Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) (14 page)

Melanie

His voice sounds gravelly in my ear when he leans over my back, giving me directions on what to do concerning the man lying in the other room. Though his voice is whisper soft, the raspy growl of a man enraged is evident.

“You. Are. Mine. Now, you listen very closely to everything I tell you because I’ll be damned if either one of us is going to prison. Keep the wig on. When we go back into the room, ignore the guy and wash your hands with the surgical soap at the industrial sink. Don’t do anything or say anything unless I ask it of you. I don’t want you interacting with him at all. Do you understand me?”

I listen as he cleans me off, but I can’t help but wonder how he’s going to kill the man. Will it be a bloody mess that sickens me, or will it be a clean kill? As curious as I am, I’m too wary of his current mood to ask him. My only reply is nervously biting my bottom lip and nodding my head in the affirmative. My husband isn’t in the mood for any crap, and I have no intention of pissing him off any further. I know him well enough to know he’s angry about another man pawing all over me; I’ve paid my penance by being marked, but our victim has yet to pay his. There will be retribution for touching
Black Rose’s
property. I’m not dealing with Charles, my husband, right now. I’m dealing with
Black Rose
. Clearly, my husband is in the mindset of a serial killer. Though I’ve seen what I term as
the serial killer drop
—his personality after a kill—this is the first time I’ve seen him beforehand.

I follow him into the kill room and do exactly as he had directed me. My attention is drawn toward my husband as he stands at the head of the table, eyeing our captive. He’s just regained consciousness but is still in a very groggy state.

“You’ve been a bad boy. Now, how difficult things are going to be for you depends on how you answer my questions.”

“Who are you, you crazy motherfucker?”

My husband’s chuckle holds a sinister tone. He quickly goes from laughing to staring him down.

“I’m your worst fucking nightmare. I’m also the one asking the questions. Where is Becky Woodrow?”

“I don’t know no bitch by that name!”

I watch my husband as he calmly wheels over a small steel table like one normally used during surgeries. It holds various implements of torture, and they’re all neatly laid out on a blue, heavy-duty, shop paper towel. Everything in this room is perfectly kept in order and sanitary. Looking around, it’s reminiscent of the operating rooms I have worked in on a daily basis for the past several years. I watch as he picks up a skewer that has been honed to a razor sharp point. It’s evident that a lot of time and precise attention have been given to even the smallest detail. I’m finding out very quickly my husband is even more meticulous than I ever could have suspected. I’ve always known he was a man given to detail in business and in the bedroom. What I’m witnessing now, though, takes it to a whole new level, and he’s only just now getting started. I’m mesmerized by what I’m witnessing, like a child taking in every element of my surroundings. There’s an integral part of his personality I never anticipated; he’s eerily calm. For some reason, that scares me more than his anger. He is in complete control of not only his victim, but also himself. That takes a hell of a lot of discipline.

I watch my husband as he leans down and holds the skewer up above the restrained man’s head. The smirk on his face conveys how much he’s going to enjoy torturing the man he has at his mercy. The question is… why do I find all of this so damn sexy? I’m enjoying the cold, calculated expressions of cruelty on his face. There must be a part of me that is as sick and as twisted as he is to be enjoying this so much.

“I’m not going to lie. This is going to hurt like a bitch. I could just give you truth serum, but you don’t fucking deserve the easy way out.”

“Fuck you, you crazy bastard.”

“You have no idea just how true that statement is, but you will soon enough.”

I cringe as my husband swiftly and efficiently shoves the skewer beneath the man’s nail, leaving no doubt that he’s done this before. His efficient yet precise agility is a dead giveaway.

“I have to admit this is one of my favorite forms of torture. After all the years I’ve been torturing and killing scumbags like you, I’m still intrigued by the knowledge that something so small can be so effective in causing such tremendous pain.”

His voice is soft and melodic, almost soothing to the point of being hypnotic. I’m affected despite the sound of it almost being drowned out by the man’s blood-curdling screams. Recollection of driving through the isolated area goes through my head. The memory reassures me and stops me from panicking that someone will hear his incessant shrieks.

I watch as my husband repeats the process on two more fingers, intermittently flicking the skewers or pushing them deeper, as he continues to question our target. Eight fingers later, the man’s screaming Richard Roundtree’s address. We already have his address, but we didn’t think he would be holding Becky Woodrow there. It would be another stupid move on his part if it’s true. For a businessman, he certainly makes a lot of dumb decisions and has yet to impress me. Maybe he’s been lulled into complacency because of his pseudo celebrity status, thinking the rules no longer apply to him. Perhaps he’s so narcissistic that he believes he’s above the law.

