Текст книги "Slices of Night"

Автор книги: Alex Kava

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison,J. T. Ellison,Erica Spindler
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 9 страниц)

The lights of Washington D.C. greeted JR. Luminous, beautiful, the city was home. He always felt secure once he crossed into Fairfax County, knowing he was just miles from his basecamp. It had been a long trip, exhausting in its way, but so, so worth it.

Sated, he was calm again, the fury of the past month’s excess slaking the thirst in his blood. Now he would lay low. Fit back into his life. Go to work like a good little boy. Recharge his batteries. Maybe a small vacation, somewhere in the mountains, where he could watch the snow fall, listen to birds chirp and water run and feel the cool air pass over his skin.

And remember. Always, always remember.

COLD METAL NIGHT

by

Alex Kava

Sunday, December 4

2:37 a.m.

Downtown Omaha, Nebraska

Nick Morrelli stuffed his hands deep inside his pockets. Damn! It had gotten cold and he’d forgotten his gloves. He could see his breath. Air so cold it stung his eyes and hurt to breathe.

Snow crunched beneath his shoes. Italian leather. Salvatore Ferragamo slip-ons. Five hundred and ten dollars. The stupidest purchase he’d ever let his sister, Christine talk him into. They made him look like a mob boss, or worse – a politician – instead of a security expert.

He was at a private party when he got Pete’s call. Figured he could easily walk the two blocks from the Flat Iron to the Rockwood Building. But it had been snowing steadily for the last ten hours. Now he treaded carefully over the pile of ice chunks the snow plows left at the curbs. He already almost wiped out twice despite the salt and sand.

City crews were working overtime, trying to clear the streets for Sunday’s Holiday of Lights Festival. It was a huge celebration. The beginning of the Christmas season. Live music, carolers, arts and craft events. Performers dressed as Dickens characters would stroll the Old Market’s cobble stone streets engaging with the visitors. The ConAgra Ice Rink would be packed with skaters. Tomorrow night the city would turn on tens of thousands of twinkling white lights that decorated all the trees on the Gene Leahy Mall and strung along the rooftops of the downtown buildings. Even the high-rises.

A festive time would be had by all but a huge security nightmare for people like Nick. The company he worked for, United Allied, provided security for a dozen buildings in the area.

As Nick hurried across Sixteenth Street he glanced up to see the fat, wet flakes glitter against the night sky. It was the kind of stuff he and his sister called magical Christmas dust when they were kids.

Pete was waiting for him at the back door of the Rockwood Building. It was one of Nick’s favorites. A historic brick six-story with an atrium in the middle that soared up all six floors. Reminded Nick of walking into an indoor garden, huge green plants and a domed skylight above. The building housed offices, all of them quiet at this time of night, making Pete’s job more about caretaking than guarding.

But tonight Pete looked spooked. His eyes were wide. His hair looked a shade whiter against his black skin. He held a nightstick tight in his trembling hands. Nick had never seen the old man like this. He didn’t even know Pete owned a nightstick.

“He didn’t show up at midnight like usual,” Pete was telling Nick as he led him down a hallway. Nick wasn’t sure who he was talking about. All he told Nick on the phone was, “to get over here now.”

He was taking Nick to another exit, double-wide doors that opened out into an alley. It wasn’t used except by maintenance or housekeeping to haul the trash.

“He usually stops by. You said it was okay.” He shot a look back over his shoulder at Nick but he didn’t slow down. "Does a little shoveling if I ask.” Pete was out of breath. The nightstick stayed in his right fist. “I made us some hot cocoa tonight. So cold out. When he didn’t show up I took a look around.”

He pushed opened the doors, slow and easy, peeking around them like he was expecting someone to jump out at him.

“Pete, you’re starting to freak me out.” Nick patted him on the shoulder, gently holding him back so he could step around him. “If someone’s in trouble, we’ll help him out.”

