Heart of a Killer

by Yolanda Wallace

  Luke Ridley’s post was a prime example of the latter model. He had shared a photograph of him and Evans downing flaming shots of something alcoholic in a crowded bar. The post accompanying the photograph was twenty sentences long, and he referenced himself in more than half of them.

  “Classic narcissist.”

  His post said he hadn’t attended Evans’s funeral because he wanted to remember how she lived, not how she died. Santana was sure Brooklyn felt the same way, but she had found the courage to show up to support her best friend’s family in their time of greatest need. If Luke was as close to Evans as his post claimed, he should have been able to do the same.

  Santana navigated to Luke’s page on the same website so she could take a look at the posts made available for public consumption. Most were business-related. The most recent teased that his company would be making a major announcement in the near future and urged his followers to keep watching his page for further developments. A blog post on the company’s website said pretty much the same thing, but neither the social media page nor the official web page divulged any further details. Like everyone else, Santana would have to keep hitting the Refresh button. Unwilling to give Luke the web traffic he so obviously craved, she decided to monitor the coverage on several reputable business magazines’ digital outlets instead.

  She scrolled through the list of products Luke’s company offered. Some seemed just this side of legal, which made her wonder if his organization had ever popped up on Winslow’s radar. Not likely. If he had, Winslow would have already added it to the long list of legitimate and shell companies he used to manage his assets.

  Her laptop chimed during the horror film’s not-so-dramatic showdown between the hero and the titular villain. She turned off the TV when the message she had received proved to be far more interesting than the action on the screen.

  “Freedom isn’t free,” the message read. “Completing this task will allow you to purchase yours.”

  She read the words twice to make sure she hadn’t imagined them. The assignment was a lucrative one. Its exorbitant price tag matched the level of danger involved. The target was a former warlord who was one of the world’s most wanted men.

  Jusuf Mladić had commanded the Bosnian Serb army during the war that had decimated Eastern Europe in the early- to mid-nineties. He had been found guilty of war crimes, genocide, and crimes against humanity by the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, but he had managed to escape justice. Now someone was willing to pay one hundred million dollars to ensure justice was finally served.

  Santana scanned the file attached to the email. Mladić had been tracked to Iceland, where he was living with a surgically altered face and an assumed name—Josef Magnusson. Like most criminals who used aliases, he had chosen to retain his actual initials. His heavily fortified compound was guarded by a cadre of his former soldiers, whose salaries were paid, no doubt, from the vast amount of cash he had hoarded while he was in power.

  The job would be easier to pull off if she had a team surrounding her, but it would take time to find the right people, test their skills, and develop the necessary amount of trust they would need to operate as a cohesive unit. She had always preferred to work alone. It was easier keeping track of all the pieces on the board when she was the only one playing the game, and she didn’t like the thought of working with an accomplice who might be willing to turn on her in order to save their own hide.

  She drummed her fingers on the sofa as she tried to decide what to do. The job was so dangerous that taking it on could be akin to embarking on a suicide mission. But what choice did she have?

  “If you defy me again,” Winslow had said after she refused to kill Charlotte Evans, “I won’t have someone put a bullet in your mother’s head. I will have them put one in yours.”

  She couldn’t turn down the assignment and expect to walk away unscathed. If she chose to ignore it, Winslow would most likely enact the insurance policy he had employed during the Evans hit. Only this time it would be used on her instead of the intended victim.

  She pressed the Confirm button and drained the rest of her drink, knowing that, one way or another, her next job would be her last.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brooklyn couldn’t believe the nightmare she had been reliving for the past week might be coming to an end. Despite her fears, Detective Barnett had been receptive to the information she had provided him. He had promised to follow through on her hunch to see where it might lead. If her tip panned out, the district attorney’s office might be able to charge Eve Thao with conspiracy to commit murder.

  “If the charges stick and Thao refuses to talk,” he had said, “we might not know who actually pulled the trigger, but at least we’d be able to say who put the gun in his hands.”

  “If you need me to testify, please let me know. I don’t know how much help I can be, but I’m willing to do what I can.”

  “Thank you, Ms. DiVincenzo. I’ll be in touch.”

  From the beginning, Brooklyn had been more concerned with why Charlie was killed rather than who had committed the crime. Hopeful that Charlie’s death was about to be avenged, she took the subway to Jersey City to visit Charlie’s grave.

  The site looked much different than it had the last time she had seen it. The headstone Charlie’s parents ordered had been put in place, and seedlings of grass had started to sprout on the freshly tilled earth.

  “I didn’t bring flowers because I know they weren’t your thing.” She placed a bag of candy on the headstone. “Have some Twizzlers instead. I know they were your favorite.”

  She stood at the foot of Charlie’s grave and tried to put her feelings into words.

  “I have so much to tell you, I don’t know where to start.”

  A residual shard of grief pierced her heart, bringing tears to her eyes.

  “It’s almost over,” she said, drawing in a shaky breath. “I told the police about the project you were working on. Thanks to you, they think they know who did this to you. She’s going to pay for her crimes. The ones she’s already charged with as well as the one she committed against you. I am so mad at you for playing amateur detective, but I am so proud of you for having the courage to do the right thing. I would say you’re a rock star, but I don’t want your ego to get any bigger than it is already.”

