Unfair Advantage

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





Roarke stood in the middle of the precinct’s locker room for a long time before bellowing, “Goddamn it!”



They had arrived at the address supplied by the Japanese restaurant. SWAT cleared the palatial penthouse. Then Feds, followed by Roarke and his fellow officers had their first look into the monster’s lair.



He’d left candles lit. Dozens of them. All white.



In the room everyone recognized from the videotaping of the Narrows kid, they found a state-of-art computer setup reduced to charred trash. Carpet underneath had suffered damage. Beyond a small round perimeter, all remained untouched by flame. The extinguisher propped nearby explained the find. Fire alarms in the place had their wiring cut.



A computer forensic team bagged and removed the burned electronics to attempt data salvage. All transportation providers received a photo and list of known aliases. An APB issued earlier continued.



Agents discovered luggage and personal belongings indicating a woman had moved in, or at least come to stay with him recently. Her purse remained among her effects. A spa salon membership card identified her as Mayan Laroux.



It took about ten minutes to have a last known address for her. A residence suspected for years of high-class prostitution. Her name returned from dispatch as an alias for Melissa Lake. One bust for solicitation eight years ago.



No one expected to find her alive.



Special teams dissected the place, found intricate security measures ranging from silent alarms to a camera feed system jacked into the building’s closed circuit monitoring. Ten million dollars of penthouse space showcased roughly another million in modern art and imported furniture.



The bastard had walked away from it with the same emotionless disregard he showed his victims. Then, vanished.



Roarke tried to cool the rage in his blood. He’d wanted to see the murdering son-of-a-bitch beaten half to death and dragged out by SWAT. Hell, he’d have faced suspension or worse to knock out some of the lowlife’s teeth himself.



Fielding entered the locker room. “Feds are having hair samples analyzed in a rush. They believe our boy spent some time in Connecticut and Jersey few years back. Fourteen unsolved homicides and like thirty missing persons might come back on him.”



Roarke shook his head. “This fucker’s beyond our reach now. Only way we’ll see him in cuffs is on the six o’clock news.”



“It was a coin flip from the get-go, Larkin. We knew Feds might like him for crimes crossing state lines. Ford wouldn‘t have been here otherwise.”



“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He ran a hand along his jaw. In his rush to return, he’d skipped shaving. Despite having his last shut-eye over thirty hours ago, he felt tense and alert. “If he gets much more of a head start on the Feds, they’re fucked.”



“Not our problem. Don’t make this personal.”



Roarke replied, “It’s been personal for over six months.”



His partner gazed at him a moment. “Go home, Larkin. Get some sleep.”







Dani redressed behind a rose-printed cloth curtain. On the other side, Dr. Tobias said, “Miss Richards, you’re in ideal health. Tests reveal nothing to indicate your supernatural endeavors induce lasting physical damage.”



“That squares you and I.”



“For now,” the doctor allowed. “I won’t pretend to understand what you do. However, I’d appreciate your humoring me in a professional capacity.”



Dan slipped her feet into the mule-back loafers, whipped back the curtain. “Do you make house calls?”



“In your case, yes.”



After Dani settled the bill and walked back to her Camry, she saw a woman standing nearby. The woman stared at her. Dan glanced about, became certain the woman looked at her. Dan asked, “Do I know you?”



“I just wanted to warn you that from now on it wouldn’t be just those of us you call.”



The woman began to shimmer, fade, then she vanished. Dani’s hand trembled so badly she almost could not unlock her car door.







Brand found it easy to get a motel room for the night. It gave him pleasure to have his picture on the television as a Thai restaurant delivery boy stood in the door. Nobody recognized him.



The human races suffered the cancerous blight of stupidity.



After he’d eaten, he opened his laptop and reviewed financials. Even with the cost of leaving without real estate liquidation and setting the false trail, he still had almost thirteen million in safe accounts.



Amsterdam still appealed to him. He’d lived there for over a year, so he spoke the language. The same went for Hamburg, Stockholm and Barcelona. The thing about Amsterdam though, the service he provided had the potential to move into an establishment. Brand had valuable information on a crooked adoption agent from South Africa who could smooth the process of exporting young boys.



Brand considered blackmail more of a sideline enterprise. Although, it always proved lucrative.