After Thanksgiving he had made an executive decision to allow homeless people to sleep in some of the back entries of the buildings he took care of. He told Pete and his other night guards to call him if there was a problem. During the holidays he didn’t have the heart to toss them into the street. He figured he could put up with drunk and belligerent.

Nick took two steps out into the frigid alley and immediately he saw a heap of gray wool and dirty denim in a bloody pile of snow. The man’s face was twisted under a bright green and orange argyle scarf that Nick recognized. His stomach fell to his knees.

“Oh God, not Gino. What the hell happened?”

Nick tried to get closer. The damned shoes slipped on a trail of blood that was already icing over. He lost his balance. Started to fall. His hand caught the corner of the Dumpster. Ice-cold metal sliced open his palm but he held on. By now he was breathing hard. Puffs of steam like a dragon. He took a deep breath, planted his feet. Then he reached over to Gino while still gripping the corner of the Dumpster.

Nick pressed two fingers to the man’s neck. Gino’s skin was almost as cold as the metal of the Dumpster.

4:12 a.m.

Crown Plaza

Kansas City, Missouri

Salsa music startled Maggie O’Dell awake. She jolted up in bed and scrambled to the edge before she realized it was her phone. She’d accidentally changed the ringtone and had been too exhausted to fix it.

“I think we may have caught a lucky break,” the voice said without a greeting.

It was R.J. Tully, her sometimes partner when the FBI sent two instead of one. A rare occasion these days.

She pushed hair out of her eyes, blinked to focus on the red digits of the hotel’s alarm clock.

“It better be lucky. You woke me up.”

“Aw geez! Sorry.”

Tully had to be the only law enforcement officer she knew who said things like, “Aw geez holy crap.” It made her smile as she fumbled in the dark to turn on a light.

“I thought you never sleep,” he followed up, giving her a chance to wake up.

He knew she had been battling a stretch of insomnia for over a year now. Getting shot in the head two months ago didn’t help matters. Technically it was called a “scraping of the skull alongside the left temporal lobe.” Unofficially it hurt like hell and the throbbing pain that still visited her head on a regular basis was a bitch. Otherwise she was okay. At least that’s what she kept telling people.

“What’s the lucky break?”

“Got a phone call from Omaha. Homeless man. Stabbed. Looks like our guy.”

She stood up from the bed, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and started turning on lamps. She’d been in the Kansas City area trying to dig up something, anything. But the victims here, and the evidence, were already two weeks cold.

“What makes them think it’s our guy?”

“Blitz attack. No other injuries. Single stab wound to the chest, just under the rib cage. Preliminaries suggest a long, double-edged blade.”

That sounded about right.

For four weeks she’d been chasing this guy halfway around the country. It started at the end of October when John Baldwin, the SSA in charge of BAU II, asked her to take a look at a slice ’n go down in Nashville. Maggie was still recovering from her own injuries but she owed Baldwin a favor and told him she’d take a look. Lieutenant Taylor Jackson sent her every scrap they had on the case, which included witness interviews, security video and even a driver’s license. Unfortunately the video footage showed only a flash of white at the bottom of the screen, the bill of a white ballcap. The driver’s license ended up being an excellent fake and the witness interviews didn’t turn up anything too interesting except that the man in question “smiled too much.”

Just when Maggie believed there wasn’t enough to go on, something odd happened. Her boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, head of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico brought her the case – the exact same case. He insisted she and Tully make it their top priority. Kunze had been sending Tully and her around on wild goose chases for almost a year. Maggie was immediately suspicious. Why this case? What was the political connection? Who did Kunze owe a favor to this time?

She hated that she was right. Turns out the senior senator from Tennessee was a personal friend of the Nashville victim’s father. It didn’t take much digging for Maggie to discover this wasn’t a one-time “slice ’n go.” She and Tully had found another two victims in New Orleans. According to NOPD Detective Stacy Killian, both were homeless, one a new mother, the other a business man.

