She forced herself to remain calm until she slipped into the stairwell. She opted not to take the elevator because she wanted to avoid as many security cameras as possible. Once inside the stairwell, she allowed herself to pick up the pace. Her gloved hands slid along the railing as she hurried down the first flight of stairs.
Her breathing was somewhat restricted by the balaclava covering her face, but she couldn’t remove the covering without leaving DNA behind. Something as small as a strand of hair or a flake of skin could lead the authorities right to her. Even though she hadn’t committed a crime tonight, she would have a hard time explaining what she was doing so close to the scene of one.
She decided to leave the mask in place until she was well away from the area. The weather was cold enough that she wasn’t likely to be the only person wearing something to protect their face from the elements, meaning chances were good she wouldn’t be remembered by other passersby.
She would get rid of the gun and her clothes once she reached her safe haven. The apartment she had rented in Central Park South belonged to Vilma Bautista, the fake identity she had assumed for this assignment. On paper, at least. Her handler was the place’s true owner. He had purchased it in order to launder some of the proceeds from his criminal enterprises. She, or rather Vilma, was nothing more than a glorified squatter.
Vilma was a wealthy financier who was frequently away on business so her long absences weren’t considered unusual. The building’s staff was both accommodating and discreet, meaning they aimed to please and didn’t ask questions. It was the ideal place for her to hide out, especially after a kill. All she had to do was get there.
She heard the distant wail of sirens when she finally reached the street. A blast of cold air hit her in the back, making the trickle of sweat slowly making its way down her spine feel like melting ice. She allowed herself to get caught up in the flow of foot traffic as she tried to put some distance between herself and the scene. Calling an Uber would have been faster, but she preferred to keep moving rather than stand still. She didn’t have a cell phone on her anyway. She didn’t want anyone to be able to track her movements as incoming or outgoing calls pinged off nearby cell towers.
She hailed a cab once she was about ten blocks away. She gave the driver the address of a building half a mile from her apartment, then made sure to pay in cash so there wouldn’t be a digital trail of the transaction.
She tossed a few pieces of her rifle into Central Park Lake, the twenty-two acre body of water popular with nature lovers and fishermen alike. If someone managed to hook a piece of the assembly, they wouldn’t be able to identify who owned the weapon. The serial number had originally been printed on the barrel of the gun, the only piece still in her possession. She had filed off the number years ago, and forensics experts would have an incredibly difficult time attempting to recover it after she dropped the remaining parts of her rifle in the trash compactor in her apartment building. As for the clothes she was wearing, she would launder them, then donate them to charity. Drop boxes had been set up all over the city so she shouldn’t have trouble finding one.
She removed her gloves and uncovered her face when she was a few blocks away from her apartment. In this neighborhood, a masked figure was more likely to scream mugger than innocent citizen attempting to stay warm.
The doorman greeted her with a slight bow when she approached. “Welcome back, Ms. Bautista. Did you have a good workout?”
“It raised my heart rate, that’s for sure.”
“Very good. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“I intend to. Thank you.”
She rode the elevator to the top floor. When she reached her apartment, she wiped down the remaining pieces of her rifle, placed them in a plastic bag, and dropped the bag in the trash chute in the hallway.
After she returned to her penthouse, she locked the door behind her and sagged against it. She couldn’t shake the image of Olaf’s face. The expression of abject terror on her beautiful visage had been seared into her mind.
She buried her hands in her hair as she sank to the floor. Each assignment she had received had been impersonal, both in the planning and the execution. This one, however, was anything but. Though she didn’t know Olaf’s real name, the two of them had a connection, however tenuous. Had that connection been used against them, or was she reading more into the situation than was actually on the page?
None of it made sense. One night, she met a woman she found intriguing. Less than a week later, she was hired to kill someone in that woman’s orbit. Who was the real target, Charlotte Evans or someone else? More importantly, who was pulling the strings?
Her cell phone rang before she could answer any of the questions racing through her mind. Her handler’s number was listed on the display.
“What the fuck happened tonight?” she asked without bothering to say hello. “Why did you send me on an assignment when you had already given the job to someone else?”
“Call it an insurance policy,” Winslow Townsend said coolly. “Lee always suspected you would balk at an assignment one day, and it turns out he was right. The price of this failure will be added to rather than deducted from the amount you owe me.”
The news was disappointing but not as bad as Santana had expected. She had feared a far worse punishment. “Who did you turn to? Who made the order? Why did they want Charlotte Evans dead?”
In person, Winslow had an air of cultured refinement. He looked like an easy mark. Benjie and Santana had made that mistake once. That was how she had ended up under Winslow’s thumb in the first place.
She and Benjie had used their contacts inside a posh Manila hotel to rob Winslow’s room while he was in town to gamble in a luxury casino. Their accomplice must have panicked and given Winslow their names because Winslow and his men had showed up at Benjie’s house before they’d even had time to inventory their loot. Winslow’s men had pressed guns to their heads while Winslow held court in front of them.
