by T. K. Leigh
She had hoped that sharing her grief with others every Thursday night would help, but it didn’t. It had been an entire year and she still felt the same…stuck in a rut. Maybe it was because she hadn’t shared her grief with someone who could truly understand. No one in the support group could truly sympathize with her pain because they didn’t suffer that same loss. The only person who could truly understand was Alexander, the same man Mark insisted was the cause of it.
About to step toward the revolving doors, she was caught off guard when a large body bumped into her from behind. She stumbled, catching herself, and stared at the tall, intimidating figure rushing past her, not even offering an apology. He barked orders on his phone, the designer coat and shoes he wore making it clear he was in charge. He pushed through the doors and into the lobby, then turned around and their eyes met.
She inhaled a quick breath as she stared into that vibrant green hue. From behind, he looked like every other corporate executive in the city, apart from the height, but those eyes were unmistakable, the green as clear as shimmering emeralds. She held his gaze through the glass doors, almost sensing a hint of recognition. Then, in the blink of an eye, he snapped out of his trance. Spinning around, he carried on with his phone call, continuing through the lobby.
Her heart deflated. He recognized her. She saw it in his eyes. But instead of approaching her, he simply ignored her, his phone call obviously more important than a thin, haggard-looking, thirty-something woman standing in front of his building.
Struggling to fight back tears, she turned, clutching her jacket against her as she walked the busy city street, fighting the crowds of professionals descending upon the city the Friday before Christmas. Everyone seemed happy, which made Rayne even angrier. All of these people would go home at the end of their day to a husband, a wife, a daughter, a son. They would sit in their living room and watch the lights of their tree twinkle. They would bake cookies and laugh. They would watch Christmas movies together in preparation for Santa’s big night.
The farther she walked, the angrier she became. In a flash, everything had changed. Seeing how normal Alexander was made her irritation grow to a height it had never been before. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. Her chest clenched and she became short of breath. Her face grew heated, despite the frigid temperatures, and she felt as if her legs were about to give out beneath her. She supported herself against a brick wall, but no one paid her any attention. Why would they? They probably thought she was just a homeless drug addict. And wasn’t she?
She had lost everything. Her home. Her career. Her family. She now lived in a small, barely habitable studio apartment in Dorchester. In a year’s time, she had fallen so far from where she once was, but Alexander hadn’t. If anything, he was even more successful, having even more than he did this time last year. He hadn’t suffered like she had. And she hated him for that.
Mark was right. She needed to make someone else feel her pain, and that person was Alexander. He may not have been the one who took Landon’s life, but his inaction made him just as culpable. It was time he finally felt the same pain Rayne had endured since watching Landon’s casket, filled with nothing but memories, be lowered into the ground.
Chapter Six
December 18
8:05 AM
SWIRLS OF BLUE MIXED with purple ingrained in Alexander’s mind as he tried to remember where he had seen those eyes and that face before. She seemed so familiar, yet a complete stranger at the same time. Her red hair appeared weighted down by dirt. Her skin was pale, her face gaunt. Her hollow eyes were devoid of almost all emotion. Despite the emptiness, he sensed something in those colorful eyes. Hope maybe? He’d racked his memory, trying to place where he had seen her before, but came up short. Years in the security field taught him to never forget a face, and hers was completely unfamiliar, despite the nagging in his head that he should know her.
“The background checks you asked for, sir,” somebody said, bringing him out of his unease as he strode down the hallway of his company’s building located in the financial district of Boston.
He looked up to see Martin, his right-hand man, standing just outside his office door, his posture taut, his expression all business. Alexander had known him almost his entire life. He had been his father’s go-to guy before Alexander took over the company nearly two decades ago. Still, he could probably count on one hand the number of times he had seen Martin display any sort of emotion. He was professional to a fault.
He handed Alexander a small folder as he walked into his office. Alexander took his coat off and tossed it on the loveseat.
“Anything stand out to you?” he asked, perusing the contents of the folder as he lowered himself to the couch opposite the loveseat. Propping his legs on the coffee table, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his suit jacket, trying to focus on what Martin was saying, his mind still elsewhere. Haunting purple eyes flickered on the pages in front of him, a ghost of his past sent to remind him of all his failings, as if Mischa’s death wasn’t reminder enough.
“She lived what appears to be a simple life,” Martin began, summarizing what he’d found in the few short hours since Alexander had ordered him to the office early to dig up everything he could on Mischa Tate. “Other than her brother and her being taken away from their parents at an early age and raised by their maternal grandparents, nothing stands out that could indicate a motive or who could be responsible for her murder.” He paused, his expression grave. “Your brother-in-law may be right, sir. She may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and tragically became another victim of the Castle Island Killer. Simpson was able to access the police files on those deaths.”
“And?”
“From what you told me about everything, it fits. The only thing that’s off is the cause of death. Everything else is the same.”