Searching ViCAP she discovered what could be as many as ten to twelve victims. Different cities across the country. Similar victims. Same MO. All of them quite possibly the work of one killer she and Tully nicknamed the Night Slicer.

Now Maggie paced the hotel room listening to Tully give her more details. She could hear him rattling paper and knew the notes he had taken were probably on a take-out menu or a dry cleaning receipt – his usual notepads, whatever was handy.

“Here’s the thing,” Tully said. “Omaha’s M.E. believes this one happened earlier this morning. Internal body temp says within last six hours. Night security guard claims it had to be around two o’clock.”

“Two o’clock in the morning? That’s only a few hours ago. How can he be so sure?”

“He knows the victim. Says the guy…” more paper shuffling. “Says Gino usually picked up a dozen extras of the Sunday Omaha World Herald right off the dock. He’d sell them on the street to make a few bucks. But first, he’d bring the security guard a copy and they’d drink hot chocolate.”

“That all sounds very nice but since when do we determine time of death from a security guard’s Sunday morning ritual?”

“Thing is, they found him between two-thirty and three this morning. He already had his dozen newspapers. The Sunday edition didn’t hit the loading dock until two-o-five.”

Tully went silent. He was waiting for it to settle in and Maggie finally understood the lucky break.

“So we’ve got a fresh kill,” she said. And then the realization hit her. “And less than twenty-four hours before he slices number two and leaves town.”

“Omaha’s about 180 miles from Kansas City. Just a hop up and a skip down. Twenty, thirty minute flight,” Tully said. “Might be some delays. Sounds like there’s a bunch of new snow.”

“I have a rental. I’ll drive.” She hated flying. Tully’s “hop up and skip down” already had her stomach flipping. “It’ll probably be quicker than trying to get a flight, getting to the airport, going through security.”

“Looks like a three hour drive, but in the snow—”

“No problem.”

“You sure?”

“You worry too much. I’ll exchange my rental car for an SUV. Let Omaha know I’m on my way.”

5:41 a.m.

Old Market Embassy Suites

Omaha, Nebraska

He looked out his hotel suite’s window and down on the empty cobble-stoned streets. Earlier there had been horses and carriages, street performers on a couple of the corners. The brick buildings used to be warehouses on the Missouri River but now housed restaurants and specialty shops.

Last night despite the snow, the sidewalks had been filled with people, the streets busy with traffic. There had even been a patrol officer on horseback. And yet just five, six blocks he been able to slide a blade up into a man’s heart and walk away. In fact, he walked back through the hustle and bustle to his hotel without a single person noticing.

All was good. He was back in his groove. That nagging fury would no longer drive him to make reckless mistakes.

New Orleans had set him off track. Then Nashville really screwed him up. He had always been careful about choosing targets no one would miss. But Heath Stover, a blast from the past, had knocked him way off his game. And so did that girl, that rich bitch pretending to be some lost soul. The news media continued to cover her murder but at least they were calling it just another unfortunate incident, just another of a long list of crimes besieging the Occupy camps across the country.

That’s the word a reporter used, “besieging,” like the protesters were soldiers in dugouts coming under attack. He shook his head at that. He was sick of seeing the protesters in every city he traveled to. Thankfully he hadn’t had to deal with any of them in Kansas City or here in Omaha. Another good sign that he was finally back on track.

Sales were up. Bosco’s new laser-guided scalpel was a huge hit. Omaha’s medical mecca was like putty in his hands on Thursday and Friday at the Qwest Center conference. He had exploded past his sales quota. Still, it had taken this morning’s kill to renew his confidence.

He looked around the suite and rubbed his hands together. Checked his watch. Maybe he would shower, dress and go down for the breakfast buffet. He had the whole day off. He didn’t have to leave until tomorrow morning. Tonight he was looking forward to the Holiday of Lights festivities. The Old Market would be filled with people again and sounds of the seasons. Now with his newfound confidence he wouldn’t need to go far at all to find target number two.

7:26 a.m.

