Cold Jade (8 page)

T
he next morning
at Denver FBI headquarters, Mack let SAC Kunzelman begin the meeting with the latest.

“We put a rush on all of the forensics and got a lot of hits. The first victim’s identity is Chris Velasquez from Miami, Florida.”

Other agents were rapidly pinning information to the victim charts placed around the room.

Victim number two is Emily Lu from San Francisco. Chinatown, to be exact.”

“Last seen?” Mack said.

“A sporting goods store.”

“Are we getting copies of everything, the detective’s reports, witness interviews?” Mack asked.

“It’s all on the way,” Kunzelman said. “We’ve also put out a message to all law enforcement agencies, asking about possible recent abductions/missing persons cases.”

“There has to be a link somewhere between these kids,” Mack said. “There has to be.”

“I agree. There has to be a pattern, a reason these kids were selected,” Kunzelman said.

Mack looked at the photographs on the wall. He had them seared into his memory, as well as the police reports on the abductions.

“You know, it’s interesting,” he said, as several random thoughts clicked into place.

“What is?” Kunzelman said.

“Stereotypes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“If you told me a kid was abducted in Miami, what ethnicity would I think the kid was, based on general statistics?”

Kunzelman thought about it. “Well, I believe Latinos are the majority in Miami, right? So that would be my guess.”

“And if a young girl was abducted from a mall in Iowa, what ethnicity would you guess she was?”

“Again, if you were playing the odds, you would say a white girl, a farmer’s daughter.”

Mack nodded.

“We all know that these days just about every ethnicity is present in every city across the country. But at first, I thought, well, it makes sense that a Latino was taken in Miami, a white girl was taken in Iowa, because statistically, those are the best odds, right?”

Kunzelman nodded. “Statistically speaking, yes.”

“Sure, even though I’m sure Des Moines has its ethnic neighborhoods, just like Miami has upscale white neighborhoods, the victims are members of the majority population,” Mack said. “Statistically, they would be the ones most likely taken.”

Kunzelman waited for the other shoe to drop.

“But what if it’s the other way around?” Mack asked.

“What do you mean?” Kunzelman asked as the room fell silent.

Mack gestured at the reports on the wall.

“What if the perp needed a young Latino, so they went to Miami? And then a young Asian girl so they went to Chinatown. And finally, they needed a purebred white girl of solid Midwestern stock, so they went to Des Moines?”

Kunzelman thought about it.

“Someone would have to be giving specific orders to fill. Like car thieves do,” he said.

“Exactly,” Mack answered. “And the person who took Rebecca Spencer in Des Moines, if her case is related to this one, was a woman. And women are rarely serial killers,” Mack said. “Poisoning has usually been their method of dispatch. Or they’re prostitutes killing their johns.”

Kunzelman nodded.

Mack looked over all of the police reports, the surveillance photos, all of the data compiled and on display at the war room in Denver FBI headquarters.

“Rarely do they engage in sexual activity,” Mack continued. “Maybe mutilation, but it’s usually on a male who’s wronged them, or that they’ve perceived has wronged them.”

He imagined the woman carting off these kids in the laundry cart, like dirty linen.

“Maybe she’s gay,” Kunzelman said.

Mack had thought about that, and dismissed it. Abduction and murder weren’t crimes committed because of homosexuality. There was always a deep streak of psychopathy involved.

No, whoever this woman was in the video, she wasn’t a serial killer with gender issues, or rape issues.

“She’s not the killer,” Mack said.

Kunzelman looked at him.

“She’s the collector.”

T
he very moment
he decided to kill himself, Charles Starkey felt several things. The first and most powerful emotion was a profound sense of relief. It washed over him like a gentle warm wave, soothing his reeling mind and body. For the first time in days, months, years, he felt like himself.

But he also felt a calm acceptance that he had done some very bad things. Awful things. Despicable, deplorable things.

And finally, inside the core of this new and virginal being, a small resolute wish to do something about it took hold. It was the last true part of himself that still remained after the swath of destruction left by his unchecked addiction.

He sat now at his desk in the only big office at his plumbing company’s building and turned to the computer. It had been a gift from the owner of The Store, just before his first major purchase. Starkey didn’t know a lot about computers, but the owner of The Store had told him he needed to use it for all of his transactions, that it was loaded with all of the necessary encryptions, whatever those were, so that they could “do business” without any authorities learning about it.

Now, Starkey launched his Internet browser.

No one had ever accused him of being an intellectual giant, but Starkey knew he was smart in a more base way. Cunning, like a rodent. And like most rodents, he had a strong instinct for danger, so he knew, as his fingers hit the keyboard, that what he was about to do would not go unnoticed by the very man who had provided him the computer in the first place.

So when he typed in the web address for the FBI, Charles Starkey knew that he was doing more than just acting on his last, final wish.

He was signing his own death warrant.

B
ernard Evans disembarked
from the private jet, walked down the portable staircase, collected his bags, and made his way to a rented Cadillac. He was following the directions given to him by the people from The Store. He did not intend to deviate in any way.

Nothing would prevent him from enjoying the greatest weekend of his life.

He stowed the bags in the trunk and drove away from the airport, the route ahead clearly mapped in his mind.

Evans felt confident that he’d concealed his tracks up to this point. The forging of a flight manifest had taken some effort and required the involvement, albeit unwittingly, of others. But it had been necessary.

He was taking no chances on this one.

In fact, he nearly beamed with pride at all of his safeguards. He was so thorough, it had always been the hallmark of his work. What made it so much more impressive was that no one would ever discover that a crime had taken place.

