Amazon
Amazon
Amazon
Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Tantalus Publishing
ISBN-10: 1097873676
Type: Fiction
Pages: 300
Copyright: May 11, 2019
ISBN-13: 9781097873678
Price: $7.99 (eBook)
Killing is easy, clearing the conscious shouldn't be so hard either
Special Agent Kristin Fletcher is on the trail of a serial killer. A killer no one believes exists because the targets are drug dealers and human traffickers—both lines of work that come with a price in blood. Fletcher is close, caught up in something bigger than she ever thought possible. Once she begins to peel away the layers of deceit, Fletcher finds there is no one she can trust. Jessica Pearce is a woman with a past she’s learned to shut away. She’s a successful international lawyer living in New York City. She’s on the fast-track to becoming a partner with Matthias and Ephraim Global Law Firm specializing in overseas accounts. When Jessica learns that buried secrets are coming to the surface, she must face her past to embrace the future. The trouble is, someone knows about Jessica’s secrets, and they’ve targeted her. Lilith is a trained assassin and has a personal vendetta to settle. She’s lived in the shadows her whole life, and when they see her coming, it’s already too late. It will be up to Lilith to decide if she’s willing to go back to the beginning to save a life or keep killing until they are all dead. She’s cunning and clever, gifted in tactical training, and the art of deception. Lilith knows not to trust anyone. Sometimes, you have to break the rules to achieve results.
Excerpt
Chapter One
Kristin Fletcher hadn’t anticipated getting up three hours after she went to bed. The job demanded her ability to work any hour of the day, any day of the week, and usually didn’t allow for time off; or a social life. That was acceptable to her because Kristin decided long before she applied for the position that her career was more important than having a societal presence.
One of her contacts in the New Jersey State Police had her personal cell number. Kristin wasn’t one to hand over private information without cause. Her line of work dictated a pretense that sometimes tiptoed on the tightrope of sexual misconduct, but as a woman in a field dominated by men, Kristin wasn’t a fool. And she knew when to use what she had available to make her work more efficient and effective.
The NJPD sergeant first-class was a married man — a respected officer who’d earned his stripes through hard work. He wasn’t flirty, but his fellow officers liked that he had a liaison in the federal government. Kristin was an athletic woman a little over five feet, carried a weapon, and could easily control and detain people through physical contact as well as an expert in firearms. That kind of agency contact went a long way with the sergeant’s coworkers.
When Kristin arrived at the Essex County low-income housing district, she took a moment to glance in the vanity mirror on the visor to make sure she’d rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Kristin didn’t wear discernable make-up. There were regulations regarding what was acceptable in the field. But women’s makeup evolved over the years to help keep the appeal without drawing a lot of attention or applying a lot of layers. She was a minimalist at heart, and that included a small collection of muted colors allowing her some flare without flash.
Kristin didn’t spend a lot of time on her hair, just the length. Protocol allowed female hair to touch the shoulder at natural length. Any women with longer hair required it bound and pulled back. Kristin wore bangs around her tapered face. The walnut colored eyes and auburn hair were hereditary traits, along with a height that forced her to look up at most men. Kristin didn’t wear heels higher than a half-inch because running was impossible in higher heels. So footwear was more critical than makeup in her view. In the end it all worked and she was an asset in her profession as well as a little ornamental.
Since it was three in the morning, she’d pulled on a pair of jeans and wore insulated boots from her academy days. The boots were comfortable and practical. But Kristin realized the moment she put on the denim pants, they were tight. She’d filled out the seat in the jean more than she’d expected.
Checking the time, Kristin grabbed the digital recorder, turned it on, and dropped it in a breast pocket of the leather jacket. It was chilly, and the area around Irvine Turner Boulevard in Newark had padded envelopes of fog surrounding Grace Manor Apartments.
Kristin pulled the Honda Civic as close as the police barricade allowed. Since she was off-duty at the time of the call, her personal vehicle was the only transportation available. She surveyed the crowd gathered around the scene. She wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. Training made crowd scanning part of her routine as she approached the yellow tape and the uniformed officer closest to her parked car.
“Special Agent Kristin Fletcher,” she said in a relaxed tone. “Who’s in charge here?” The credentials double ID leather case showed a photo, badge, and the obligatory FBI insignia.