Once again, my husband displays control as he smoothly saunters over to the cabinet where he keeps the medical supplies. After retrieving a vial, he looks in my direction and speaks.

“Sodium Pentothal, to stop his black heart.”

He injects the serum, and I watch the first person we kill together as the life slowly leaves his body.

Agent Turner

Standing in an alley and looking down on a dead man’s body, I’m feeling a sense of déjà vu. The victim was thrown out by a dumpster, a calling card I’m familiar with. This is
Black Rose’s
way of telling the community that the dead man was trash that’s been taken out.

“Well, it looks like our guy is back in business.”

The single black rose and a picture of a woman I’ve never seen are both neatly pinned to the dead man’s body, sending the message loud and clear that he’s just getting started. The note simply reads:

Agent Turner,

Find this woman, or I’m going after the other three.

Black Rose…

An address and the name, Richard Roundtree, a local quasi-celebrity, are provided. I instinctively know this is a race against time. I let the officer on scene and the ME know we’re going to check out a lead and quickly take off with my partner in tow.

I’m navigating through early morning traffic when my partner’s voice cuts through the tense silence.

“What do you think provoked him into going back to his old ways?” She gives me no time to answer before firing off another question. “What is it about you that makes him single you out?”

“He trusts me,” I answer with no hesitation. “In his world, he has a very tight inner-circle he respects.”

“What are you saying? Does he think cops are on the take?”

“In his mind, he’s not going to allow himself to be exploited by anyone. He knows cops view him as a career promotion, vigilantes view him as a source to do their dirty work, reporters view him as a front page news story, and on and on it goes.”

“Your relationship with him goes further than that. Others don’t see it, but I’m not just anyone. I’m more than just your partner.”

Her words bring a smile to my face.

“Yes, Rene, you are much more than just my partner.”

“Answer me. I want to know what this connection is that the two of you share.”

“I can’t explain it, but I’ll try.
Black Rose
picks who he bonds with. I have no idea what initially draws him to those people, but I’d be willing to bet he does, or did, the same thing with whatever love interest he has in his life.”

“Maybe that’s why he quit killing. Maybe he stopped for love. Do you think he’s married with a family after all these years?”

“That’s a damn good question, girl, and you’re full of them today, aren’t you?”

She waves her fingers in front of her mouth to blow on them, and once again, she brings a smile to my face. She lures out a part of me no one else can—a playful side.

I pull in front of the address I’ve been given and turn my body to face her, eying her seriously.

“We’ve got to clear the house when we go in, so be careful.”

“Worried something is going to happen to me?”

“No, you’re too mean for someone to hurt you.”

“Ah, you know me so well.”

Her playful demeanor and tone changes as she studies Richard’s home. Its opulence is testimony to a man living in the lap of luxury at the expense of those less fortunate.

By the looks of the home we’re parked in front of, the man has made millions off the
volunteer
work he does.
Reaching out to the community, my ass. What a fucking joke.

“It looks like reaching out to the community has been good to this guy.”

She speaks as if reading my mind. With the way she reads me, I swear I wonder at times if she actually can tap into my thoughts. Our relationship isn’t conventional, and we don’t keep secrets. She’s too mean to get hurt by one of the criminals we chase, and she’s damn sure too mean to stand for me keeping secrets from her.

“My thoughts precisely,” I answer.

“I think I hear someone screaming for help in there.”

We both know she doesn’t hear anything, but we need probable cause to get in the house and rescue the woman. I have no doubt the information
Black Rose
provided us is good; he’s never let me down before. Whoever he is, he has access to the same kind of Intel I do as an agent. I’ve always believed he has money. Between his knowledge of police procedure and his ability to get inside information on his victims, he has to have means and resources. Long ago, I thought he might be a cop or an agent, but I no longer believe that after years of watching his technique.

We quietly creep up to the back door, and using the butt of my gun, I bust through the small pane in the back door. I slip my arm in to unlock and open the door, carefully avoiding the shards of glass still protruding from the wooden frame.

We make our way in and walk through a laundry room that ends at a basement door. As cliché as it is, the basement is the most likely place to find a woman who’s been abducted.

“We were supposed to clear the house first,” my partner whispers as we lightly tread down the basement steps.

“Plans change.”

My heart sinks when we arrive at the bottom of the stairs. I don’t see anyone here. As we walk a little further into the room, though, the slightly muffled sound of a gagged woman reaches our ears, prompting us to quickly round the corner. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see someone. This stranger, this woman whom I don’t even know, will survive. It’s times like this that make it all worth it. All the heinous shit I see day to day can be so discouraging at times, but a rescue like this reminds me of why I became an agent.