  She laughed despite her tears.

  “Do you remember the woman I told you about? The one I met in Tokyo? I ran into her again here in New York. It took some work, but I finally managed to find out who she really is. Her name’s Vilma Bautista. She’s a venture capitalist from Manila, and she has a place near Central Park that would look right at home splashed across the pages of Architectural Digest. I wish you’d had a chance to meet her. I think you’d like her. She seems super serious, but she has a sly sense of humor. Beneath the stern façade, there’s a sense of vulnerability about her.”

  Brooklyn remembered when Vilma had talked about her fractured family. When her carefully chosen words had belied the pain in her eyes.

  “In a lot of ways, she reminds me of you. She’s not nearly as fond of hearing her own voice as you were, but she doesn’t pull any punches and, when she does speak, she’s not afraid to say exactly what’s on her mind. Like you, she can’t cook for shit. Unlike you, she at least managed to give it a try. I only wish I hadn’t fallen asleep before she was done. I felt like such an idiot when I woke up on her couch the next day. I thought I’d blown it right then and there. Instead, she acted like it was no big deal. Then she took me to that indoor skydiving place in Yonkers we were always talking about. It was even more fun than I had imagined. You’re not the only one who has wings. It’s time for me to give mine a try.”

  She closed her eyes and spread her arms, remembering the dips and dives she had taken while she was in the wind tunnel. Then she opened her eyes and let her arms fall to her sides.

  “She’s taking me out again this weekend. The dress code’s black tie, bu
t she won’t tell me where we’re going. Yeah, she’s kinda big on mystery. If this goes anywhere, I suppose I’ll have to start getting used to that. And if it doesn’t, well, it’s already been a hell of a ride.”

  A strong breeze kicked up. Brooklyn shoved her hands in her coat pockets to ward off the chill.

  “You’re the first person I’ve told about her. I haven’t said anything to my family yet. I tell myself it’s because I’m enjoying keeping her to myself for a while, but in the back of my mind, I keep thinking I’m going to wake up tomorrow and realize this was all a dream. That she’s not really here, and you’re not really gone. I’m old enough to know that plot twists like that don’t happen in real life, but I’m still young enough to hope they might.”

  She adjusted her purse strap to keep it from sliding off her shoulder.

  “I almost forgot my other bit of news. AJ kicked ass during the team meeting today. Congratulations on turning her into a miniature version of you. Watching her take point today was almost like watching you. The next time I come, I’ll tell you all about it. You did a great job molding her. I promise I won’t let her talent go to waste.” She pressed her fingers to her lips, then placed her hand on Charlie’s headstone. “I love you, buddy. Rest easy.”

  She walked away. Curiosity led her toward one of the other headstones rather than toward the exit.

  She approached the grave that had caught her attention during Charlie’s internment service. The one that was being so lovingly tended by the mysterious figure in a black overcoat.

  According to the headstone, the grave belonged to Melanie Pierce. The cheeky epitaph engraved on the stone brought a smile to her face. So did the flowers resting at the foot of the grave. The potted lavender looked so fresh it could have been placed there that morning rather than several days before.

  Brooklyn dropped to one knee, cupped a blossom in her hands, and inhaled the heady scent. She wondered which florist had been responsible for providing such a beautiful specimen, but there was nothing to identify the vendor because the plant had been removed from its original container and placed directly in the ground so it could continue to prosper rather than wither and die like the cut flowers that dotted other graves.

  She didn’t know why she felt such an affinity for a complete stranger’s final resting place. Was it because Melanie and Charlie appeared to have shared the same off-kilter sense of humor? Though their paths hadn’t crossed in life, fate had managed to bring them together in death.

  She had never been a big believer in fate, but she was starting to become a convert. Fate had drawn her and Vilma together. Perhaps their meeting hadn’t been a happy accident. Perhaps it was something that was meant to be.

  She pushed herself to her feet. As she rode the subway home, she wondered what else fate had in store.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Santana had been given access to the finer things in life for so long she had forgotten how much joy they could bring. She remembered how excited she had been the first time she had flown in an airplane, slipped into a designer suit, or eaten a decadent meal. Such things were so commonplace for her now she had started taking them for granted. The look on Brooklyn’s face when she picked her up on Saturday night made her feel like she was experiencing those luxuries for the first time. In a way, she was. Because she was experiencing them with Brooklyn.

  “You look amazing,” she said as their driver ferried them through traffic.

  “So you’ve said.”

  “I thought it bore repeating.”

  Brooklyn was wearing an off-the-shoulder black evening gown that hugged her body in all the right places. Her hair was worn up and away from her face, drawing Santana’s attention to the exposed expanse of skin from her neck to her cleavage. The taffeta material was cool to the touch, providing a stark contrast to the heat Santana could feel building inside her.

  “You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Brooklyn said. “I checked the social calendar. There are no gala events, charitable or otherwise, scheduled for tonight, and if you were planning to take me to the opera or the ballet, we’re headed in the wrong direction.”

