by Dan Ames
Mack detected a trace of sarcasm, and maybe envy.
“Why don’t I meet you at Nora’s house?” Mack said, indicating he wanted to be present when Nora was questioned.
“Sounds good,” Seever said.
They shook hands and Mack walked to his car.
The fact was, he hadn’t seen Doug in years. He highly doubted the man he’d known was capable of murder. Then again, Mack had seen it all and knew that human beings were capable of anything.
Even the ones you thought you knew very well.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Palm Beach County was no stranger to homicides. Even a cop or two was gunned down every year in the area that included West Palm Beach, a gritty area where most of the gun violence occurred.
Palm Beach proper, however, rarely saw murders.
So when the body of Sheila Conroe was discovered the morning after one of the community’s biggest social events of the year, it was big news.
Her body was discovered by the cleaning staff when they opened the door to the mansion’s enormous library. Screams were heard. The police were called. Crime scene technicians hauled the body away.
The autopsy was given top priority, mainly because of the politically connected owner of the mansion, who wished to have the matter resolved immediately. Results of the autopsy were uploaded into the computer database immediately.
And not just the local Palm Beach network.
The findings were sent to the national violent crime database and the coroner’s report stated the weapon used to nearly cut Sheila Conroe’s head completely off must have been very, very sharp.
Maybe even a weapon of surgical quality.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The situation was noticeably different with Brielle Lozen. She had been an introvert with nearly no social life whatsoever. Neighbors would later describe her as a person of curiosity, who nearly always wore a pair of headphones and seemed very absorbed in whatever she listened to.
Her body wasn’t discovered for nearly two days.
Her employer called the emergency number Brielle had put on her orientation forms. A mother, it turned out. The mother, who lived nearly four hours away, in Orlando.
Mrs. Lozen only visited her daughter occasionally as they had a troubled past and each had moved on with their lives. She considered their meetings to be cordial. The fact was, she had always been slightly intimidated by her daughter’s intellect. And maybe at times, been alarmed by it.
She also felt that her daughter sometimes condescended to her, realizing that most of the brainpower had come from her father, who’d left the picture when Brielle was quite young.
Still, a mother knows a daughter. Brielle was very connected technologically. When her mother did send a text or make a phone call, her daughter always answered immediately.
Not showing up for work, not answering her phone. These were huge red flags for Mrs. Lozen. Maybe other parents wouldn’t be alarmed, but she knew her daughter. And the situation was not good.
The drive from Orlando to Delray Beach, a suburb of Miami about forty-five minutes to the north, took her a little over three hours. She was not a fast driver, and preferred to plod along in the slow lane while all of the speed demons passed her on the left.
Mrs. Lozen arrived at Brielle’s apartment and used the key her daughter had sent her in case of an emergency.
After calling out Brielle’s name, Mrs. Lozen eventually discovered the butchered body of her daughter on the balcony, in a chaise lounge, her head almost completely severed from her neck.
Oddly enough, her headphones were still attached.
Later, she couldn’t really remember how she reacted. But Brielle’s neighbors made statements to the police that the woman had emerged into the apartment building’s hallway screaming and hysterical. The cops were summoned and Mrs. Lozen was medicated.
On Brielle’s cell phone they discovered the audiobook file for Manhandled by the Millionaire.
Brielle’s body was taken to the county morgue.
Because Delray Beach was a part of Palm Beach County, Brielle’s corpse was placed right next to the body of another young woman.
Sheila Conroe.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“This is crazy,” Nora said. “My husband is the victim, not the other way around.”
They were all sitting in Nora’s living room. Mack, Nora, Seever, and Seever’s partner, a Hispanic woman named Santos. The detectives wore similar outfits; dress slacks and sport coats. But they were a nod to south Florida in that they were very lightweight. Not quite Miami Vice, but not too far from it, either.
Nora looked at Mack for help, who in turn, looked at Seever. Santo’s face remained blank.
“They’re just doing their due diligence,” Mack finally explained. He’d already been over this with her, had forewarned her what to expect, but no matter how well prepared you were, being questioned by the police was always somewhat unnerving.
“That’s right, Mrs. Brooks,” Seever said, stroking his porn moustache. “We have no reason to believe your husband is anything more than another victim. But like I said, right now all we have are questions and no answers.”
Seever and Santos were sitting side-by-side on the couch. Mack and Nora were in separate chairs.
Santos had taken the lead and basically gone over everything Mack had already told Seever. They were just looking for discrepancies but they hadn’t found any.
“How long have you two known each other?” Santos asked, her voice with a bright tone that Mack instantly knew was bullshit. She’d tried to make it sound like the question someone might ask at a party. But this was a murder investigation, plain and simple.
All options were on the table.