“You took something valuable from me, Aquino,” Winslow had said as she and Benjie cowered in fear. “Now I’m going to take something even more valuable from you.”
Despite his faults, Benjie had been there for her when she needed him. He had cared for her. Guided her. Taught her how to survive. When it had appeared both their lives were on the line, he had offered his in exchange for hers. He had pleaded for Winslow to kill him and let her go, but Winslow had had something else in mind. Death wouldn’t have suited his purposes anyway. As Santana soon discovered, it wasn’t his usual MO. When someone wronged him, he liked to draw out their suffering, not exact swift retribution.
He had returned home to Singapore and taken Santana with him. To explain her presence to anyone they might come across, he had passed her off as one of his maids’ children. Then he had financed her education by hiring the best private tutors. He had also taught her how to kill. She wasn’t the only person he had groomed in that manner. There were more like her in cities all around the world, but she was the one he turned to most often.
Even though she had shared a household with him throughout her formative years, she had never felt like she truly belonged. As his son Lee always took great pains to point out, she was an employee, not a member of the family.
The first night she had stayed in his mansion, Winslow had allowed the door to her room to remain unlocked. “Do you really think you can trust her?” Lee had asked as he and Winslow stood in the hallway.
“She won’t go anywhere,” Winslow had said. “All dogs are loyal to whoever gives them attention, and this little mongrel is starving for it.”
“What if she tries to bite the hand that feeds her?”
“Then I won’t hesitate to put her down. No one is irreplaceable, my son. Not even you.”
Winslow let his cool, polished facade drop as he directed his wrath at her.
“Your job is not to ask why. Your job is to do whatever I tell you to do whenever I tell you to do it. Did you receive t
he photo of your mother I sent you? She’s a bit long in the tooth for me, but she looks good for a woman of a certain age, don’t you think?”
Each time Santana thought of turning on Winslow, he sent her evidence to show he had eyes on her mother and could have her taken out any time he wished. It had been so surreal for Santana to be a witness to her mother’s life while being unable to take part in it. Even though the photos were not-so-thinly-veiled threats used to keep her in line, they also supplied Santana with a modicum of comfort. Because they let her know that her mother was still alive.
“If you defy me again,” Winslow said, “I won’t have someone put a bullet in your mother’s head. I will have them put one in yours. Do we understand each other?”
Santana understood all too well. And it was obvious that if she wanted answers, she would have to find them herself.
Chapter Five
Brooklyn couldn’t stop shaking. Each time she thought she had finally managed to pull herself together, the tremors would start again. First her hands, then her arms. It didn’t take long for the rest of her body to follow suit.
She still couldn’t believe she would never hear Charlie’s voice again. That she wouldn’t be able to bounce ideas off of her, hear her laugh, be forced to sit through one of her famously long-winded stories, or be the willing butt of her jokes. How could someone who was as filled with life as Charlie was be dead? She couldn’t wrap her head around it.
When a paramedic began to wheel a gurney past her, Brooklyn reached for the black body bag. She drew her shaking hand away before she could make contact. She didn’t want to remember Charlie that way. She wanted to remember her as she was. As she always would be. Smart. Funny. Alive.
“Are we almost done here?” she asked as the paramedic wheeled Charlie’s remains from the room. “I haven’t called her parents yet. They need to know what happened.”
The call would be the hardest she’d ever had to make. She had no idea how she would break the news to Charlie’s parents that their only child was dead. For some things, there were just no words.
Paul Barnett, the police detective who had been bombarding her with questions for the past few hours, flipped his small notebook closed and stashed it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
“That’s all the questions I have for now. My partner and I will be in touch if we need more information or have updates to provide.”
He gestured toward the man who had introduced himself as Duncan Theroux. Like Barnett, Theroux was portly, balding, and appeared to be in his mid-fifties. While Brooklyn answered Barnett’s questions, Theroux viewed the footage from the office security cameras. He had said he wanted to see if Charlie’s murder had been captured, but Brooklyn suspected he was also trying to verify her version of events.
She hoped the brutal act that had taken Charlie’s life was visible on the recording so the police could have all the evidence they needed to catch her killer. If it was, she didn’t plan on watching the footage. Finding Charlie had been bad enough. Seeing how she had gotten that way would be unbearable.
“We’ll also take care of notifying the deceased’s next of kin,” Barnett said. “I’m certain they’ll have questions, and we’ll definitely have a few for them as well. Perhaps they’ll be able to give us something to go on.”
Brooklyn was relieved he had volunteered to perform the odious chore of informing Charlie’s parents. She also felt guilty for not being able to provide any valuable information. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it.” The five o’clock stubble that had started to form bristled as Barnett ran a hand over his face. “You’re in shock right now.” He handed her a card with his name and contact information printed on it. “If you think of something that might be useful to the investigation, give me a call.”
