Unfair Advantage

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR



Dani and Ashlyn watched Fielding give the official police statement. A federal agent named Brad Ford then spoke concerning the FBI’s reason for committing to what thus far could not be proven a multi-jurisdictional or state line cross. Agent Ford explained that early in the investigation, long before they could attribute the Manhattan killings to one man, they did see similarities between the manner two of the victims perished and that of one a year earlier in Connecticut. He gave a quick commentary about the investigation. A picture of the suspect again filled the screen. Dani looked into those jewel-like dark green eyes and shivered.



“Well,” Ash said, rubbing Buddy’s increasingly glossy coat, “at least you’re done.”



“Am I?” She decided she’d seen enough. Dani rose from the couch. She carried her coffee mug into the kitchen and checked the turkey bacon-baby Swiss and egg white quiche her friend had in the oven. The savory aroma made her mouth water. Despite her strange guilt attack about rolling around in the sack with Larkin, she retained an appetite.



A flash of memory made her pulse leap. Passion stirred in her blood.



“What next?” Ash queried.



Dani refilled her cup from the steaming, hazelnut scented pot of coffee. “Close this place up for a bit. At least until the dust settles. I’ll spend some time at the lake, figure out what comes next.”



Ashlyn stood and walked in to join Dani. Her large dark eyes sparkled with the intellect behind their keen stare. “You’re going to try this again.”



“You started me thinking this way,” Dani defended, feeling uncomfortable still with what she considered a risky idea.



“Yeah, and I told you later it was a insensitive, witless thing for me to have done.”



“I’ll call the doctor who treated me last time. She wants to run a batch of tests, conduct a full physical. I’ll let her tell me what’s safe.”





Ashlyn shook her head. “Girl, you crazy.”







Roarke went home long enough for a shower and change of clothes. As he pulled back into precinct parking, his cell phone rang. He shoved in the clutch, put the truck in park, and shut off the ignition. Climbing out he answered, “Larkin.”



“Where are you?” Fielding’s tone told the story. After an all night vigil that dragged over into mid-morning, their monitoring of the website had gone hot.



Roarke just closed the phone and ran inside. After showing his shield three times to get passed touchy agents, he burst into the conference room rigged as a computer lab and op center.



“He’s on,” Fielding reported. “The bastard’s on.”









Brand activated his failsafe software. An underground expert in counter-detection had custom designed the program for him three years ago. It sent up an alarm screen at once. Rage seared him. Somebody had squealed. No way could the cops have found this site without an inside snitch.



Four years of various projects, almost a year of high-end gallery auctions and countless hours of design and maintenance shot to shit because some one got scared. Or stupid. Glacial rage settled like icy fire in his gut. Almost calmly, he copied and pasted names, account numbers, and video archive files from log on sessions into the body of an email from an account he kept with a web-based service. He located the New York police department’s generic email address, typed it into the correct field and pressed ‘send’.



Brand stared at the product of his efforts for moment, executed a series of protocols. The website died a swift death. He closed the system down under password protection, left his computer lab long enough to drag a terrified Mayan into it and lock her in. Brand spent a total of four hours packing and driving the load to a place on the Jersey coast. It used to belong to the man who’d designed the system Brand used to manipulate the building’s camera security. Brand had killed the guy after he installed.



That beach house, kept in reserve for any unforeseen need, would do as a temporary stopover.



When he returned, he moved her into the bathroom while he gave his next move some thought. After twenty minutes, he placed a call to a small time charter pilot known for making himself useful in precarious situations. They agreed upon a sum, Brand transferred it to they guy’s account. Then, Brand booked a small flight from a Mexican airstrip under an alias the police would no doubt soon uncover.



The next arrangements proved trickier. They must not seem obvious. But neither could they escape notice. After an hour he’d arranged travel legs by a variety of transport means, from Mexico to South Africa. For the coup de grace, a chartered yacht moored in a marina on the Cape paid cash for six months.



All of this conducted using a landline and the computer. By the time they finished fumbling about and discovered he’d sent them on a wild goose chase, Brand would have made his actual departure under an alias they’d never learn.



A stifled sob from the bathroom told him Mayan had recognized his processing supplies.



His plaything. Another detail of this incarnation to be dealt with.



Brand applied chloroform to a clean rag, opened the bathroom door. She cowered in a far corner, half-naked upon the tile.



“Don’t give me trouble,” he said.