  Santana reached across the leather seat and gave Brooklyn’s hand a squeeze. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  Brooklyn returned the pressure. “I’m told persistence is one of my strong suits.”

  “Stubbornness is one of mine, so I think you might have met your match.”

  “So do I.”

  Santana had meant her comment in jest, but Brooklyn’s reply was decidedly serious. The earnest tone of her voice made Santana’s stomach do a funny little flip. She had never experienced anything like it. She felt butterflies every time a woman she was interested in made it clear the feeling was mutual, but that sensation was nothing like this. She wasn’t prepared for the intensity, the unexpected depth of emotion.

  Even in the darkened confines of the limousine’s back seat, Brooklyn’s face glowed with excitement. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking for clues each time the driver tapped the car’s brakes or made a turn.

  “Here we are,” Santana said when the driver finally came to a stop at the NYC Manhattan Downtown Heliport.

  Brooklyn peered out the tinted windows. “Do you bring all your dates to the East River?”

  “Only the special ones. It’s not the most romantic choice of venue, but it has its merits.” She tried not to smile when Brooklyn’s face fell. “Follow me and let me know if you agree.”

  She took Brooklyn’s hand and led her toward the helipad a few feet away. A uniformed woman strode toward them.

  “I’m Captain Sandra Wyatt,” the woman said. “I’ll be your pilot this evening. Our trip should last around thirty minutes. Our flight path will allow us to have perfect aerial views of the Manhattan skyline, the Empire State Building, and the Brooklyn Bridge. After we circle the Statue of Liberty, I’ll bring you back here so you can enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Santana said.

  “Thank you for choosing Big Apple Helicopter Tours. Welcome aboard. Your headsets will protect your ears and allow us to communicate while we’re in the air. Please fasten your seat belts. After my copilot and I complete our instrument check, we can take off.”

  After they settled into their seats, Brooklyn turned to Santana, her eyes wide. “You did all this for me?”

  Santana repositioned the microphone on Brooklyn’s headset so she could get a clearer view of Brooklyn’s luscious lips. “Few people take the time to act as tourists in their hometown. Even though you grew up in New York, I doubt you’ve ever seen it like this.”

  The helicopter rose into the air and banked over the water. Below them, the lights of New York City twinkled. The landmarks Captain Wyatt had mentioned seemed to pass right outside their windows. Brooklyn gasped when the Statue of Liberty came into view.

  Captain Wyatt flew so close to the colossal statue Santana could practically count the hairs on the great lady’s head. She had never seen anything so beautiful. Not the landmark that had stood sentinel in New York Harbor for almost two hundred years. The look on Brooklyn’s face as she was treated to a bird’s-eye view of it.

  “When I was in middle school,” Brooklyn said in a voice filled with awe, “my classmates and I took a field trip to Liberty Island. I remember boarding the ferry, sailing across the Hudson River, and waiting in line to climb up to the crown. There are three hundred fifty-four steps inside, the equivalent of twenty stories. When I finally got to the top, I felt like I couldn’t get any higher. Now I know better.”

  Santana felt the same way. Each day she spent with Brooklyn felt like it couldn’t be improved upon. Then the next one came along and proved her wrong.

  She turned to look out the window as Captain Wyatt began the return trip to the heliport. The trip had seemed to end in the blink of an eye. She wanted more time with Brooklyn, not less.

  After they landed at the heliport, she thanked Captain Wyatt and her
copilot for the problem-free flight.

  “Do you plan to keep one-upping yourself?” Brooklyn asked. “Are each of our dates going to be more extravagant than the last?”

  Santana didn’t respond as she helped Brooklyn into the car.

  “Where to next?” the chauffeur asked.

  “Change of plans.”

  Santana gave him an address that was a world away from the Michelin-starred restaurant at which she had made reservations for the evening.

  She was enjoying showing Brooklyn some of the things money could buy, but perhaps it was time for her to share something priceless: herself.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The chauffeur drove Brooklyn and Vilma to Woodside, Queens, an area of the city Brooklyn had never visited before. The vibe—bustling narrow streets lined with dozens of small restaurants and mom-and-pop shops—reminded her of Chinatown but with a fraction of the tourists.

  “Where are we?” she asked after Vilma told the driver he was free to go.

  “Little Manila. More than half of New York City’s Filipino population lives here. I like to visit whenever I start feeling homesick. I brought you here because I wanted to show you where I grew up. Even though this isn’t the exact location, it’s a close approximation.”

  Brooklyn placed her hand in the crook of Vilma’s elbow as she took a look at her surroundings. The small working-class neighborhood Vilma had brought her to bore faint resemblance to the ritzy Central Park enclave she called home.

  Brooklyn took in the bustling markets, small storefronts, and even smaller restaurants. Some places featured seating on the sidewalk rather than inside.

  Vilma led her to a restaurant on Roosevelt Avenue. “Brgy?” she said, reading the name on the marquee.

  “It’s short for barangay, the native term for a village, suburb, or neighborhood. A way of letting everyone know where you’re from. Your barangay is Queens, for example, and mine is Payatas.”