The Fairytale Killer : E&M Investigations Prequel

by Lena Bourne

  But it’s not fine. Eva never goes anywhere without that phone.

  27

  Eva

  I’m untied!

  Or one of my arms is.

  A warm, coarse hand is massaging my right wrist, the fingers long and bony. Not the same man who grabbed me in the street. That man had huge, strong hands with stubby fingers that held my arm hard enough to bruise.

  He’s humming softly, under his breath. It sounds like a lullaby.

  This is my chance!

  I pull my arm out of his grasp. I’ll kick him, incapacitate him and escape out the window.

  All I manage is a jerk.

  My body won’t obey my mind’s command.

  “Settle down now, lovely girl,” he says in that same singsong voice he was using before. “It will all be over soon. It will all be well soon.”

  He reattaches the restraint to my wrist, hope fleeing my chest like air from a popped balloon.

  “You sick, twisted, bastard!” I yell, but it comes out like a cracked, hoarse whisper.

  He laughs. It’s a pleasant laugh, warm and kind and it sours my stomach to the point of nausea. I smell no soap on him today. Only old man breath and shaving cream. As I recognize the scent, I also feel the tightness in the skin of my legs and arms. The foul monster shaved me while I slept. Shaved me everywhere.

  “Such a foul mouth on such a lovely princess,” he says. “But we’ll cure that soon enough.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say, deciding to change tactics. When kidnapped, it’s best to try and make your captor see you as a human being. Then they might let you go. Though I doubt there is anything human left in this monster, despite his soft voice, gentle touch, and pleasant laugh. “I have a life, a good life. I never saw your face, you can just let me go.”

  He runs his hand through my hair. “Such a lovely shade of hair you have. It’s almost a shame to ruin it,” he says as though I haven’t spoken. “But blue-black will look striking with those big, bright blue eyes of yours. We’ll dye it as soon as my son returns.”

  My breath hitches. There’s two of them working together? Mark is only looking for one. The son, I presume. The one who grabbed me, the one Selima dated. I have to tell him.

  I whimper, tears welling in my eyes, getting soaked up by my thick blindfold, as reality hits me.

  I’ll never tell Mark anything ever again. Not even that I love him.

  28

  Mark

  I run/walk to the coffee shop instead of taking the car, because the narrow streets around there are always jammed up with traffic, even at midday. The people I pass are a blur of white and black and red when they yell and curse at me for bumping into them. My mind is so laser-focused on getting to the coffee shop, getting to Eva, that I feel nothing and care less about anyone or anything.

  It’s her favorite coffee shop in the city. I met her there at least ten times since we started dating. We had one of our best dates in there, did things in one of the more private upstairs rooms that I haven’t even thought of doing since I was in my early twenties, things that made me feel young. I believed she was the one who’d make me feel forever young, even at eighty. Now what? Now I’m already thinking of her in the past tense. How could I believe she’d willingly not answer my calls or come to the door when I knocked? How much time did I waste?

  I’m breathing hard as I burst into the coffee shop, the heat inside making my already overheated face unbearably hot.

  “Are you Gitta?” The young woman behind the counter, her thick brown hair reaching down to her ass has every reason to look alarmed. She nods slowly, her brown eyes huge in her round face.

  I take a couple of deep breaths and introduce myself more calmly and tell her why I’m here.

  She reaches under the counter without taking her scared eyes off me and hands me Eva’s phone. There’s a single crack running diagonally along the screen, starting from a tiny shattering in one corner where the metal around the screen is also bent. She dropped her phone. My heart clenches at the memory of how flustered she was each time that happened to her—not often, because she was careful with her electronics—and how childishly happy she was to find it whole. I used to tell her she was too attached to her gadgets when that happened and I’m very, very sorry for that now. And here I go thinking about her like she’s gone again.

  “Where did you find this phone?” I ask, focusing on the woman in front of me and asking the right questions. If I let myself get lost in fear and panic, I’ll never find Eva. “And when?”

