Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Duncan shrugged and watched the bartender make the drinks, feeling his excitement levels rise. He’d done some research after following the customer home, and his suspicions had been correct. She needed to be punished. She was successful, popular, provocative, and a cheater. She also fit the profile: tall, lithe, and with red curls she kept in a high bun.

  She’d be his next target, but this one was going to be a bit different. And the moment the bartender gave the woman her drink, he’d be committed.

  “Here you go.” The bartender placed a glass on the bar in front of Duncan, took the fifty and left the change on a small plate in front of him.

  Duncan swallowed hard, nervous at the risk he was taking. He’d decided he wanted to get to know his latest target in person. In the past, he’d worked from afar, only revealing himself at the very end. But that had grown tiresome. The thrill had lessened each time, and he’d been unable to capture the same high. He needed more.

  As the bartender handed the woman the drink, Duncan smiled at her and then looked away. Revealing himself was a risk, but he was determined to try something new. The thought of it excited him, and he hoped it would mean his targets suffered more. He was willing to try anything to maximize their pain, to help them realize their crimes, to help soothe his own hurt.

  “Thanks for the drink.”

  Duncan turned his head, pleased by the interruption. The woman was standing next to him, one hand holding the drink and the other on her hip. This threw his plans to hell. He’d intended to buy her a drink and then approach her later. He hadn’t expected her to take the initiative. He stared for just a moment too long, his mouth slightly agape as his mind raced. Her actions confirmed she was a slut, a married woman approaching a man at a bar.

  “I’m Chelsea.” She persisted, flashing a smile that lit up her face. “I think the bartender told you my favorite.”

  Duncan almost told her that he knew her name already, but caught himself. He’d have to be very careful to control what he said. “He might have. I’m Dan.”

  “Dan.” She lifted the drink to her mouth and took a sip, then bit her lip seductively. “Why’re you buying me drinks, Dan?”

  Duncan forced a laugh, despite his dark mood. He wondered how fast she’d run if she knew the truth. “I like making a woman happy.”

  “Is that so?” She smirked, then made a show of looking him up and down. Then she placed a hand on his knee. “Well, I like being made happy.”

  Duncan looked down at her hand and clenched his teeth behind a tight, toothless smile. “Sounds like we’re in luck, then.”

  As she put her purse on the bar and sat on the stool next to him, a wave of relief washed over him. There had been every chance she’d reject him, as he’d been rejected before. That would’ve cost him the opportunity to learn more about her. He was both excited and angered by what was to come. He was about to learn about her life in exquisite detail.

  They got talking. He got to know more about her, and he fed her horse shit and lies. The drinks kept flowing, until she was struggling to sit upright on the stool. Duncan was drinking slowly, one drink for every two she consumed, and it was almost as if she was building up the courage for something. It didn’t matter. He was waiting for one very particular thing.

  “Excuse me for a moment. I just need to go to the bathroom.” She gave him a small smile and removed her hand from his leg. “Will you mind my purse?”

  Duncan nodded, and she stood and headed for the bathroom, glad he’d built up enough trust for her to leave the purse with him. When she was out of sight, he pulled out her cell phone and pulled a SIM reader from his pocket. Working quickly, he pulled the SIM card out of her phone and ripped the contacts, messages and information from the phone. He’d also be able to clone the SIM and see any new messages she received.

  As soon as it finished, he hid the SIM reader and placed the phone back in her purse.

  12

  Chris

  Chris swallowed hard then knocked on the door. When the call came to enter, he pushed the door open and went inside. The office was cavernous, at least by law enforcement standards. There was one man behind the desk and two women sitting on the other side of it. The only person he didn’t know, one of the women, gestured for him to sit.

  That same woman spoke the moment he was in his seat. “Thanks for coming in, Agent Horan. I’m Tanya Sagan, the independent facilitator for this disciplinary panel. You know Special Agent in Charge Nowitski and Captain Geary from the NYPD. Do you have any questions before we get started?”