Omaha Police Headquarters

Nick Morrelli crushed the paper cup and tossed it into the corner wastebasket. He’d had enough coffee. He was tired. He wanted to go home. He rubbed his eyes and paced the room, a poor excuse for an employee lounge with a metal table and folding chairs, a row of vending machines, coffee maker and a sagging sofa along the back wall.

The door opened and his captor came in, shirt sleeves rolled up, shaved head shiny with perspiration. Detective Tommy Pakula handed Nick a black and white print-out, a copy of a driver’s license.

“Do you recognize this guy? Maybe seen him around any of your properties?”

The license had been enlarged which only made the photo blurred. The guy looked pretty ordinary, could be anybody.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Pakula sat down in one of the folding chairs. Pointed to one across the table for Nick to sit down. They’d already done this. What more could he ask? But Nick sat down. Tommy Pakula was one of the good guys. Four daughters. Still married to his high school sweetheart. Nick had been questioned by him before a couple years ago. Another case. Another killer.

“You were a sheriff not so long ago,” Pakula said, getting Nick’s attention. That was true. Nick had been a county sheriff. Got his fill after a killer almost claimed his nephew as his next victim. Just when Nick thought Pakula might finally cut him some slack, the man came in with another verbal punch. “You should know better. So tell me again why you thought you should be touching this dead guy before you called us?”

“If he wasn’t dead I wanted to help him.”

Pakula raised an eyebrow.

“It’s Gino,” Nick said, almost a whisper.

He watched Pakula sit back, pull in a long deep breath. Rubbed his jaw.

Everybody loved Gino. Nobody knew his last name but he was a familiar face downtown, part of the landscape. Years ago he used to sell Italian sausage and peppers out of a rickety stand he’d set up on the corner of Sixteenth and Douglas, right in front of the Brandeis Building. Suddenly he was living on the streets. Tall, thin – a little bent over as he grew old – with friendly brown eyes that sparkled despite his situation. Security guards, police officers, even the guys on the newspaper’s loading dock, they all loved Gino. Took care of him. But they hadn’t taken care of him last night.

“Is this the guy you think stabbed Gino?” Nick asked and held up the print-out.

Pakula nodded. “FBI thinks so, too. He’s done it in other cities. We’ve been keeping an eye out ever since he hit Kansas City about two weeks ago.”

“Mind if I keep this?”

“Go ahead. Maybe check with your security people. You said your company has how many buildings downtown?”

“Nine. Plus three in the Old Market.”

Nick folded the print-out. Tucked it in the back pocket of his trousers. He’d get this bastard himself if he had to. Then he tried to decide if he should tell Pakula that the Rockwood Building had security cameras on every corner. Before he decided, the door to the lounge opened again and a young cop stuck his head inside.

“Sorry to interrupt. A woman’s here to see you, Detective Pakula. Insisted I tell you that she brought you doughnuts all the way from Kansas City?” The cop’s face flushed a bit, like he wasn’t sure if he should be delivering what sounded like a personal message.

Pakula smiled and stood up. “Send her in here.”

The cop disappeared. Pakula shot Nick a look. Another smile.

“FBI,” he said. “First time I met her I was eating a doughnut. Had a cup of coffee in my other hand.” He shook his head, but the grin hadn’t left yet. “She’ll never stop busting my chops about that.”

Nick should have figured it out, but he was totally surprised when the lounge door opened again and Maggie O’Dell walked in, carrying a white bakery box that she meant as a joke for Pakula. From the look on her face when she saw Nick, he figured the joke was probably on her. But only for a second or two.

“Nick Morrelli,” she said. “I haven’t seen you since you drove off with that blonde bomb expert in Minneapolis.”

Nick winced. Damn, she was good.

10:57 a.m.

The last time Maggie had worked with Nick Morrelli they spent hours watching security footage. Mall of America. The day after Thanksgiving. Black Friday became bloody Friday. Three college kids set off backpacks filled with explosives.

Here they were again, sitting in a small room in front of a wall of computer monitors.