  I have a sinking feeling I know exactly when. The night I stood her up at the last minute.

  “Dieter, can you come here,” the woman calls over her shoulder and a tall, very skinny boy with a spray of dark red pimples on both cheeks turns to her. “This man is asking about the phone you found.”

  Dieter approaches warily, glancing at the phone and then me several times before reaching the counter.

  “Where did you find this phone? And when?” I repeat the questions to get him to focus on me.

  He looks up and to the left like he’s trying to remember. “It was two nights ago, I think. Yes, two nights. I was outside, having a cigarette when she walked out. The blonde lady, Eva, she’s a regular and the only one who orders chamomile tea.”

  “And where did she go? Which direction?” I ask before he starts telling me about all the other things she liked to order here.

  “She met this guy outside. He looked like he was jogging, though he was dressed very lightly for it. Just shorts and a sleeveless shirt. But these boot camp workout fanatics are crazy enough for that, so I didn’t think too much of it. They talked and then he put his arm around her and led her off. It was only afterward that I noticed she dropped her phone. It glinted as a car passed on the street. I called after her, but she didn’t hear me. I even ran after her, but they were already in a car and driving away.”

  My heart feels still in my chest. If I think about anything other than the questions I must ask this kid, I’ll lose my mind and never find it again.

  “What kind of car?” I ask.

  “A white minivan, like the kind they take people on tours with,” he says. “Maybe a Volkswagen. Or a Mercedes.”

  “Did you get the license plate?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Sorry, no. But it was local. I saw that much. And I couldn’t see inside the van, because all the shades on the windows were closed.”

  “And the man, what did he look like?”

  “Muscular, his arms were wider than both my legs. He was at least a head taller than her, and broad across the shoulders. Blond. Looked very happy to see her. Like a kid happy.”

  Whatever that means.

  “He reminded me of Jack Nicholson playing Joker,” the kid says to Gitta, who gives him a half-smile, then focuses her attention back on me. “His smile did, that is, the way it twisted up at the edges so unnaturally. I couldn’t figure it out until just now.”

  Crazy, in other words. Unhinged.

  “Did he have any tattoos?”

  The young man nods eagerly. “Lots and lots. On his legs and his arms. Even had those stupid eagle wings or whatever they are on the back of his neck. Those are so ridiculous.”

  Greaves has no wings on his neck. I pull out my phone and show the kid a photo of Greaves anyway, turning it so Gitta, who’s following our conversation with such rapture her mouth is half-open, can’t see it. “Was this him?”

  The kid peers at the photo for a full minute before shrugging. “Maybe. It’s possible.”

  I scroll to the photo of the sketch Mirela provided. “What about this one?”

  He looks at the photo then back at me. “That’s the same guy, isn’t it?”

  Maybe. I don’t know. There are so many tall blond guys with near-perfect features around here.

  “He looked more like the sketch than the photo, I’d say,” the man says. “But they both look very alike. Who is this guy, anyway? Is he dangerous? Or is he ju
st the guy she left you for? I remember you coming in here with her.”

  He’s being arrogant like all men his age are. Like I was. So I let it slide.

  “He’s wanted by the police,” I tell him instead. “Can you come with me to the station to answer some more questions?”

  “What now?” he asks. “My shift doesn’t end until two.”

  “Yes, now. This is important.”

  “So’s my job man,” he says. “I’ll be there at two. Or half-past.”

  “Go, I’ll cover for you,” Gitta says to him and I thank her silently, but from the bottom of my heart. “It sounds urgent.”

  The kid agrees but takes his sweet time getting his jacket and bag from the back. I call Schmitt and explain I’ll be bringing in a witness as I lead him through the crowded street to the station.

  It’s only been two days. There’s still a chance we’ll find her. We have a description of a car and a description of the man who took her. I can still find her. I can still save her. I can.