  “Nope.” Chris’s voice was deadpan. “Let’s get it over with.”

  “You’re a piece of work, Horan.” Nowitski got straight to business. “I don’t think you appreciate the trouble you’re in. That manhunt you triggered made us look like a laughing stock.”

  Chris winced. He regretted that. Nowitski had sent him a fairly terse email prior to the meeting, so Chris knew what was coming, but he hadn’t expected Nowitski to be quite so blunt. The JTF officers had gently ribbed him about the manhunt for the last couple of days, Geary had already shouted about it, now the head of the FBI New York Field Office was joining in.

  Geary gave him a small smile. “You’ve been involved in an inordinate number of screw-ups lately, haven’t you?”

  Chris leaned forward to speak. “I—”

  Geary held up her hand. “I wasn’t finished. We scoured the city for a college kid. When we found him and spoke to the woman you suspected he’d murdered, we found out they’d just broken up. The kid didn’t have a knife, as you’d claimed, and was released without charge. Given you were off duty, I can see no basis for your chase or for the manhunt.”

  Chris almost knew the next line before Geary said it. He opened his mouth. “I know cooperation is very important to the work of this Joint Task Force.”

  Geary was slightly taken aback, but recovered well. “Correct. We asked the Bureau to join us as partners because we had a problem that’s in both our interests to solve. We didn’t invite the FBI and its agents on board to cause trouble, waste resources, spread panic, and freelance.”

  “With respect, I don’t believe I’m causing trouble.” Chris placed his palms flat on his knees as he spoke. “I believe many of the homicides we’ve been investigating and some that we claim to have solved are the work of a serial killer. He targets successful career women with partners and excellent prospects.”

  Nowitski groaned. “Agent Horan, you’re on thin ice.”

  “I’m well aware of that, sir.” Chris looked at each of them in turn. “Each of the victims shares that profile and each of them has red hair. Finally, each victim has every important element of her life attacked before she’s killed. The killer takes away the things that make the victim happy.”

  Chris crossed his arms and sat back, scanning their faces. He knew what the response was going to be, but he didn’t care. He was enraged by their inability to see the truth. The killer would keep offending and more women would die while they continued with their deliberate ignorance.

  “Agent Horan, I know you had a personal loss some years back, just after you joined the JTF. We supported you through that tragedy, and we all felt your loss…”

  Chris slowly inched down the hallway, listening hard for any sign of Tamara. He peered left into their bedroom – it was empty. Next up was their small bathroom. Empty, too. He frowned, quietly unbuckled the holster for his pistol, and tightened his hand around the grip of the weapon…

  “AGENT HORAN?”

  Chris blinked and stared at Geary. Her features had hardened and any hint of compassion had vanished. “Yes?”

  Geary sighed. “As I said, despite your loss clearly clouding your judgement, we’ve had enough of your theories. We’ve heard them a hundred times and nothing has changed.”

  Chris’s face twisted. He resented the implication that Tamara’s death was clouding his judgement, that it was being used to discredit him. “I—”

  “No.�
� Geary held up a hand. “Let me be clear. There’s no serial murderer. The cases aren’t linked in any way. Any further claims of either will mean an end to your time on the JTF.”

  Nowitski smiled a predatory smile. “And Agent Horan, while the fine people at the NYPD may not have their hand on the leash around your neck, I sure as hell do. Let me be even clearer than Captain Geary. Any further attempt to paint these murders as a serial case will result in your termination from the FBI.”

  Chris opened his mouth to speak, but when Geary raised an eyebrow he kept quiet. He looked at Tanya Sagan, the supposedly independent mediator, but her face was blank. The meeting was clearly over. Chris stood and didn’t look back as he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  He returned to his desk, collapsed into the chair, and tried to remain calm. He was used to being disciplined, but not to having his hands tied on an investigation or his job being threatened. And he definitely wasn’t used to a personal tragedy being used to bludgeon him into submission. He placed his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

  “Coffee, Chris?”