The Store made guarantees to its customers and Evans had no reason to doubt them. It had worked wonderfully so far.

Any smart business person knew, the big money came not in the occasional big purchase. But steady purchases over time by repeat customers.

That’s how the rich got richer.

The car, however, was simply rented under a third party’s company name, and could not be traced back to Evans, at least on paper. He had no doubt that when he was done with it, the car would be “cleaned” of all traces.

In any event, Evans followed the road ahead. He felt relaxed and excited, a slight warm buzz from the scotch on the plane. And now here he was in the early evening, darkness creeping over the world, and he felt like an explorer, going boldly into the world of the unknown. The dark, where good things happened to bad people, and bad things happened to whoever was targeted by those with money.

Evans had money.

And he had a taste for doing bad things.

He nearly laughed again and wished he had brought along a small bottle of booze for the car trip. But it was a short ride, maybe just a half hour tops. And then when he was picked up, he had no doubt his every need would be attended to. His every thirst quenched.

They had better be.

Considering how much he’d paid.

I
t had not been
a good day.

Charles Starkey hurried out of the office even though it was only early afternoon. But he had accomplished very little all day, other than growing his conviction that the world was closing in on him like a shadow he had no hope of outrunning.

Now, he drove away from the office in the opposite direction of home. He couldn’t help but look over his shoulder. There had been several calls on both his office phone and his cell.

Charles Starkey had answered neither.

Instead, he had spent the majority of the day pacing in his office, drinking from a bottle of vodka in his drawer and debating about calling the FBI again.

He was not good at waiting.

Starkey drove in no consistent direction, taking quick turns without using turn signals. He checked his mirrors so often he narrowly avoided hitting two parked cars.

It reminded him of the time when he was a kid and his parents had taken him to an amusement park. They had encouraged him to try out a mini roller coaster. Not the real ones. This was specifically designed for children, who filled the seats around him. He remembered the bar coming down over his body, his hands sticky from cotton candy.

And then the ride began.

The initial push had excited him as the little car picked up speed. But the first big loop found young Charles Starkey screaming at the top of his lungs. His face wet with tears, he never stopped screaming until the ride came to an end.

He had never been on another rollercoaster his entire life.

Until now.

Eventually he was confident that no one was following so at the first bar he spotted he pulled into the back lot, ensuring his car wouldn’t be visible from the street. He parked and went inside.

It was a dive bar with one bartender and three customers. He went to a booth, saw the bartender roll her eyes, and he sat down. He put his cell phone on the table.

He ordered a double whiskey on the rocks and gulped from it when it arrived. It was desperation time, he knew that. It was kill himself, be killed, or rescued by the FBI.

The more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea of witness protection.

The plan would be simple.

Testify against whoever was in charge of The Store, do whatever had to be done, then go into the FBI’s witness protection. Keep things under control for awhile. He could still go on the Internet, have some fun. And then, maybe after awhile, start to have some
real
fun again. Not cyber fun.

He found the bottom of his glass, and signaled the bartender for another. He knew he was drunk, but he felt mostly sick. The second drink was before him and he had a moment of dizziness. He felt like he was literally spinning until he grabbed the edges of the table with both hands and closed his eyes, squeezed them shut and ground his teeth.

When he opened them again, the spinning had stopped. He picked up the glass and drank it all down, threw a pair of twenties on the table and went out to his car. He keyed the ignition, and headed back toward his home. He had to piss, that was for sure. But maybe paranoia was getting the better of him. Could people from The Store know that he had already sent an email to the FBI? Could they be after him already? And what about the phone calls to his office? They could have been anyone.

By the time he made it back to his neighborhood, he was convinced that he could spend tonight in his own bed, and when he woke up, he would have a clearer perspective on things.

Still, just to be safe, he drove parallel to his street, and stole a glance down its length as he passed it.

That’s when he saw the car.

When he had begun his dealing with the mystery men in the dark coats, borrowing money at obscenely high interest rates, he had once joked about their penchant for driving dark, Lincoln town cars. Like they were an airport shuttle service. It had seemed to him back then that every wiseguy in the city drove one.

Just like the kind that was idling about four houses down from his house.

Charles Starkey immediately understood that he was not being paranoid and he wasn’t going home tonight.

I
t had been quite
easy for Butterfly to keep track of Bernard Evans’ movements. She had simply placed a tracking device on the underside of the car. An unnecessary precaution, but one she made anyway. Caution, she had learned, was never overrated. It was only overrated by those without the requisite patience.

She had given Evans a specific set of driving directions that amounted to one big circuit that caused him to pass by her vantage point at least three times. It was the best way for her to make sure he hadn’t been followed.

In addition to her visual confirmation, she followed the tracking device on a tablet and was satisfied that Evans was not deviating from the plan.

She had aborted previous deliveries when the buyer proved to be unreliable. There was too much at stake for everyone. No need for unnecessary risk.

Now, Butterfly waited while Evans made his last loop along the route.

At the appointed time, he pulled to a stop just up the road from her and she passed him by, flashing her headlights once. Butterfly checked her rearview mirror to make sure he was following.

In less than two minutes she led him to a nondescript building on a barren industrial lot. There were several structures on the property, all of them aluminum warehouses along with a few dumpsters and empty pallets.

Butterfly drove to the last building at the rear of the property, thumbed the door opener and pulled her vehicle inside. Once she saw that Evans had followed her in as well, she hit the control again and the door closed.

She adjusted the .45 fitted snugly in her shoulder holster, and stepped out of the shadows.

“You probably have to use the restroom,” she said.