Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) (23 page)

Agent Turner

I take my time driving to Richard Roundtree’s vacation home. It doesn’t even bother me anymore that I’m kind of hoping
Black Rose
will get to him before I can.

The only good thing about me catching them first would be it taking the spotlight off the one killer who deserves to live. I pull up to the river house and eye my partner.

“This guy’s dangerous.”

“I know the statistics for death by cop.”

I place my hand gently on her forearm and speak.

“Though it’s true that I don’t want to be responsible for this guy’s death, my ultimate concern is for you. I don’t know what I would do without you, Rene. You’re the biggest part of my life. It’s all about you. The job, my trust fund—none of it matters without you in my life.”

She answers in true Rene fashion.

“If that son of a bitch tries to hurt either one of us, he’s going down. I’ll put a bullet right between that fucker’s eyes.”

“Spoken like a true dominate female. I do love a strong, confident woman.”

I can’t help but chuckle. Leave it to Rene to be so elegant about how she voices her opinion.

“That’s the girl I know. Let’s clear this place and take this guy in with no issues.”

We quietly exit the car, making sure not to slam the doors and alert him to our presence. We creep up to the front door as covertly as possible. The fact that the door has been left ajar immediately sends up red flags. I can feel the familiar rush of adrenalin inherent to my job as it surges through my system like a drug. I don’t care how safe or prestigious a neighborhood is; a wanted man doesn’t leave a door open. My immediate thought is that I hope
Black Rose
has gotten to him before we could. I have never rooted for the bad guy before, but in this case,
Black Rose
isn’t the monster in the dark I’ve spent my career pursuing—Richard is.

We ease our way in and around corners. The place is a mess. There are empty beer bottles, pizza boxes, and takeout food containers everywhere, some with old food still in them starting to mold. Flies and ants are swarming the place, eating what’s left of the rotten food. This is not the same man we profiled as an organized serial killer with strong tendencies to be a complete control freak. One of my favorite parts of my job is the profiling aspect. Usually, those profiles change when the killer starts to escalate. He evolves, becoming bolder and more dangerous. This man has clearly devolved. Of course, profiling isn’t a foolproof system. Years of doing it has taught me that it works, but it’s constantly evolving, and it’s a lifelong learning process. As technology advances, so does our understanding of the criminal mind. The debate of nature versus nurture is an ongoing enigma, and technology is enabling us to delve into both aspects more precisely.

The kitchen counter is full of dirty dishes and ashtrays. Water has been left in the sink for so long that it’s stagnant, and gnats are floating around on the top of the filmy liquid. The place is disgusting and the polar opposite of the clean-cut image he projects for the public.

This isn’t what you’d expect from the professional entrepreneur who has spent his whole adult life being in control. It’s clear to my partner and me that no one is here, or whoever was here is now gone, and he didn’t bother shutting the door when he left.

We’re still operating in caution mode until we clear the upstairs and then make our way down into the basement. I holster my gun when we reach the bottom of the steps and view Richard Roundtree hanging from a noose.

“Wow, do you think he actually committed suicide or someone else staged it?” my partner asks me.

“Oh no, this is no staged scene. This is Richard Roundtree’s last attempt at having control.”

Charles

I look over the top of my glasses as I sit on the bed and work on my laptop. I’ve been doing most of my business from my computer at home since I’ve been in the middle of what we call
a
job
. It’s the term my wife and I have agreed upon as a code word that can be used out in public. For example, if a business meeting is scheduled and we’re in the middle of a kill, she’ll say, “we have a job,” and I will send one of my assistants in my stead. My staff has become accustomed to me being unavailable, so it hasn’t been an issue.

I’ve built a horse racing uniform business over the years. Due to hard work and having connections with people in celebrity circles, it’s become
the
place for professional jockeys to get their gear. We not only specialize in uniforms, but also in any gear they might need for nationwide races like the Kentucky Derby. Though I was born into money, I’ve made quite a bit in my own right. I am an entrepreneur at heart. In other words, my staff doesn’t question my absences because they’re accustomed to me pursuing the next big business opportunity.