“How’s Timmy and Christine?” she asked. She and Nick had a history that went back further than Minneapolis. They’d worked on a serial killer case when Nick was a sheriff. And again, years later when the killer returned.

“Timmy played football this year. Christine’s good.”

They sat side by side in captain’s chairs like pilots in a cockpit. Pakula would join them in a half hour or so.

“How’s your doctor?” Nick asked, keeping his eyes on the computer monitors but unsuccessful in keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.

Instead of telling him that Benjamin Platt was not hers, she simply said, “Ben’s good.” She didn’t ask whatever happened to the blonde bomb expert. That was over a year ago. She knew Nick probably didn’t even remember the woman’s name anymore. And therein lay the reason that she had never seriously considered a relationship with Nick Morrelli.

Simply put – he wasn’t relationship material. Maggie had too much drama in her professional life to put up with it in her personal life.

But charming, yes. Handsome – God, he was still gorgeous. Dark eyes and dark hair. He had managed to keep his college quarterback physique. She didn’t deny that there had been chemistry between the two of them. Just sitting next to him she could still feel it. Annoying as hell.

She tried to turn her attention to the monitors. She was exhausted from lack of sleep. Her back was tight and tense from a slippery three-hour drive in a small rental car because everyone else had the good sense of renting the SUVs before the snow hit. Somehow she needed to focus.

She pulled up the chair. Planted her elbows on the table in front of her.

“Who are you this week?” she said aloud, like the Night Slicer might answer.

“Pakula gave me a copy of the driver’s license.”

“That’s all we have.”

“You think he changes his appearance?”

“He must, but I’m guessing it’s subtle. He definitely changes his name. He has a normal life somewhere. I think he travels the country on business. Different cities. A new group of people each time who don’t know him. We have that picture from the driver’s license out to every metropolitan police department. We haven’t gotten a hit yet.”

“But you’ve been tracking him?”

“Only by his M.O. He’s right-handed. Uses a double-blade stiletto. At least seven inches long. He does a blitz attack. It’s probably no more than an incidental bump. Slips the blade in just under the breastbone where he knows he won’t have any bone chattering. And the angle of the knife is interesting.”

She paused while Nick tapped buttons on a keyboard and started the film footage from a camera labeled: Northwest corner of Rockwood.

“His image was captured on a security camera at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. Actually it was only his back but it was enough to give us some idea of how tall he was compared to his victim. He has to angle the blade—”

She pushed out her chair and stood. “It’s probably easier if I show you.” Fact was, she was too exhausted to talk about it. He glanced up at her, paused the monitors and stood up in front of her.

She grabbed a ballpoint pen from the table and held it in her right hand the same way she believed the Night Slicer did.

“He holds it low. Probably has the stiletto up his sleeve until he needs it.” She stepped closer. “He always slips it in just below the rib cage.” She put her left hand flat against Nick’s abdomen to show him where and immediately she realized this was a mistake when she felt him shiver under her touch. Her eyes met his and she felt the heat rush to her face.

Thankfully exhaustion pushed her into professional mode. She took a step back as she moved her hand with the pen and her arm in the same motion the killer must use.

“He shoves the knife in at an upward angle. Usually pierces the heart. Sometimes the lungs. Sometimes both.”

Finished with the show and tell, she avoided his eyes and took her seat again. Waited for him to do the same. He was slow about joining her and she wanted to kick herself. There was obvious still too much between them. She glanced over at him. Wanted to tell him she couldn’t afford any of the emotion she was seeing in his face right now.

“Gino was a good guy,” he said, surprising her. “He didn’t deserve to die this way.”

She was wrong. The emotion wasn’t about her. Maybe she was a little disappointed that it wasn’t about her.

“He’s been killing two victims in each city. Usually within a period of twenty-four hours.” Maggie sat back. Ran her fingers through her hair. “Then he disappears. Gone. Like he never existed.” She looked at her wristwatch. “In less than fifteen hours he’s going to kill someone else.”