“Um,” was the first word from the young officer. Usually, rookies stood rank for crowd control. It was necessary and boring. And on a night when the ambient temperature didn’t crest above thirty, it was an unpleasantly cold assignment. “I’m not sure.” He used the earpiece and radio while Kristin looked up at the face of the apartment building.
There were several lights from neighboring windows and silhouetted bodies peering down at the police cruisers with rolling light bars and ambulances. She spied the coroner van and wondered which medical examiner had the late-shift duty.
“Detectives Gross and Hampton, ma’am,” the young man responded. He pointed a glove in the general direction of the apartment complex. Kristin had about ten years on the twenty-something officer. She motioned appreciatively with a simple nod. He lifted the barrier tape for her to slip under and knew instinctively he watched her walk toward the front entrance of the dingy brown building. She tried not to think about her tight jeans.
The twelve-story building had 429 units. As part of the low-income infrastructure for Essex County, prospecting tenants were on wait lists to get into the congested building. She’d done preliminary background on the location. But Kristin already had familiarity with the apartment complex before she’d arrived that Monday morning.
When she got to the front entrance, Kristin flashed the FBI ID to the female officer. But the woman pointed to an unmarked SUV parked on the sidewalk several yards away when Kristin asked for the detectives.
Kristin thanked the woman and strolled down the cement steps back to the sidewalk. Inside the navy blue Ford Explorer, the two men had watched her from the moment of her arrival, Kristin knew.
“Detectives,” she said as pleasantly as she could muster. There was sand in her voice from lack of sleep.
Sitting in the comfort and warmth of the idling vehicle, two seasoned, underworked, overweight detectives gave Kristin the once-over she’d come to expect from men.
“What can we do for the Federal Bureau of Investigation?” the driver asked without introducing himself. Along with the question, cigarette smoke filtered through the air between them.
“I’m just here for a follow-up.” Kristin knew walking the jurisdiction tightrope was more difficult than the sexual innuendo runway. It was a lot thinner and tended to snap before agents and state authorities had the opportunity to meet on common ground.
Apprehensive and guarded, they weren’t new to procedures and Kristin knew if she wanted any headway, she had to present her case before the detectives would give away any details. She had more authority, and her jurisdiction was the entire United States, not just their measly little Essex County piece. But Kristin understood diplomacy was better than strong-arming anyone.
“I work exclusively with the Human Trafficking Task Force.” She suppressed a shiver. The detectives weren’t interested in sharing the warmth of the SUV. “One of your homicide victims was on our radar.”
“Which one?” the partner in the passenger seat asked through the driver side window.
Kristin looked deeper into the SUV. “Tobías Tafalla.”
“Hop in,” he responded.
Grateful for the offer, Kristin climbed into the back seat of the SUV. The driver side window hummed closed, keeping the heat and thick cigarette smoke inside the vehicle.
“I’m Craig Hampton.” He offered a meaty hand through the center column between the bucket seats for Kristin to shake. “This is Howard Gross.”
The driver nodded to Kristin through the reflection of the rearview mirror he adjusted so he didn’t have to turn around. Essex County had detective for the prosecutor’s office. It streamlined the process with criminal caseloads. Kristin liked the infrastructure because the detectives had more clout and education than ladder climbers in most police departments. They were a little more receptive when it came to sharing information between agencies. “Tell us about your POI.”
“He’s more than a person of interest,” Kristin admitted. “Tafalla is a sweet guy just off the sex offender registry after a two-year stay in Trenton’s DOC vacation hotspot.” She sat back against the seat and pushed away files on the cushion close to her thigh. “Tafalla did some time for sexual misconduct involving a minor who was a niece. That was twelve years ago. He’s off the registry within the last six months.”
“We’ll make sure to share our load with the feds if we find any computers.”
“You didn’t find any computers in the apartment?”
“Forensics has the place now. But during our preliminary walkthrough, Craig noted not seeing any laptops or computer towers.”
“I bet you didn’t find any cell phones either.”
They shared a look between them. Kristin was already a few steps ahead of their investigation. “We didn’t notice.” It was a good officer who admitted inexactitudes around other law enforcement personnel. Howard shook his head. “Your friend has a few neighbors who vouched for him. No one mentioned seeing any women in the place.”
“He had a posse who frequented the apartment,” Craig added.
“How many victims altogether?” Kirstin asked.
“Three including Tafalla. Diego Obregón and Domingo Romero.”
Kristin nodded but said, “Neither of them is on our radar.”
