Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) (16 page)

The Killer

Feeling numb, I sit in a recliner and pull a long drink from my bottle of beer. I’m in a state of utter disbelief. My eyes are glued to the television while a reporter informs me that one of my best friends in the world has been murdered. I listen incredulously; it’s as if the news broadcaster is speaking directly to me.

Though it was previously believed the serial killer vigilante known as Black Rose had either been imprisoned or was deceased, the crime scene behind me bears evidence of his return. Though law enforcement won’t confirm or deny that the infamous Black Rose is making a comeback, I was able to get close enough to witness that a black rose and a note written in ransom font were left on the body of the victim. Could this be a copycat, or has the man known as Black Rose returned to avenge the community? Only time will tell…

For the first time I can remember since my childhood, I feel the clenching talons of fear wrap around my heart.
The person responsible for killing the man I’d grown up with had come in like a ghost, and he’d left no evidence behind, not even a hint as to who he was beyond that damn flower. He had the advantage because he knew who I was, and he obviously knew the identities of the men who did my bidding.

This isn’t the way things were supposed to go. I had purposely antagonized him to bring him out to play, but now it’s blatantly clear to me that I may have pulled the wrong tiger’s tail. This guy is crazy.

I take a moment to ponder what kind of man I’m truly dealing with. He’s organized; I know that to be true since he had been able to subdue my buddy with no issues. I pride myself in the fact that I am the smartest in our group, but my guys are by no means stupid. We’ve all received the benefit of private school education and attended the best universities. They’ve been working with me for years, learning everything I could teach them about serial killing.

This guy,
Black Rose,
has to have some serious money or powerful connections to even find out who we are and that we’re working together. The thought crosses my mind that my adversary might even be a cop.

Yes, I had wanted to play a game with a fellow serial killer, but now it seems I have gotten much more than I had anticipated. In a sense, I guess I underestimated my playmate. I had been hoping for a battle of wits, a game of sorts, to see who could pull off the perfect murder. What I have done, though, is piss off a man who is clearly on a mission to avenge the women we killed. I down the rest of my beer and head into the kitchen to grab another, trying to dull the fear lodged in my chest by drowning it in alcohol. How long will it be before he comes after the rest of us? Will he save me for last, making me endure the guilt of knowing I’m the cause of my best friends’ deaths? Only time will tell…

I never counted on this game of wits turning into a mind-fucking prank on me. He’s put me in a position where I’m overthinking all the
what ifs
involved—what if this happens; what if that happens? I want to stop the questions in my head, and the only way I know to do that is to dull them. I never thought I’d be the type of man who would self-medicate with booze, but I’ve reached an all-time low. This is the first time in my life of crime I’ve ever been made to feel even an inkling of what it was like for the women I abducted—what it’s like to be made a victim.

Agent Turner

I quit trying to fight the conflicted feelings I have about this serial killer years ago. I also quit fighting the connection we share. Some bonds in life are sealed by fate, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.

Even during the years he’d been missing, he was always in the back of my mind, popping up at the most inopportune times. No matter how many years of police training I have ingrained in me, telling me all the protocols and due processes of the judicial system, I respect
Black Rose
. He’s able to do what I would love to do myself if my hands weren’t tied by the law. He kills off the scum of the city who prey on the weak. Despite the professional, emotionally detached façade I choose to publically display, deep down inside I’m just like everyone else—human. I need to believe in something higher than the human race. Call it karma, or whatever else you want to term it, but shouldn’t people get what’s coming to them?

“You know, there are some things that are bugging me.”

I turn my chair, giving my partner my full attention. I learned years ago to listen to her gut feelings as if they were my own.

“When we interviewed Becky Woodrow, there were a couple of things she said that didn’t make sense to me.”

“Like what?”

She has my complete attention now. I want to break this case before any more women die.

“Well, remember when she said he would go off on screaming tangents?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head as I listen intently.

“I believe what she said about him boasting to her that he beat a woman so badly she was in the hospital. Also, she said he kept threatening her about bringing his friends over so he could watch her be tortured. What if this guy isn’t working alone? It’s feasible he was telling her all his dirty little secrets because he planned on killing her. In his mind, dead men don’t talk, so why not use his past crimes to scare the shit out of her?”

“You think Richard was working with the guy
Black Rose
killed?” I ask her.

“His note on the body, warning us that he’d go after the other three, sure implied it.”

“So, if there is a woman in the hospital who matches the same MO, she may be able to identify the two unknown suspects.”

It isn’t a question; it’s a statement. I grab my standard black FBI suit coat and make my way towards the door.

“Let’s go.”

She doesn’t ask where because she already knows. I’m going to the hospital to find that woman.

Melanie

I squirm under my husband’s penetrating gaze. Visions of the night before come to the forefront of my mind, and I blush under his intense scrutiny. His copper colored hair, piercing blue eyes, and fit physique make a wickedly handsome combination, and I still catch myself staring at him in awe. I’m flattered by the way other women fall all over him to get his attention, but still, after all these years, he only has eyes for me.

“As much as I would love to sit and stare at you, my lady, we have business to tend to.”

I know he can immediately see the reluctance on my face; I’d grown accustomed to his ability to read me like an open book years ago.

“What?” I cock my head, eying him with skepticism.

“Well, an important part of killing successfully is to not develop any MOs you don’t mean to establish. For example, I leave a black rose and a note written in ransom font. That’s my signature though, not my MO. The cops and the other two men are going to be looking for a woman who came into a bar and picked up a guy. I wouldn’t be shocked if they’ve already viewed the security tape footage and seen you.”

My stomach knots at the thought, but he answers me before I can ask.

“Nobody would ever recognize you in that trashy getup you were wearing.”

“Trashy? Geez, thanks,” I facetiously reply, rolling my eyes.

“I’m not saying anything derogatory about you. What I am saying, however, is that it was the polar opposite of the sexy innocence you normally portray. I like that about you. With your streaked, chestnut brown hair, your big brown eyes, and your freckles, you are seriously sexy. You’re so pure, baby. I love you, girl.”

“I love you too, but I want you to finish; I’m here to learn.”

“Very good, grasshopper,” he teases. “Basically, what it boils down to is that we’ve got to come up with a different plan to lure these guys.”

“Well, you already know the guys work at that bar, and when they’re not working, they’re usually there just hanging out. Let’s go and stake it out until we see the men matching the pictures you got online. When they leave, we can follow them home. Nothing says we
have
to torture them. We can make our move in the middle of the night, sedate them, and then shoot them full of sodium pentothal just like we did the last one. You may not get the pleasure of torturing them, but you will ensure no more women die. Dead men can’t kill, right?”

“You’re right, and that, young lady, is the ultimate goal.”