“So it could very well have been a copycat who tried to cover his tracks by following the Castle Island Killer’s M.O.” Alexander looked at Martin hopefully. He didn’t know if he could sit idly by and come to terms with the idea that Mischa was just a random victim. He had a feeling in his gut there was more to it, and his gut was usually right. Hell, his instincts had saved his life on more than one occasion.
“It’s a possibility,” Martin agreed, albeit reluctantly. His expression remained respectful and serious, despite thinking his boss was looking for something that wasn’t there. He would never say it, though. A Marine veteran, Martin respected the chain of command.
Alexander continued sifting through the papers in the short file — immunization records, school transcripts, bank statements. He hoped something would stand out to help prove his theory that this was the work of a copycat. The police seemed pretty certain that wasn’t the case, but if he didn’t explore the possibility, there was a chance Mischa’s killer would never be brought to justice. Then he’d be letting Landon down all over again. He couldn’t have that on his conscience.
“I have Simpson running more checks to see if he can uncover anything else that wouldn’t turn up in an initial record check—”
“You mean sealed records?” Alexander raised his eyebrows.
“He does have a particular set of skills. I think that’s why you hired him.”
Alexander smirked. “That’s a nice way of saying he’s a great hacker.”
“Your words, sir. If he finds anything, I’ll be sure to bring it to your attention. Should I have your assistant bring you a coffee? Or would you rather have your privacy?”
“Coffee would be great. Thank you, Martin, and keep me updated. Dave said he would call if anything turns up, so make sure he’s put through. If anyone else calls, tell Amy you’ll handle it yourself.”
Martin nodded, then left the office, closing the door behind him. After just a few moments of flipping through the papers, a court-ordered termination of parental rights caught Alexander’s attention. Perhaps that had something to do with what happened to Mischa.
Just a
s Alexander settled in to devote his full attention to the report, there was a slight knock. The door opened and a tall redhead scurried into the office.
“Good morning, Mr. Burnham. I wasn’t expecting to see you today. I thought you would be out of the office until after the New Year.” She carried a tray containing a cup of coffee and a chocolate hazelnut pastry he treated himself to every morning, setting it down on the table in front of him.
“Yes. Well, something has come up that couldn’t wait until then.”
“Understood.” She took a notepad out of her suit jacket and began scribbling notes with a pencil. “Martin’s already instructed me that, unless your brother-in-law calls, he’ll handle all your business today. Is there anything else I should be made aware of?”
“No, Amy. That’s all for now. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Burnham. Just holler if you need anything.” She gave him a cordial smile before spinning on her too-high heels and walking out of the office.
Taking a sip of his black coffee and a bite of his danish, he returned his eyes to the folder in front of him, reading through the court order terminating Landon and Mischa’s parents’ parental rights, granting full custody to their maternal grandparents. No other details were given, but from their time on the same SEAL team, Alexander knew Landon and his sister had survived years of neglect by two parents who had grown addicted to crack during its rise in popularity. Malnourished and dirty, Child Services finally intervened after the house was raided by the police.
Their grandparents had been beside themselves when they learned what the two kids, neither being more than eight at the time, had been through, taking custody of them while their parents served their time in prison for neglect, child endangerment, and a myriad of drug offenses. Mischa was too young to truly remember any of it, but Landon did, which probably shaped him into the man he had become.
Other than the events of her early years, the rest of Mischa Tate’s life seemed rather boring, at least on paper. She was a model student, achieving mostly As and Bs throughout her schooling. She went into the Peace Corps just after high school, spending two years working with infants and pregnant women in Namibia. Landon talked about her often during his SEAL days, always bragging about something she was doing.
After her time with the Peace Corps, she easily gained employment with the United Rescue Mission, a non-governmental organization based out of Boston whose purpose was to offer aid and assistance to those displaced by war, natural disaster, or persecution. She had visited some of the most dangerous places in the world, putting her own life on the line to offer safety to those at risk, before being promoted to the position of executive director approximately five years ago.
“I suppose she must have rubbed off on Landon,” Alexander mused to himself, remembering his friend’s own mission to save the world, one poor soul at a time.
The next few hours ticked by as he tried to get in touch with people who knew Mischa during her time in the Peace Corps, then the agency she had worked for, hoping something would stand out to explain a motive for her murder.
He could hear Olivia’s voice in the back of his mind, trying to persuade him that Dave was a seasoned homicide detective who would know a copycat when he saw one. Alexander knew it was a long shot, but the guilt that consumed him for not fulfilling his promise to Landon all those years ago ate away at him. He had to operate under the assumption this wasn’t just a senseless random act of violence against a beautiful, young woman.
After speaking with several of Mischa’s employees and acquaintances, Alexander was back to square one. It sounded as if she was extremely well-liked. He considered perhaps she had become a target because of her high-level position, but the more research he did on the organization, the less likely that seemed. It was a smaller agency with a paltry budget that relied mostly on donations and a meager amount of government grants. Her salary as director was barely enough to pay her bills. It wasn’t exactly anything that would put a target on her back.