“You’re with what task force again?” Craig asked.
“Human trafficking division.”
“That’s what I thought you said. Your friend part of something we don’t know about?” Howard asked. Kristin heard the Mid-Atlantic dialect clearly from Detective Gross. Heavily influenced by the New York City inflictions on certain words, her trained ear caught predicating syllable shifts that turned Rs into Ss when adding pronouns.
“We track prior offenders even when they’ve graduated from the registry. Mostly we look for patterns and digital fingerprints. Sometimes they go right back into their prior professions. Tafalla came up a few times just in conversation from known traffickers.”
“You keep tabs on all your people?”
Kristin shrugged. “It pays to keep informed.” She fished a business card out of the jacket pocket. “No females in the apartment?” she clarified.
Craig shook his head. Unlike other detectives or uniformed cops who considered FBI agents something inline as bankers with badges and guns, he had consideration for Kristin. “We’ll give you a call if we find anything.” It was a friendly offer without flirty inflictions.
“You probably won’t find anything we need.”
“There’s one thing that’s interesting.”
Kristin waited but maintained a visage of quiet indifference.
“There was bleach poured over one of the victims.”
“Your assailant was wounded during the attack.”
“We figured. But it just makes shit of the evidence.”
Kristin nodded in agreement. “What was the weapon used?”
Howard grunted. He gave a thin smile through the rearview mirror at Kristin. “The whole fucking apartment by the looks of things,” he said.
“It’s a mess up there,” Craig added.
“I bet no one saw nothin’,” Kristin said, quickly regretting the statement thinking they’d pick up on the regional slang.
“Nope,” Howard answered. “You got no working cameras in the place. Most of the neighbors got those doorbells that record stuff. But the hallway was dark. A few of the closer neighbors’ doorbell cameras were vandalized. One reported that it happened tonight. Along with the hallway lights, someone broke them too.”
“It sounds organized and professional,” Kristin surmised out loud.
“That something you’d expect from your line of work?” Craig asked.
“Oh yeah, you’re talking big business. And depending on the age of the victims smuggled into the country, you’d see military movement around them that rivals secret service moving the Eagle.”
She patted Howard on his shoulder before extending her arm between the seats to shake Craig’s hand again. “Gentlemen, thanks for your time,” she said. “I wish you luck on finding your assassin.”
“You don’t think its gang or drug related?” Craig asked. He held her hand longer than necessary with the question.
“You’ve got gangs who traffic in flesh and drugs; most of the time it’s usually one or the other. This town doesn’t have a lot of movement when it comes to pedaling flesh aside from prostitution, but we’ve got missing and exploited kids popping up everywhere on the internet now. We haven’t had any recent raids that made Tafalla a target. But maybe one of your other victims was on the fence with someone high up.”
She took back her hand and popped open the door. A rush of cold air seeped into the car.
“Keep in touch,” she said and exited the SUV.
Kristin tucked her hands into the jacket pockets and gave a scanning look at the groups of people again. While no face was familiar, she wanted to see if anyone not only looked at her, but made eye contact.
She climbed into the Honda. Fishing the digital recorder from the pocket, Kristin stopped the recorder after audibly noting the time. Then she started the car and turned on the heat full. After a minute of reflection, she scanned the internet on her smartphone until she found an address that was relatively close to the apartment complex.
* * *
The women’s shelter wasn’t open to the public. It helped when Kristin flashed her credentials and that she was female. Most men weren’t allowed inside the secured building. Battered women needed to feel safe. Even at that time of the morning, before sunrise, the main lobby was busy with guests and female staff members.
“I’m Kristin Fletcher,” she said to the African-American woman who answered the door buzzer and allowed Kristin into the vestibule of the shelter. The badge took care of the rest of her title. In her eight years as an agent, Kristin always felt silly when she added the ‘Special Agent’ to her name. “I’m checking to see if a woman came in here within the last two hours.”
“Lord, we’ve had three in since two o’clock this morning.” The woman wore colorful hospital scrubs and led Kristin through the lobby to the front desk. “Two women were elevated for evaluation at the hospital.”
A converted urgent care facility, the layout allowed for reception and further security barriers for victims. Several frightened women watched Kristin. She knew her presence was official and some of the women waiting for bed space were likely undocumented immigrants. It wasn’t her field, and she had more to worry about than their national status.