Of all the things he had on his mind, one had begun to dig at him with increasing strength.



The psychic.



Brand recalled her name from the first news story. He typed Danielle Richards into a search engine. Articles dating back almost fourteen months crowded the initial search results page. He started with those, then ran an advanced engine and located dozens earlier pieces featuring her in society write-ups, real estate pieces, and general Manhattan news. Among those he located a layout featuring her, which included a bio.



She’d come from a small Midwest town, graduated high school shortly after turning sixteen, earned her first degree in business marketing from University of Illinois, the second two in advertising and finance from Columbia. All full ride on academics. Her meteoric rise in the Manhattan advertising world read like a novel. Hints of her reputation as a playgirl peppered the spread.



Brand respected making something from nothing.



For a fleeting instant he remembered the stink of a tiny apartment, the anger and despair of poverty. Then that distant recall departed and he found himself scrolling down through the pages until he found several about her involvement with the police.



Brand had never believed in the supernatural. Only the natural world, an animal world of primitive urges. Flesh and teeth. Kill or be killed.



Yet, she led them to him.



That certainly set her apart from the dullard masses.



A sudden thought speared him. Could she find him now? In all his planning that hadn’t occurred.



It should have.







Mayan had spent the night in the beach house. Going through a filing cabinet of papers, receipts and bills yielded much information. He’d left her in New Jersey, in a house that appeared to belong someone named Leonard Bines. Credit card statements, utility billings all had dates almost two years old. Yet, everything remained on for use.



She doubted Mr. Bines had offered his home freely. Most likely the poor man had suffered a fate that required the kind of disposal tools she’d seen that penthouse bathroom.



Mayan composed herself as much as possible. She washed out her under things by hand, put them in the dryer and got into the shower. Afterward she sorted through dressers and closets until she found a pair of jeans and a polo shirt that would do. She dressed, dried her hair, and then located a pair of flip-flops in a guest room that almost fit. Lucky for her, Mr. Bines must have kept some things for guests.



Finally, she used a phonebook to look up taxi service, picked up the attaché, locked the door behind her and sat down on the porch to wait.



About fifteen minutes later the orange and white car pulled into the sandy drive. She stood, walked to the taxi and climbed in.



An older man who reminded Mayan of the patriarch in a popular TV series sat behind the wheel. Half turning, he asked, “Where can I take you?”



She’d counted fifteen thousand dollars in the case. Enough to get her started anywhere. But first she had to do something very difficult. “I need to go to Manhattan. A police department.”



“That’s farther than we travel.”



“Do you have a cell phone?“



He studied her for a second. “Yeah.”



“Take me as far as you can, call another cab and I’ll give you double fare.”







Roarke had spent three hours in his kayak trying vent the anger and frustration. Then, he returned home, drank enough Glenfiddich to knock him out for the night. Earlier this morning he tried Dani’s house phone, then her cell twice. He’d left a voice mail both places. She hadn’t returned the calls.



He paid bills, changed the oil in his truck and ate a late breakfast. Later he spent an hour on the weight bench, showered and dressed. Four o’clock. Still no word. Roarke phoned the captain and requested three personal days.



Ferelli replied, “You take all the time you need, Larkin. These forensic computer guys tell me it’ll take at least three to five days to complete all their protocols.”



Next, let his partner know. Fielding said, “Good. I’ll do the same.”



“Listen,” Roarke hadn’t discussed the involvement with Fielding, “I plan to spend the time with Dani.”



Unfazed it seemed, his partner snorted, “No shit.”



When Roarke arrived at her apartment Officer Darren looked surprised.



Roarke kept his tone even despite his strong suspicion he knew the answer to his question. “Is Miss Richards in?”



“She left this morning about eight. Told me she wouldn’t be back for at least two weeks.”



Roarke countered, “Yet you’re left on duty here?”



“Captain told us to hang on another day. Just in case that crazy preacher tries anything, Detective.”



He nodded, turned and went to pack.





Brand paced within the confines of his hotel room. He could only think of her. The psychic.



His idea of the world lie in twisted ruin thanks to her.



Courtesy the internet, he’d found her other residence.



She’d found him once, could again.



If she remained alive.