A knock on the door startled him, pulling him away from the normal and rather mundane life of Mischa Tate.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” a tall, wiry man with spiky blond hair and dark-framed glasses said, entering Alexander’s office.
“What is it, Simpson?” he asked. “Did you find anything else?”
“Not really. I ran credit reports and got bank statements going back over ten years. This girl was kind of boring. The deed to the townhouse she bought several years back was in her name alone, so it doesn’t appear there’s a boyfriend or anyone else in the picture. With nothing else to go on, I went ahead and did some preliminary background checks on her brother to see if anything stood out. It might take me a little longer to get everything together on that end because of his time as a SEAL and all—”
“That’s not necessary, Simpson,” Alexander interrupted, grabbing the file he held out to him. “He was an employee, so we probably have all his information on record somewhere.”
He shook his head. “That was my first thought, too, but it was apparently never done. There’s no record of it anywhere.”
Alexander narrowed his eyes. “That’s a bit odd.” He shrugged. “It’s possible I never requested it since he was a good friend. It probably just slipped my mind.”
“Yes, sir. Nonetheless, I’ll start looking into his background to see if anything there may shed some light on what happened to his sister.”
“Thank you.”
Simpson nodded and retreated from the office.
“Simpson,” Alexander called out as he was about to disappear down the hallway.
He popped his head back in. “Yes, sir?”
Alexander sighed. “What do you think?”
“Sir?” he responded, straightening his posture.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the news reports on her death, how the police think she’s another victim of the Castle Island Killer.”
He nodded.
“What do you think?”
Simpson shifted nervously on his feet. He had worked for Alexander for over ten years. He was the friend of a friend of one of his agents, who had used Simpson in the course of an investigation the company had been hired to conduct. Simpson possessed a rather specific set of computer skills that had proved useful in solving the case, and were still useful to this day. He could hack into even the most rigid computer systems without leaving a trace. Because his background was vastly different than the typical person he employed, Alexander valued his opinion.
“I don’t know, sir. The police have a good point. She was dumped in the same area of Boston in a barrel similar to the ones used in the other murders.” He shrugged. “The police never released any information regarding the victims’ fingernails being ripped off, yet Mischa’s were, too. So if it is a copycat, as you want to believe, it had to be someone within the police department who had access to all the intricate little details on their investigation and was able to replicate it perfectly.”
“Or someone with the skills necessary to access their records.” Alexander raised his eyebrows.
Simpson shoved his hands into his pockets. “That’s true.”
There was a brief silence as Alexander considered his opinion. Everyone seemed to be thinking the same thing…everyone except him. It was too much of a coincidence that her body turned up on the one-year anniversary of her brother’s death. There had to be something more to it.
“With all due respect, sir,” Simpson said, breaking the silence. “Maybe you’re too close to the investigation. You could dig for days, even weeks, and not find what you’re looking for. Maybe instead of operating under the theory this is a copycat who targeted Ms. Tate, you could use your resources to help find the Castle Island Killer.”
Closing his eyes, Alexander nodded. “I made a promise to Landon I would always watch out for her.”
“I’ll do everything I can to help you, sir, no matter which path you choose.”
“Thank you, Simps
on.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned and disappeared into the hallway once more.
Left alone with a nagging doubt about whether or not he was on the right path, Alexander began flipping through Simpson’s latest investigative efforts. He wasn’t prepared to be confronted with a photo of himself standing with Olivia, Mischa, Landon, and Landon’s fiancée. They were at a fundraising event for Mischa’s agency. Her blonde waves were styled in a way that made her look like a 1930s movie star, her red lips glistening against her smooth, pale skin.
Turning away from the photo to avoid being faced with the memories, he glanced out the large windows of his office. Dusk had fallen over the city, bringing a subtle glow to the room. His eyes drooped from the lack of sleep last night. He threw the file on the coffee table, turning on the large television screen mounted on the wall directly in front of him.
The voice of a local news anchor with a non-regional dialect blared as she spoke about a gruesome murder in Southie. His eyes glued to the screen, Alexander lay back on the couch and kicked off his shoes just as Mischa’s smiling face flashed on the screen. At least they hadn’t shown any of her autopsy photos.
He closed his eyes, an odd feeling of déjà vu washing over him. He had sat in this same office, his eyes glued to the exact same television, as he watched Landon’s brutal murder with the rest of the world.
Chapter Seven
One Year Ago
“ANY WORD YET?” MARTIN asked, snapping Alexander out of his unease regarding the past week.
“Not yet.” He let out a slow breath, focusing his attention on the handful of television screens mounted on the wall across from the desk. Each was tuned to a different news station as he waited for any new information about the story that broke over a week ago…an explosion at a building outside Kabul where an American private security company had reportedly been operating a clinic. So far, no further details had been leaked, but Alexander knew it was only a matter of time. Reporters were a vicious breed, pit bulls to the end. Once they sunk their teeth into a story, they never let go. Soon, they’d find a weak link who would disclose what his company was really doing over in Afghanistan…interfering with centuries of tradition, at least in some people’s opinions.