“Keep an eye out,” my partner directs before hurrying over to free the woman from the duct tape and rope holding her captive.

“Oh God, please hurry. He’ll be back soon. He said he would.”

I can hear the panic in the woman’s voice, and it only serves to make me even angrier at this monster whose whole life is turning out to be one huge lie.

“We’ll get you out of here first,” my partner assures her.

As soon as she’s free, and we have her out in the car, we call in for backup and wait. I want to get this poor woman somewhere safe, but we can’t take our eyes off the property in case Richard returns. In just moments, the place is swarming with cops, and the property is taped off as a crime scene. The victim refused medical assistance, so we arrange for a marked car to take her back to the station for questioning while we focus our attention back on the house. I hate turning Becky Woodrow over to another officer, but I can’t take the chance of one of my colleagues overlooking a critical piece of evidence. No matter how careful cops are, crime scenes get compromised. My partner is obviously of the same mind as she calls out to me over her shoulder, already on her way inside.

“Come on, I want to get to his office before anybody else does.”

We are both well aware of the potential his office has to reveal things even the basement crime scene won’t. Getting your hands on a criminal’s computer is like winning the evidence lottery. There are always things on hard drives that expose the inner workings of madmen.

When we enter his office, I immediately make a beeline for his desk. I grab the computer, wind up the power cord, and set it on the desk before I begin the task of looking through his desk drawers and files. No matter how tech savvy someone is, there are certain things that still have to be done old school with a pen and paper.

“Jackpot! The son of a bitch has a file with printed out pictures.”

“Grab the whole file,” I tell her as I continue to sift through notes with my gloved hands.

“Hey, what is this?”

I look down to see my partner, bent over and feeling around on the underside of the file drawer she’s been searching. She pulls her arm out from under the drawer, now holding a small key in her hand.

“Looks like a firebox key.”

I begin moving items and open a large drawer on the other side of the desk but there’s no locked box.

“Bedroom closet,” I yell out.

I make my way into the adjoining master suite and find what I’m looking for after moving some sweaters on a top shelf. So cliché… why do people always hide stuff at the top of their closets?

We set the box down on the bed, and I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my system as I watch my partner slip the key inside the lock. As soon as she opens it, we both speak…

“Trophies.”

The box holds various trinkets. It’s mostly just small pieces of worthless jewelry, but what catches my eye are the locks of hair he’s obviously cut from each of his victims. Each tress of hair has been tied with a different color ribbon and then placed in individual, small, zippered, see-through bags. It’s evident a lot of care has been taken with bundling the strands. The baggies aren’t cheap supermarket disposals; they’re more like what jewelry might be placed in to avoid tarnishing or fingerprints. Details matter in our line of work. Serial killers are detailed. Even the most unorganized ones have preferences, meaning there are certain things that really matter to them. If I can figure out what’s important to them—what really drives them—it helps me build a profile, and profiling works.

“Let’s go, Rene. This gives us more than enough to work with, and the uniforms can handle anything else they find here.”

We gather up the evidence we’ve obtained and head back out to the car. I stop to address one of the officers.

“Officer McGee…”

I watch his face light up as he eyes my partner. He’s had a crush on her for years, and though it makes me insanely jealous, this is one time I’m going to use it to my advantage.

“Do me a favor and keep the crime scene clean. Monitor who’s walking in and out of here, and call us if something comes up you think we should know about.”

When I attempt to hand him a business card, he pulls his
aww shucks
attitude on me.

“I’ll just call your partner. I don’t need your card; I’ve got both your numbers on speed dial.”

I just bet you do.

I resist the urge to say something that would establish my claim and reveal my territorial side where all things Rene are concerned. It’s a feat of monumental proportions, but I manage to keep my mask of control in place as I turn to walk out the front door. It’s when I look over my shoulder, while I’m holding the door open for her, that I see my partner place a hand on his arm as she thanks him. She looks the consummate professional with one hand carrying evidence and the other just lightly touching a colleague’s arm as she speaks. Still, she’s smiling and touching another man, he’s completely and utterly enthralled, and I’m seething with jealousy. She’s not one to flirt, but I still don’t like what I see.

“What was that about?” I growl in her direction when she finally joins me at the back of the SUV where I’m storing the evidence.

“You shouldn’t use me as a pawn and then get jealous when it works, love.”

“It’s Agent Turner at work!”

The only answer she gives in response is a chuckle and a look that conveys she knows exactly what I did.

How does she always do that?