“As I mentioned to your partner,” Mack said evenly. “Myself, Nora and Doug all went to college together. We went our separate ways and I actually hadn’t spoken to Nora or Doug in several years. But when Doug disappeared, Nora called me because she knows about my background, obviously.”
Seever took notes, partly Mack figured, to avoid eye contact.
“The night of Doug’s disappearance, where were you?” Santos asked Mack.
“At home in Estero. With my sister and her nurse.”
“You mentioned your background,” Santos continued. “Quite impressive resume you have. Any insights on what’s happened here so far? Sort of a free professional courtesy?”
“Not enough information right now to form theories,” Mack said. “The big question is whether Doug’s disappearance has anything to do with the body in the morgue.”
“What’s your best guess?”
“Probably not,” Mack said “But like I said, you never know. It’s always best to let the techies do their work. Hard facts first, theories second.”
“Good note to end on,” Seever said with a sigh. Santos hesitated, and Mack figured she wasn’t done. But Seever had already decided it was a dead end.
Santos grudgingly got to her feet.
“Are you staying here?” she asked. “Or going back to Estero?”
“I’ll be going back today, unless something comes up,” he said.
“Well, we know where to find you,” she said.
Nora showed the detectives to the door and when they were finally gone, she shut the door forcefully.
“God, I’m glad that’s over with,” she said.
Nora put her hand on Mack’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” she said. “Jesus, you’ve got your nice quiet life and then I go and stir all this up.”
Mack suddenly wanted to take her into his arms but he didn’t. Instead, he smiled.
“Actually, I consider this a pleasant intrusion,” he said.
They stood together in silence.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Much had been written about the politics within the Bureau, and quite a lot of it was true. There was political infighting. Office politics. Territorial confrontation
s. Subterfuge.
However, there was also a shared purpose that a lot of stories about the FBI failed to include.
Most companies were about selling a widget or a service. Making money, pure and simple. The Bureau was about much more than that and despite its well-deserved reputation as having many of the same pitfalls as corporate America, it was very different in one way.
Most of the people working at the FBI were there to make a difference. To do something good. To combat evil.
Yes, people often got sidetracked in the pursuit of a career.
But Mack had found there were many people like him.
And he had stayed in touch.
So after he left Nora Brooks alone in her house to ponder being questioned by the local cops and to wonder where in the hell her husband was, Mack put in a call to one of his old colleagues.
His name was Joe Decker, an analyst as opposed to a field agent. The FBI had changed over the years and while most lay people thought only the CIA had analysts, the FBI had them as well. Just not as many, and not as well-known.
Decker was old school and had an almost encyclopedic knowledge that had always fascinated Mack. They had gone out for beers on many occasions and Mack had purposely asked obscure questions of Decker, only to have them answered quickly and thoroughly.
He picked up Mack’s call on the second ring.
“I hope you’re calling from your boat and you’re stranded and need me to come down and bail you out.”
“I wish I was on my boat, Joe,” Mack said. Decker was a fisherman as well, and had even been down to Estero a couple of times.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I’m driving home from some business on the other side of the state,” Mack said.
“Something you need my help with?” Decker asked. He must have caught the tone in Mack’s voice.
“Yeah, an old friend of mine, Doug Brooks, has gone missing. I went to school with him and his wife. Supposedly, he was stabbed, went to the hospital, and then took off. To make matters more strange, the Boca Raton PD just had a similar stabbing case, except that turned out to be a homicide.”
“I see,” Decker answered. Mack could already hear him clacking away at the keyboard.
“If there’s any way you can do a quick search for me in the system on Doug and any other recent violent crimes in that area, I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem, give me the vitals.”
Mack gave him Doug’s full name and birthdate, current address, and Nora’s information as well.
When they finished, Decker said, “Look, I think if my information helps you out, I deserve a long weekend with you as my fishing guide. Cold beer included.”
“As long as it’s not that awful Coors Light,” Mack said.
“Are you kidding me? It’s from the mountains. Very fresh.”
Mack laughed and they disconnected.
He was on his way home through Alligator Alley.
A lone highway almost completely devoid of other cars, through the biggest swamp he’d ever seen.
He felt his body relax, and his mind ease from the tension.
It was just what he needed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The old man wasn’t dead, but all he needed was a nudge.
It had started with the clothes. The intruder had forced the old man to take off all his clothes, prodded by the pointed end of an extremely sharp knife. It was a small instrument, and the old man recognized it for what it was.
A scalpel.
On one level, the old man was terrified. On the other hand, he had spent a lifetime studying the mind. Psychology. Parapsychology. Neurologic disorders. Behavior modification.
A part of him, the part that wasn’t terrified, wondered what the intruder planned.
So far, it had been a series of slashes with the knife.
Two across each arm, one long slash on each thigh, and puncture wounds, shallow, into the stomach.