I’ve grown up in high society, running in the same circles as those born with silver spoons in their mouths. In my world, you’re born into your status, and
new money
is considered a demeaning appellation. I’ve always hated the attitude of those who believe being born into prestige and money makes them better than the rest of society. From a young age, I vowed I would make my own way. Part of that was because I knew there were no guarantees for me. I’ve always known I was the result of an affair my mother had, and I was never sure if my father would disown me because of it. I even thought he might wait, leaving instructions with his lawyers to, upon his death, cut me out of his will as one last slap in the face. Why wouldn’t he? He’d spent years hating me because of my mother’s indiscretions, although I never understood why. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had numerous affairs as well. Hell, as far as I know, he probably has more illegitimate kids than my mother ever thought about having.

Though self-preservation is an excellent motivator for any man, I also have an immense amount of respect for those who work for all they attain. In business, I have surrounded myself with people who have this same strong work ethic, and it is why I have such unshakable faith in them during times like this. My staff is fully capable of running things without me physically being there, and I am fully capable of remaining in control when I’m unable to go in. That is exactly what I’m doing right now. At least, that’s what I was doing until the reporter on the television steals my attention.

I remove my glasses after I view the anchorwoman, who seems very pleased to inform the public she has an exclusive story on the serial killer terrorizing the local public.

I’m standing outside one of the residences of the local serial killer who’s had the public gripped in fear. After officials confirmed Richard Roundtree was the man responsible for the abduction and death of several local women, an all-points bulletin was put out on him. Authorities were just beginning to speculate the possibility that he had fled the country when they got a lead suggesting he was hiding out in his River Road vacation home. Residents of the Louisville, Kentucky area will be able to rest much easier now, knowing there is no chance of encountering the man who wreaked havoc on the city. We’ve just been informed Richard Roundtree committed suicide by hanging himself in the basement of this home you can see here behind me. This is certainly an unexpected twist in the already unusual story of a man who convinced the population he was a philanthropist through local media. Needless to say, people were shocked and appalled to find out Richard Roundtree lived this horrific double life. Hopefully, this will be the end of the nightmare.

“Well, well, well, it looks like our little mind-fuck worked out quite well. I must say that it’s extremely gratifying to have accomplished convincing a man to commit suicide. That’s a first for me.”

I turn to eye my wife, who is sitting beside me on the bed.

“Only you could pull off something like that. That’s the ultimate psychological game, and you managed to play it and win. Only the infamous
Black Rose
could succeed in coercing a man to take his own life.”

Agent Turner

Call it my gut or whatever you want, but I’ve spent years listening to my instincts, and I’m damn sure going to listen to them now. Nine in the morning comes and goes, and Brandon is a no-show. There’s no call from his lawyer—nothing. I doubt he even informed his lawyer of his plans to turn himself in. That is… if he even had the opportunity. My first thought isn’t that he’s on the run. He’s a man too broken and confused to function in a
life on the run
scenario.

We start our search at the bar, and I’m not shocked when the bartender on duty relays that Brandon Jenkins didn’t show up for work.

We’re quickly returning to the car when my partner’s voice interrupts my thoughts. If I’m correct, this nightmare will finally be over.

“You think Brandon’s dead, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“And there is a part of you that is glad?” she asks.

“I don’t really want to answer that.”

“Whether you want to answer it or not is irrelevant. I. Asked. You. A. Question.”