She closed her eyes, tears pouring from beneath the lids as he placed the cloth over her nose and mouth.







Detective Locke entered the op center holding up a printout from the special phone center newly in operation. Agent Ford and his superior gave it a glance. Ford handed the paper to the chief. He passed it on to the captain, who had a look and handed it to Roarke.



“That was first rate thinking, Detective Larkin,” Chief Grace stated.



Roarke scanned the transcript from a call. A delivery guy from a very expensive Japanese restaurant called Katana recognized the photo run again during the press statement.



They’d lost a lot of day.



After intercepting the killer online, they’d suffered a setback. He’d had some way of realizing he had company and disappeared before they could attempt trace. His little cyber playground had its plug pulled within minutes.



Ford’s superior answered his cell; spoke briefly, then ended the call. “Okay, we have what appears to be direct contact from the suspect. He sent an email to the general mailbox of NYPD.



We have everything needed to extend this investigation around the country, even initiate an International inquiry. For that we’ll have to have a pow-wow with overseas law enforcement, Interpol.” He shook his head, signaled one of his agents acting as liaison to city’s SWAT. “We’re gonna be making up precedents as we go on this one. There’s never been a case quite like it. Numerous accessories to multiple counts murder one, conspirators actually, and from so many different countries.”



Chief Grace said, “DA has warrants waiting for a signature. Judge Tunney’s waiting to issue bench warrants if necessary. Hell, if we really even need ’em.”



Agent Ford exchanged glances with his superior, then responded. “Everything strictly by the books. No mistakes. This SOB butchers kids for a living. Anyone lets this piece of shit walk on a technicality, they will have the Bureau’s boot up their ass so far they taste leather.”





Dan heard her cellular ring as she bid Ashlyn farewell. Her friend agreed to leave only after Dani promised to keep her appointment with Doctor Sova Tobias the following morning. Officer Darren, remained at his post outside her door.



Dani smiled at him. “Have the hordes diminished?”



“Yes, ma‘am. Except some reverend started an uproar when the suspect’s photo was aired. Says you’re in league with the devil or some shit.” His dark-skinned face flushed. “Beg pardon. He’s calling for you to be baptized, exorcized, or something. He and about twenty of his flock keep trying the barricades.”



Did she really want to set herself for this kind of attention? “Well, your babysitting woes end tomorrow.”



“My pleasure,” he replied, flush deepening. “No woes at all.”



She laughed softly, replied. “Your either very noble or very tolerant.”







She swam in black depths. A liquid void. It existed in her brain, around her body. She could hear under this unlit water. Deprived all senses save hearing, she became fetal.



No unborn infant’s mind held such terrible, elusive memories. At first, no sense of self aided their recall. Slow degrees brought her closer to the surface. She recognized the sound of water. Processed the fact she did not reside in some nightmare womb.



A strange taste taunted her mouth and nose, lingered. Blackness lightened though she could not lift her lids.



Melissa. My name.



She suddenly felt the bed and covers beneath her. A rush of recall avalanched. Mayan. The name I gave myself.



Mayan endured a rapid memory review as though seen in flashcards. She did hear water. Surf. Terrified, conflicted, she lifted her heavy eyelids.



She lie upon a bed. Her balance wavered as she managed to sit upright. The loft bedroom overlooked an airy living space. Many large panes of glass joined with glossy wood to comprise the entire front of the house.



Mayan glanced down at herself. She wore a bra and panties. Multiple bruises darkened her skin. The lash marks on her back made themselves known with every breath and move.



Him.



His marks. Whatever he’d done elsewhere …



Mayan covered her mouth, silenced a sob.



She composed herself, swung her legs over the bed’s edge and stood. A set of carpeted stairs lead to the first level. Tiptoeing over the cool wood floor, she made a slow search of the house.



And found herself alone.



As she came back out of the kitchen into the living area she’d viewed from the loft, she saw a slim black attaché case upon the glass coffee table. Her insides clenched, went hot then cold. Dizziness returned, subsided.



Although she had no idea how long she’d been out or where she had awakened, Mayan knew at once that he had left this, then departed himself.



For whatever reason, he’d spared her life.



Mayan sat upon the soft leather couch. Hands trembling, she opened the case. Stacks of hundred dollar bills lined the bottom. Lying coiled atop them, an all-too familiar length of red silk cord.



The weeping she’d stifled broke free in a torrent.



She’d loved, lost and never even known his name.











A/N : About 1/8 of the ms left to go.