Flick, went the knife. A cut along the old man’s face.
As the blood trickled down along his jaw and dripped onto his chest, he studied his assailant.
Male.
Around thirty years old.
White.
And batshit crazy.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” the younger man said.
“Not looking,” the old man gasped. “Studying.”
He watched the younger man’s face flush with fury. He lunged forward, stabbing the man in the upper arm. His deepest cut yet.
The old man shouted and tried to cover the wound, but the blood gushed between his fingers.
“You’ve done enough of that already, Gerald,” the intruder sneered at him. He practically spit the name at the older man. “Gerald Phillips. Pathetic old man.”
“I am,” Phillips said. “Pathetic. Old. Helpless. This does you no good.”
“Oh, I think it does,” the intruder said. “It does me a tremendous amount of good. As well as the world at large.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your work,” the intruder said. “I’m ending its legacy and I’m enjoying it immensely.”
Phillips suddenly looked closer at the intruder. Realization passed across his face.
“Oliver. That’s your name, isn’t it? Oliver.”
Another wave of fury lit up the younger man’s face. He leapt on top of the naked old man, and slashed his body. Back-and-forth. Up-and-down, until they were both covered in blood.
“Why?” the old man gasped with his final dying breath.
“Why don’t you study on it some more?” Oliver said.
And then he plunged the knife directly into the old man’s heart.
BELIEF
Chapter Thirty
Mack made it back to Estero in time to relieve Adelia so she didn’t have to spend another night at the house.
Whenever he was gone for anything longer than a day, Janice usually had a tougher time remembering who he might be, and her comfort level took longer to establish. This had been a short trip so it wasn’t that bad.
They relaxed together, watched a musical that Mack had never seen before and wished he hadn’t. It was boring as heck. Something about a fire station and all the firemen seemed to want to do was dance.
God help the town if an actual fire ever broke out.
In the morning, Adelia was back and right on cue, his cell phone rang.
“That was weird,” the voice on the other end of the line said. It was Joe Decker, Mack’s buddy at the FBI.
“What’s weird?” Mack answered.
“You call, and pretty much less than twenty-four hours later two cases pop up exactly as you described.”
Mack went to his office, sat down, grabbed a pen and paper.
“Shoot,” he said.
“Well, you’ve got your first victim in Boca Raton,” Decker said. “His name was Brad Golding. Sliced up, almost surgically, before he got run over by a train.”
Mack had been waiting for identification of the body. He noted with a small amount of amusement that Seever hadn’t made him aware of the information. Nothing new there. Cops were territorial, it came with the job.
“Sheila Conroe of Palm Beach,” Decker continued. “Murdered during a fancy party. Mutilated. Expertly.”
Mack wrote the name down.
“Brielle Lozen of Delray Beach, Florida. Murdered on her balcony. Cut to shreds, but nice, neat shreds.”
“Jesus,” Mack said.
“What the hell is going on down there?” Decker asked. “I know Florida has a reputation for being the Wild West, but come on, man.”
“And that’s not even factoring Doug Brooks into the equation.”
“I’m going to send you all of this as it’s not classified,” Decker said. “There’s a lot of background information on each victim. All if it public information so I wasn’t violating any regulations, in case anyone’s listening.”
It was an old joke at the Bureau.
<
br /> Assume every conversation is recorded.
“Maybe I just wanted you to take a look at it briefly, as a consultant,” Decker said, testing out an explanation if anyone asked.
“Okay, thanks Joe.”
Decker sighed. “You know it’s only a matter of time before the Bureau is called in. In fact, I really should forward this information up the line of command. But I can give you some time if you need it.”
It was a generous offer. Any breach of reporting protocol was a big deal at the Bureau.
Mack decided not to take Decker up on the proposition, though.
“Appreciate the offer, but not needed,” Mack said. “Go ahead and send away. It looks like I’ll be making another trip to the other side.”
“Sounds ominous,” Decker said.
Chapter Thirty-One
With Adelia back, Mack hit the road. The drive was a breeze, and he was back in Boca Raton before he knew it.
His first stop was at Nora’s.
He had called ahead, asking if she had a computer with a printer and a good Internet connection.
She did.
When Mack arrived at the house, she had coffee ready and a plate of scones.
“I just made them,” she said. “A good way to take my mind off of what’s happening. Or not happening, should I say.”
Nora looked stunning. She had on khaki capri pants, an untucked white shirt and penny loafers.
“Thanks,” he said, trying not to literally drink in the image of her. He took a cup of coffee and a scone and sat down with her at the kitchen table.
“So I have some news,” he said.
“Uh-oh. Doesn’t sound like it’s good.”
“I’m afraid not,” he said. He told her what Decker had passed along, without actually using his name. Although he did tell her about the three murder victims, he didn’t go into gruesome detail.