“Yes, Rene… there’s a part of me that’s elated those beasts have met their match. I’m tired of cases being won by whoever has the most money for the best lawyer. There’s a chance Richard Roundtree would have gone free just because he was a multi-millionaire. Even if he hadn’t gone free, he would have been living in a fucking resort because of his money. Jails for the rich and famous are nothing but a vacation, and we both know it. If the public were aware of half the political shit that goes on behind the scenes, they would be even more enraged than they already are and rightfully so. I believe
if
he’s dead, justice was served. I don’t give a fuck what platter it was served on anymore. We don’t know yet if he’s really dead, but if he is… then he got what he deserved. I can’t even begin to imagine the agony those women endured by his hand, and I want the rest of this city to stop living in terror. There’s some part of me that still believes in getting justice for the weak, and that part wants to see this ordeal be over. I have to admit, though, the main reason for that is so the spotlight is taken off
Black Rose
. Right now, he hasn’t been brought in for questioning because his identity is still unknown. I want to keep it that way, even if it means I never discover his true identity. As far as I’m concerned, I believe it’s the lesser of two evils. Even the public can see he’s an asset to the community. You’ve watched me do the right thing since the beginning of your career. I’m tired of always doing the right thing and then watching it come back and bite me in the ass.”

I hold my forefinger and thumb an inch apart for emphasis.

“I’m this close to retiring and packing up to go live on an island somewhere away from humanity. Do you know what stops me?” I don’t give her time to answer as I continue, “The sick, twisted part of me that wants to protect
Black Rose
; the crazy, fucked-up part of me that wants to steer the rest of the agency away from him and off his trail; and the conflicted part of me that wants to protect him are the reasons I don’t retire. Now, just how fucked up is that logic?”

“David, I feel the same way, and I don’t even have as many years in the agency as you do. Just from the time I have worked for the FBI, the horrendous things I’ve seen have made me wonder how long I can do this. It takes a certain kind of person to work with monsters every day. Looking into the dark abyss we see day after day wears on any agent. I’ll support you in whatever you decide to do. I don’t have a problem if you want to protect this particular vigilante. The only thing I have a problem with is you keeping things from me.”

I look over at her, taking my eyes off the road for just a second, and watch as she raises her hands in mock surrender.

“Hey, there’s no judgement here. I feel the same damn way.”

I breathe a sigh of relief—she understands—the most important person in my life is giving me her seal of approval. The part of me that has tried to keep my innermost feelings about a vigilante secret is now out in the open. I’m not in the habit of hiding things or keeping secrets from my partner. This secret, though, is the polar opposite of all that I normally stand for. It goes against everything ingrained in me, yet I can’t deny the bond with a serial killer still exists. How long can I walk this tightrope? Maybe when this case closes, it will be the end to the internal conflict I’m experiencing.

We pull up in front of Brandon’s house, and I look at my partner before I speak.

“Mum’s the word.”

As much as I trust her, I feel compelled to swear her to secrecy. It’s as if I’m still some child hiding behind pinky promises and best friends born of idealism. Her reaction is typical Rene; she rolls her eyes and gets out of the car, ignoring me.

We make our way up to the door and do the standard cop knock—loud and hard. When nobody answers, I take the butt of my gun and break through a pane of glass so I can reach in and turn the deadbolt. After gaining entry, we walk into an open area and begin searching the house. Room to room, we search the dwelling until we finally get to the master bedroom at the back of the home. Our suspect is lying on the bed. The agreement was that he would spend one more night in his own home and then voluntarily turn himself in. By all appearances, he just looks like someone sleeping in late, but a closer look reveals the truth. His body is in the fetal position, and his face is contorted as if his last moments were spent in excruciating pain.

I step around the vomit on the floor, trying not to disturb anything, as I reach over the body to pick up the note and the black rose left on the opposite side of the bed.

Agent Turner…

The torment has ended. For now, the monsters plaguing your sleep—the nightmare you realized had manifested into reality when you woke—will leave you be. I think Brandon’s death was befitting for a man who used his job to drug and abduct women. Since he deemed it justifiable to roofie the drinks of unsuspecting women, I think this punishment was suitable.

It really was quite simple. The color and sweet taste of anti-freeze was perfect to mix in the sports drink he loved so much.

I have to be honest. Watching him writhe in pain from the cramps, seeing him vomit, and listening to him beg for mercy as I watched him die were de-fucking-licious.

Until next time, agent…

Sincerely, Black Rose

I shove the note into my pocket and take the black rose to the kitchen, pushing it down into the garbage disposal and flipping the switch. When I look at my partner, her only response is, “Mum’s the word.”