Ocean Empress, taking comfort from her sisters and the ship’s security staff—but it could never be enough. He had said all the right things. But he knew that it hadn’t really mattered—that it wasn’t enough. How could it be? There weren’t words in any language that could perform the instant healing Katie’s soul longed for. He knew she felt like the loneliest woman God had ever created and nothing would fix that, at least not now. Her children would help when she got back to Lansing, but until then, she would simply zombie through the process of getting home, alone, and wonder a billion times over what had just happened. He snorted. Argyle had just happened again, that’s what. Gavin’s hatred for the deranged doctor smoldered.
The large picture window in the southern corner of his fifth-story office looked over the Capitol building. Gavin stood in front of it, his wrinkled hands held behind his back, looking at everything and seeing nothing. But that’s how things had been the last few months.
He had always enjoyed watching the sunset, reflecting off the Capitol’s pearly dome, but he barely saw it tonight. In fact, he’d hardly seen it at all since they got back from the cruise from hell. His mind kept drifting back to the horrible scene in Mike’s cabin and the carnage Argyle had left as a reminder that he hadn’t cared for Gavin’s opinion of his research. He shook his head. That was it, nothing more sinister or complex than that. If there had been something unforgivable, some heinous wrong that the Crosbys ha
d perpetrated to ruin the doctor’s life, at least Gavin could understand that. Lexy was ravaged over a professional disagreement, a damned argument.
The pack of smokes in his shirt pocket called his name, and he listened, lighting up. He had quit for over twenty years, but started again when they returned from the Caribbean. Who knew exactly why? Did it matter? He supposed it did, but he didn’t care. It calmed his nerves.
It was against the rules to smoke in the building, but he was the police chief; what were they going to do, fire him?
He exhaled a gray, wispy haze, and again tried to focus on positive things: what was good for his wife Stella, for his son Mike, and even for him. There were moments that it worked, but usually it didn’t. Today was one of the days that positive things were as far away as Shangri- La.
Stella. His wife of thirty-seven years was holding them all together, like usual. She spent time reading about healing. She went to Tae-Bo classes with women like Manny’s wife, Louise, and Alex’s wife, Barb. Her friends wouldn’t let her drown in a funk, but instead helped to pull her out. They were there for her. But he choose the opposite . . . alone was better.
He bowed his head. Stella was working hard at moving on. Mike and he needed to follow suit. They would, eventually, but nobody had said how difficult it would be.
And lately, being home with her was . . . harder. She would never blame him, but he felt guilty, almost dirty around her. It was why he’d spent a few nights in the office over the last month. People married as long as they’ve been didn’t have to talk to communicate, and he’d felt something was off. But things would come around. They always did—he hoped. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take.
Gavin moved away from the window, sat at his desk, and began to leaf through the personnel file of newly appointed district attorney, Jessie Grace. The circuit court judges in Ingham County had named her to replace Liz Casnovsky.
Jessie had a reputation for being fair-minded, but unbending in her approach to serious criminal offenses while an assistant district attorney. She was incredibly prepared and bright. Maybe a little raw with the people skills, but that would come. It would have to. Serving the public was as much about image as getting the job done.
“Welcome to the world of sleepless nights and the realm of ‘they don’t pay me enough for this shit,’” he said to himself.
Gavin finished his report on the e-mails Manny had received and then went over the preliminary findings of the murder at the White Kitty. Morse had been no Citizen of the Year candidate, but dying like that wasn’t how anyone should go. “Brutal” only touched the surface of this one. He frowned. Somewhere, way back in one of those secret places of the mind, he called himself a liar. Maybe dying like that was justice.
“Hey, honey.”
Gavin looked up from the oak desk, stared, and then broke into a tired grin. Stella was standing at the door, her expression more relaxed than he could remember seeing in months. She looked good too. Real good. Her long legs were in great shape, and she had changed the color of her hair.
“Hey baby, good to see you. Sit down.”
Stella walked around the desk and kissed her husband. “No, thanks. I can’t stay that long. Things to do. Just wanted to say hi and give you this.”
Gavin watched as she pulled the .22 from her purse and promptly shot him in the chest.
Chapter-10
Siggie Ashcroft threw his black duffel bag on the worn couch of the dilapidated bedroom and stood silently, taking in his surroundings. Even the musty smell seemed liberating. He’d been confined to a six-by-eight cement-block cell, with color-coordinated steel bars, at the Jackson Correction Facility for the last five years, and that made this seem like the White House. But then again, what wouldn’t? There weren’t any rats waltzing around the stained windowsills and no turds sprinkled around the floor or in the bed, at least that he could see. That made this halfway house apartment just that much better. Score one for him and the bleeding-heart liberals who thought he deserved another chance.
Still, nothing could compare to what he had six years ago, before those sleazy bitches took it away: decadent salary, big house on Lansing’s Southside, SUVs . . . and a family, a family he would never see again. His ex-wife had made that abundantly clear. His young son and daughter would grow up not knowing who he was, what he had sacrificed to give them a leg up in life. Worse, the old lady didn’t want them to know. Stupid heifer.