  I’m setting such a pace through the crowded streets my witness is having a hard time keeping up despite his long legs. I have to keep stopping to wait for him, which annoys me so much I want to yell at him each time, but somehow I’m managing not to. Maybe it’s because the time I spent with Eva is playing in my mind in a series of perfectly vivid, colorful scenes, distracting me from everything else. Is this what they mean when they talk about your life flashing before your eyes?

  We finally reach the avenue that leads to the police HQ building. Three gleaming black cars with tinted windows so dark they’re as black as the cars themselves are parked about two-hundred meters from the main entrance. The witness is breathing hard behind me as we approach the cars, whispering under his breath. Cursing most likely.

  The back door of the front-most car opens just as I’m about to pass it and the Russian mobster Alexeyev steps out to block my path, waving at someone in one of the other cars before fixing his black eyes on me.

  “Hello, Inspector Novak,” he says. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I’m in a hurry,” I tell him and keep walking. The last thing I need is this distraction right now. Only one thing matters right now. Finding Eva before she’s turned into a dead princess. With how badly the search for this Fairytale Killer has gone so far, I probably don’t stand a chance in hell, but I refuse to think about that.

  “You have time for this,” Alexeyev says in a very self-assured voice. He’s not giving an order, he’s just stating a fact.

  Two large, beefy guys wearing identical baggy, black leather jackets that were very popular at the end of the last century are approaching me, supporting an equally beefy guy between them. The guy’s only wearing jeans and no shoes or shirt. Tattoo of every kind cover his torso and arms, but they’re all covered with dried blood. His hair is most likely blond, but it’s red from all the blood he’s lost. His face is in better shape than I would’ve expected given all the blood, and he looks at me with bright blue eyes so full of insanity, it takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to step back from him.

  “I told you I will find him for you,” Alexeyev says. “This is the man who took my Nadia. My guys confirmed it already.”

  The guy keeps staring at me like we’re the only two people in the street. His lips are curled up at the edges, making him look even more maniacal. He can’t stand on his own. The Russian thugs holding one of his arms each had to drag him to get him this far.

  “That’s the man I saw with Eva,” my witness says. “See how he smiles. Just like Joker.”

  “Thank you,” I say to Alexeyev. What else do you say to a guy who just made the impossible possible?

  “Get this bastard,” he says. “I would’ve done it myself, but then I thought maybe he has other girls like my Nadia locked up somewhere. He won’t talk. No matter what we did to him, he just smiled.”

  And they did a lot. Clearly they tried very hard to harm him. The fingers on his right hand are hanging off his hand crookedly, uselessly, while three on his left are missing, the stumps burned closed by the looks of things. There are also several burn scars on his chest and neck, the kind caused by high voltage electrical shocks.

  “I’ll take it from here,” I say and wave over the uniformed police officers who are already watching us.

  The thugs let the man drop to the pavement and hurry to the car. Alexeyev gets back into his as well, and they’re all speeding away before the officers even reach us.

  “Get Schmitt,” I tell the first one that reaches us, and grab the witness’ arm to push him forward. “And take this kid to him. He’s a witness.”

  “What about this guy,” another officer asks, kneeling beside the man on the ground. He can’t get up on his own, but he’s twisting his head so he can keep grinning at me. It’s making me sick.

  “Get him to an interview room,” I say.

  “He needs to go to the hospital,” the officer protests.

  “He needs to go to an interview room,” I say. “This is the man we’ve been looking for. Bring a doctor to him there.”

  All the officers that heard me speak paled, each understanding what I meant even though I didn’t call him by his nickname. The Fairytale Killer. Well, this guy won’t be sewing any pretty princess outfits anymore, not without his fingers. But if losing half his left hand didn’t make him talk, how am I gonna do it?

  So close and yet so far. That sums up this entire case perfectly. From start to finish. But it’s not over yet. And I won’t give up until it is.