  Chris looked up. Manny was standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in his hand and a worried look on his face. Chris nodded. As he reached for his own cup, a battered old FBI mug he’d had for years, he considered the logo. He used to believe in the work he did, but now he wondered if his obsession was compatible with that belief, given the views of his superiors.

  There was a serial killer on the loose and nobody was doing a damn thing about it.

  “Chris, come on man.” Manny spoke again. “I testified at the Laverri trial yesterday. I think the bastard is going to walk. I need a coffee.”

  “Sorry.” Chris spoke in barely more than a mumble. He clenched his hand around the mug, considered the logo, and put it back down.

  He’d get a takeaway cup today.

  13

  Ashley

  Ashley slammed the hotel room door shut behind her. The loud bang was music to a soul shouting at her to destroy something. Instead, she walked the five steps to the tiny kitchenette of the shittiest hotel room she’d ever stayed in and put the brown paper bag down on the counter.

  A sob escaped her body and tears streaked down her face. She’d held it together just long enough to answer the door and grab the booze from one of the US Marshals watching over her. She’d smiled at him when she’d asked for a bottle of gin, then again when she’d grabbed it off him, but now she was alone again she’d reverted to the state she’d been in for days now.

  A broken woman.

  After her testimony, she’d walked out of the courtroom like a zombie. The media had shouted nasty and visceral questions, but she’d stayed mute as she was bundled into the SUV by the US Marshals. The Marshals had been nice to her, but she’d sensed their disappointment that Laverri was likely to walk free.

  The Marshals had explained that Obrist had arranged for her to stay there for a few weeks, while measures were put in place to either extend or end her time in witness protection. Ashley had been given the chance to dispute that plan, but she’d simply nodded. Now she was a prisoner in the hotel room, with a man on the door and another in the lobby.

  At least she had the booze.

  She wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve and then opened the bar fridge. She took a few cubes of ice from the small freezer section and dropped them into a wine glass, which were the only kind in the room. She poured the gin, took the glass and walked to the bathroom. As she filled a bath, she took a gulp of gin. The liquor burned her throat, but it helped calm her down a little.

  As the bath filled, she pulled her cellphone out of her pocket and dialed the only man who might be able to help her. “Simon?”

  “Ashley?” Weltering’s voice was a mix of confusion and concern. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I just needed to talk. There’s nobody else.” She sat on the edge of the bath, took a long pull of gin and let out a long sigh. “It’s all fucked. The trial.”

  “I’m sorry, Ashley.” Weltering sounded like he meant it. “A setback was always possible. You did your best and it’s over now. You can move on.”

  “I just didn’t think I’d crumble on the stand. I looked like a fool. I froze, I stammered, I answered questions wrong, I probably let Laverri off the hook.” She took another sip. “What do I do now, Simon? I just don’t see where I go from here. I’ve got nothing and no one, and no reason to keep on waking up.”

  “We can talk about it, Ashley, but not over the phone.” Weltering paused, and Ashley heard a female voice in the background. She sounded angry. “Make an appointment with me for next week and we’ll sort out some strategies. Until then, I’d strongly suggest you stay away from your ex-husband, your daughter, and alcohol.”

  “Too late.” Ashley terminated the call and tossed the phone onto the tiles. She wasn’t interested in an appointment.

  She just wanted the hell to end.

  She took another gulp of gin and then placed the glass on the tiles next to the bath. She undressed, turned the water off and climbed inside. She savored the scalding heat, hoping it might help to cauterize her emotional wounds. But as she lay there, she found it impossible to think about anything except her time in court.

  Laverri would walk free and all her sacrifices would’ve been for nothing. She’d lived in anonymity, lost her daughter and made herself a target for nothing. After rebuilding her life following an attack in her early 20s, it had been destroyed again by her own stupidity. She should have kept her mouth shut, but instead she’d let herself be conned into testifying.