So what if he liked getting it on in a different way? Those women knew what they were getting into. They had to. The way they’d all looked at him, showing their tits and all of that leg, begging him to take them down a road they’d never been. And let’s not forget those shoes. The ones that said do me, do me now. He’d just done what they had asked. Where was the crime in that?
His jerk-off attorney said he would be smart to plead guilty and get a reduced sentence. If not, he could go away for a very long time. Rape on multiple counts wasn’t funny. So he had pleaded guilty. But he and that faggot lawyer would talk again. Real close up.
“Rape, my ass,” he whispered. The word caused his searing anger to burn even hotter. “Paybacks, bitches, paybacks.”
He kicked off his shoes and stretched his thin, wiry frame, then headed to the kitchen. There was supposed to be some food in the fridge and a few things in the cupboard to tide him over until he could go shopping. Minutes later, he realized he was going to have to go out. There wasn’t anything in this shithole that he had a hankering for. He grinned. Nothing the pantry or refrigerator could give him.
He needed something else, and he wasn’t going to wait.
Having playmates in prison wasn’t the same as having them on the outside, and he more than missed the ones out here. They were softer, more compliant. He loved compliant.
Ashcroft waited another two hours until the fall sun had almost vanished over the red Michigan horizon, slid into his brown loafers, flipped the hood over his head, and went out the door. He stood on his stoop, looked up and down the street, and realized how much freedom he had. There was no one around telling him what to do, what to say, or even watching him take a piss. No more.
Ashcroft could no longer suppress what his appetite said he had to have, what he needed. This was going to be some lady’s lucky night. What a country. He could hardly contain himself.
Chapter-11
The woman in black watched Ashcroft shudder like he was gripping a downed power line, then grow still. It was fascinating and eerie at the same time. She almost felt him leave this world and enter the next. But it wasn’t heaven, or any other promised land filled with God’s mercy and presence. He went straight to hell, to the kingdom of eternal suffering. It’s what he deserved.
Her breathing began to settle as she rose from her knees and, once again, glanced down both sides of the dusk-shrouded street. They were off the beaten path, but it never hurt to be cautious. She had more work to do and getting caught wasn’t on the agenda.
It had been easier this time. Ashcroft hadn’t needed much coaxing to get his pants off, not after she had promised him whatever he wanted. She had worked the hooker angle, and he drew to her like iron to a magnet. Thinking with his little head had cost him his miserable life. What a surprise.
After putting the bottle of acid back in her bag, she began wiping blood and strands of tissue from her face and legs with the moist towels she had brought. She peeled off the black hoodie, short skirt, and the four-inch stilettos, putting them in the thick garbage bag. Then she put on jeans and a sweatshirt. She found the shell casings and put them in her pocket. Next, she removed the bloodied rag from his mouth. That had shut up the perverted whiner, but she supposed most people were cooperative with their wrists adorned with black leather straps and a .22 handgun massaging their face.
At that moment, the mercury-filled streetlight flickered on, changing shadows to reality, and she jumped, grabbing her chest. In that brief millisecond, her mind ran the full gamut of what she had done, was doi
ng—from the shock and disdain of her family, to spending the rest of her life in prison.
She quickly envisioned herself as a shriveled old woman sentenced to a dirty, diseased-infested prison cell, where her best friend was another decrepit, forgotten woman who hadn’t done anything wrong. They were just victims of the system.
“We’re all victims of the system,” she whispered in a voice that didn’t sound like her. That was okay. Her voice wasn’t the only part of her struggling with who she was.
The streetlight bled Picasso patterns into the area behind the tall, silver maple—just turning colors, anticipating the cycle of life the four seasons dictated—where Ashcroft lay. She tilted her head, curiosity outweighing revulsion. His crotch no longer carried the hard woody he so desperately wanted to relieve just a few moments earlier. He had thought he was going to get the blow job of his life, and in a real sense, he had. She grinned at that.
Her eyes moved to the three crimson holes ripped into his chest and the third eye staring up between the other two. The black powder residue bordered the wound like eye shadow, and the escaped gases from the gun’s barrel gave it a more pronounced, jagged appearance. There also seemed to be more blood this time. A lot more. But she really hadn’t taken time to notice the last time. It had been darker, and she had been much more concerned (first-time jitters) with dragging Mitchell Morse away from her car and planting him at the dumpster. It had been farther than she thought. Maybe thirty yards, but adrenaline was an amazing ally.
Things you learn.
The air was cooling, the way Michigan fall evenings do, and she could smell the faint crispness of autumn riding the breeze as she raised her face to the sky. But there was another scent, unpleasant, out of place—a stench really. One that threatened to spoil the jealous euphoria she had created. It was him. She felt her blood pressure rise. He had to ruin the moment, didn’t he? The narcissistic degenerate couldn’t even die gracefully. But what did she expect? Zebras never changed their stripes.