“I will.”
“The crime techs will remain onsite for the rest of the night to gather evidence and take photographs. They should clear the scene sometime tomorrow.”
Brooklyn shuddered as she thought about working in the same room where a murder had taken place. She tightened her grip on the thin, scratchy blanket someone had draped across her shoulders. At first, she hadn’t noticed it was there. Now she didn’t want to let it go.
“I’ll contact my employees and tell them they can work remotely for the foreseeable future. I’ll also get in touch with a counselor in case anyone has trouble dealing with their grief.”
“That’s a good idea. In the meantime, is there someone we can call? Someone who can look after you?”
Until a killer’s bullet had brought her life to a premature end, Charlie had been the person Brooklyn called whenever she found herself in a jam. Her family had their own lives to lead and, unlike them, Charlie wasn’t eager to pass judgment on Brooklyn’s actual or perceived mistakes.
“No, I’ll be fine.”
Barnett’s professional demeanor softened, along with his voice. “You’ve experienced a substantial trauma. My partner and I can see you home, but you really shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Since her own was nonexistent at the moment, Brooklyn relied on Brooke’s confidence to help her get through the worst night of her life. “Thank you for your concern, Detective, but as I said, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. Just find whoever did this.”
“My colleagues and I will do our best to bring the perpetrator to justice. Are you sure Ms. Evans didn’t have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to cause her harm?”
It was a theme he had returned to time and time again during the course of his interview. Brooklyn shook her head, just as she’d done the previous times he’d asked various forms of the question.
“I can honestly say Charlie’s the only person I’ve ever known who is—who was universally liked by everyone she met. I’ve never heard anyone say a cross word about her.”
“In this day and age, that’s quite an accomplishment. I’m sorry for your loss. We’ll be in touch.”
“Wait,” she said when she saw one of the crime techs slide Charlie’s work computer into an evidence bag. “That laptop is company property. Both it and the information on it are proprietary.”
“We need to search Ms. Evans’s files and emails for possible clues to her killer’s identity,” Barnett said. “The laptop will be returned to you after the investigation is over.”
“How long do you think that will take?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. If we get lucky, we could wrap this up relatively quickly. If not, it could take a while. However it goes, you can rest assured that any info the forensics guys unearth that isn’t related to the case will be kept confidential.”
“Please do. Charlie backed up all her data in the cloud so I’ll still have access to it, but I wouldn’t want any of my competitors to get a sneak peek at some of the projects we’re working on.”
“Understood.”
After Barnett and Theroux left, Brooklyn headed to her office. She drafted an email to inform her employees of Charlie’s death and to give them the option of working from home, returning to the office, or taking some time off to deal with their emotions. The email was difficult to craft and even harder to send, but having a task to perform helped her focus. Helped her forget. There would be plenty of time for memories later. And when they came, she hoped she wouldn’t be swept away by the tide.
She sent the email, then waited for the shocked replies to filter in. She didn’t have to wait long. The response was almost immediate. The reactions mirrored her own: initial disbelief, followed by anger and depression. She, like they, would eventually cycle through all five stages of grief, but she didn’t expect the process to happen overnight. A loss like this would take months, if not years for her to accept.
She watched the crime scene techs take photographs, bag evidence, and analyze the scene. She heard them discussing entry angles and exit wounds, unable to believe something so surreal was taking place in what had once felt l
ike a place of refuge. She felt like she was watching an episode of a police procedural. She would give anything to be able to change the channel.
A commotion near the door caught her eye. A couple of uniformed officers were wrestling with someone. Brooklyn tensed, fearing it might be the killer. Had whoever shot Charlie come to make sure he had finished the job, or had he selected a new target?
She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end as she wondered if she would ever feel safe again. She relaxed a bit when she spotted the face of someone she recognized.
“You can let him in,” she said, approaching the officers. “I know him.”
Luke Ridley approached her with his arms outstretched. “Are you okay?” he asked, drawing her into a tight embrace. “I came as soon as I heard.”
“Bad news travels fast, I see.”
She turned her head to keep from getting makeup on his shirt as he pressed her head against his chest. She could feel the pec implants he had always denied having. He claimed the look was natural, but she had never seen him lift a weight heavier than a laptop. The surgical enhancement provided tangible evidence of both his vanity and his propensity to take shortcuts rather than put in the hard work required to accomplish a particularly challenging task.
Setting aside her issues with Luke’s personality, Brooklyn allowed herself to take comfort in his strength. They had known each other since they were undergrads at MIT and had been competing against each other ever since. For the highest grades, the hottest girls, and the most lucrative professional contracts. Both had claimed their fair share of victories in their friendly rivalry. She doubted she would be half the businesswoman she was without having him around to push her to greater heights.
Heart of a Killer Page 4