“This one would be probably younger and maybe Ukrainian or Middle-Eastern.” She presented a relaxed character. It helped with the murmuring and frightened eyes watching her.
“Don’t think we’ve had either tonight. But the woman we have in room eight waiting on a bed is Mexican.”
Just making the best of the situation, Kristin asked to see the woman. As the staff worker escorted Kristin to the room, the woman’s thighs rubbed together as she walked, making a rhythmic rasping from the scrub pants. Her footfalls didn’t make a sound on the bland tiled floor.
“Hola señorita,” the woman said as soon as she opened the door.
Kristin saw a curled body lying on a plastic padded mat on the floor. Face turned away from the door.
“She hasn’t said a word to anyone since she came here.”
“Did someone drop her off?”
“She was at the door when Vicky answered,” the woman explained. “I could ask.”
“Are there cameras outside the entrance?”
“One on the front works sometimes. They think there’s a short in the wire that makes it cut out when it gets too cold or wet.”
“Can you see if it’s working tonight?” Kristin asked politely. “I want to see if I can have a conversation with her alone.”
The staffer regarded the blanketed lump on the sleeping mat and looked at Kristin. “Maybe you can get her to eat or drink something.” She opened the door to leave. “She’s skinnier than Jesus on the Cross.” With the observation and the closed door, Kristin was alone with the woman.
She didn’t touch the figure huddled under the thin blue blanket. The room was chilly, a few degrees above outside and the shelter probably operated on a budget that regulated the heat from a committee instead of thermostats.
Kristin squatted next to the mat on the floor. The figure smelled unwashed. It was impossible to see anything without violating the woman’s trust and pulling on the blanket. Instead, Kristin considered what she knew of the most recent cases of girls brought into the US.
Over the last six months, the majority of the victims discovered had some Arab-Berber or Maghrebi descent.
Quietly, Kristin took a breath and said, “’ana ln yadura bik.” The Arabic translation was: “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The figure under the blanket stirred. It was a hopeful sign, and Kristin waited a little more, hoping they had privacy long enough to see who she addressed.
The face peeked out from under the frayed edges of the blanket. Almond skin, silky black hair, and large frightened brown eyes stared at Kristin. She smiled and repeated the phrase.
Kristin didn’t think anyone at the shelter was ignorant for assuming the girl was Latino or Central American. Regular occupants of the facility had Mexican or South American nationalities. But the face that looked back at Kristin from the faux safety of thin material wasn’t a woman. Kristin considered the age of maybe fifteen.
She offered her name with her hand pressed against her breast. The girl didn’t respond. But more of the blanket opened. The scent of body odor and the sight of a filthy T-shirt and a bare thigh suggested the girl wore clothing that made her accessible whenever a man wanted her.
“I want to take you to the hospital.” Kristin was careful to use English because it was still the best mode of communication, one of the major languages spoken worldwide. “Would you like to go with me?”
The head didn’t move, but the eyes darted over Kristin and lay frozen on the service pistol in the holster at her hip. She left her hands limp at her sides to show she meant the girl no harm.
“We have some video,” the staffer started when she barged into the room. The girl jumped but watched instead of retreating again. “You got her to open up.”
Kristin stood up. “I’m taking her to the hospital. She’s a minor, and we’re going to handle it from here.” She looked at the woman with realization. “You got footage of her coming here?”
“Yeah, the video feed ain’t very good, but I’ll have security send you a copy as soon as they get here in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
“We didn’t know she was a minor,” the staffer said hurriedly. “We would have called the police if we knew.”
“I understand,” Kristin said. She touched the woman’s hand. “It’s not your fault. I think she’s of Middle-Eastern descent too. I’m going to have a sexual assault kit done and get in touch with social services.”
In the car, the girl watched the buildings from the passenger window. Kristin used the private time to breach the language barrier. She knew once the girl went to the hospital the state would provide her with an advocate who wouldn’t like the girl asked direct questions.
“Who brought you to the shelter?” It was a flat question with no response. “How long have you been in the United States?” It wasn’t for the lack of trying. Sometimes even the smallest of simple questions opened a myriad of possibility. On a colder and more calculated attempt, Kristin said, “Tobías is dead.”
“Good.” The reply sounded far away, but the word gave Kristin goosebumps.
“Did you see who killed him?”
“Almalak almuzlim,” the girl responded in Arabic.
Kristin knew better than push it. But she didn’t know the translation.
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