  I rush after the officers taking the suspect into the building. A crowd of people has gathered to watch us, most of their faces twisted in fear and disgust as the two officers half carry and half drag the bloodied man inside. I’m sure they wouldn’t be as disgusted at this treatment if they knew who he is. It’s the same inside the reception area, which is very full for this time of day, and where people are actually standing up on the wooden benches to get a better look. Some are taking pictures. One camera flash goes off directly in my eyes, leaving me with a huge lava red spot lined with fire in my vision. I wish they weren’t taking pictures. I wish I knew how to stop them before those pictures make it online.

  Schmitt is waiting for us by the elevators on the third floor.

  “What’s going on? What is this?” he says, uncharacteristic nervousness in his voice.

  “I’ll explain later,” I say. “He needs to be questioned.”

  He makes a similarly disgusted face as he looks at the suspect as the people downstairs were making. “He needs a doctor.”

  “This might be him,” I say pointedly and watch Schmitt’s face freeze, all color leaving it.

  “Interview Room 5,” he tells his officers.

  That’s one of the smaller rooms, but the one closest to the elevators. The way there is a blur of color and snippets of conversation that don’t form a comprehensive whole in my head.

  The suspect’s grin looks forced once I’m facing him across the cheap, chipped artificial wood veneer-topped table in the interrogation room. The metal legs of my chair wobble as I sit down, but I already feel like I’m falling anyway, so it makes no difference.

  “You won’t find her in time,” the man says in English, speaking for the first time. Good English, the kind spoken by rich people on the East Coast.

  One of his bright blue eyes looks glassy. I’m not sure he can see me with it. But the other is still filled with that maniacal light of pure insanity.

  “Tell me where Eva is,” I say, just asking for what I need and nothing else.

  “By now she’s not Eva anymore. She’s Snow White,” he says.

  I leap out of my chair, sending it bouncing off the floor. “You sick, deranged, twisted—”

  “Call me all the names in the book, if you want. It won’t save her,” he says slowly, measuredly. No pain is showing on his face, even though he must be in considerable pain from his injuries. I don’t know if that’s because he’s insane or
because his brain isn’t working properly anymore. Why the fuck did the Russians have to torture him? But I know why. Revenge. And I want some too.

  “My father won’t wait much longer for me,” he says. “He’ll create the scene with your lovely reporter girlfriend without me if he must. She cries, you know. She hopes you’ll save her. But you won’t, will you?”

  Strong arms pull me back as I leap at him. “No!” Schmitt says curtly through gritted teeth. He’s stronger than he looks, his arms are like steel ropes holding me back. He’s panting as he pulls me out of the room. I’m resisting, but he’s managing it. The suspect starts laughing. A quiet, eerie laugh. It sounds like it’s coming from very far away.

  Outside, Schmitt pushes me against the wall and holds me there with one wiry forearm across the chest. “That man’s been hurt bad. He needs to go to the hospital or he will die on us.”

  Good. Just as long as he tells me where Eva is first.

  “Calm down,” Schmitt adds, his black eyes piercing. “He has your girlfriend and I understand how much you want to get her back. But losing our minds with him is not going to help us any. You know this, Mark. You said it to me often enough.”

  Slowly, his words are starting to make sense.

  I try to wriggle out of his hold, but he’s not releasing me. “All right, I’m calm. Let me go. I won’t go back in.”

  He gazes into my eyes for a few seconds as though to see if I’m telling the truth. Eventually, he lets me go.

  “Come into my office,” he says, and I follow him down the hall. We have to weave our way between much too closely placed desks in the open area in front of his small office. Junior detectives get desks in the open area, but Schmitt has his own tiny office. The wall facing the open room is part window, part drywall, and Schmitt hastily lowers the blinds over the former as soon as the dark wood door is closed behind us.

  Inside, every available surface, including his desk, both chairs, and part of the floor is covered with photos, reports, documents, maps, and handwritten notes. I trample some of them under my feet as I walk to the chair and sweep a bunch more off before sitting down. I need to sit. That surge of adrenaline where I almost beat up our only suspect is not fading easily. It’s making me see double while the room spins around me.