  “Do the right thing.” She scoffed as she imitated the cops and lawyers who’d convinced her to testify. “Look what doing the right thing got me?”

  She sobbed again as she reached for the gin, disgusted by how dependent she’d become on the police, the justice system, her counselor, and her ex-husband. She’d been used by some and abused by others. Even those who’d claimed to want to help her had failed to do so, and the result was a whole lot of pain and not a lot of hope.

  The wine glass started to shake in her hand and she slammed it as hard as she could into the side of the bath. The glass shattered into a dozen pieces, some landing in the bath and some landing on the floor. Ashley didn’t flinch as broken glass fell over her, the jagged stem of the wine glass still in her hand.

  The glass stem glimmered in the light as she rotated it in her hand. She swapped it from her right hand to her left and then back again. Settling on her right, she pressed the sharp tip against her left wrist. Gently, at first, then with more pressure. A trickle of blood mixed with the water, but she didn’t stop.

  She didn’t want to.

  14

  Duncan

  All this drinking was a bit much for Duncan. Since he’d met Chelsea in the bar, they’d had several large nights on the booze together. Her husband – the nice customer from the liquor store – hadn’t been there for any of them, proving to Duncan that he’d been correct in selecting her as his next target. She was an awful woman – a flirt, a cheat, and a slut. Nearly as bad was her inane conversation. He almost wanted to kill her now, just to get some peace.

  “The strangest thing happened the other day.” Chelsea waved her wine glass around like it was a prop to accompany her story. “I lost my keys!”

  “Oh no!” One of Chelsea’s friends, Joanne, gave an exaggerated gasp. “What’d you do?”

  “I had to get my super to replace them, because hubby is out of town.” Chelsea took a sip of her wine. “Two hundred bucks for a key! Can you believe it?”

  Duncan could, actually. “Outrageous.”

  “I know! That’s less than I’d charge for a night in bed!” Chelsea burst into laughter and her three friends did the same.

  Duncan didn’t. Not immediately. It took him a moment to process that what she’d said was a joke, rather than a statement of fact from a willing whore. When he did realize, he overcompensated with a loud guffaw that was a second or t
wo late. The others stopped laughing and stared at him quizzically. He needed to pay more attention.

  He’d been distracted by her three female friends. They’d joined them for drinks at Chelsea’s place, but once again her husband was absent. She really was a horrible wife, entertaining people – including a man – without her husband. The more he learned about her, the more disgusted he was. She was far worse than he’d expected. She needed to be dealt with.

  But first, he had to prune her friends from her life. They’d tried to engage him in conversation, trying to figure out who he was, but he’d ignored them and been downright rude. Now it was time to parlay that ill feeling they had toward him into hostility toward her. This would be the most challenging attempt he’d ever made to carve away an element of someone’s life.

  Usually, he relied on scandal, but now he was relying on his own personality.

  “I wonder if your husband has the key?” Duncan laughed. “Hopefully he doesn’t come home and use it tonight, just when we’re starting to have some fun!”

  Chelsea’s eyes narrowed, but a fake smile soon lit up her face. She feigned a laugh. “Does anyone need a drink? I’m running on empty.”

  Before anyone could answer, she retreated to the kitchen, where three empty bottles of wine would soon be joined by a fourth. Duncan watched her go, a smile on his face, then turned back to her friends. They were glaring daggers at him, clearly more interested in protecting their friend than questioning her conduct. It was typical that a woman like Chelsea would surround herself with a pack of snakes.

  “Look, I don’t know who the fuck you are or whatever voodoo magic you’re using to get your claws into Chelsea, but it needs to stop.” One of the vipers, Joanne, struck first. “Everyone likes a little bit of fun, but you’re way too noisy about it. You need to be more discreet or you’ll ruin it for all of us.”