“Most of it is, and he worked damn hard to keep Trask Enterprises off the radar. But Adam Scott was a sick bastard, and he couldn’t help himself—he killed women for pleasure, and that’s what tripped him up. It was when he started killing online that we could finally pursue him.” Kate rubbed her temples. “Sometimes, the system is fucked,” she mumbled.
Noah didn’t exactly disagree with her but still thought their system was the best in the world. In his ten years in the Air Force, most of it in the Ravens security force, he’d been in dozens of countries and had seen the worst governments and justice systems in existence.
Noah sat at an extra terminal and pulled up the names Kate had identified. “There are only two who are local—both with criminal records. And one is already dead.”
Noah looked at Andrew “Ace” Shuman, who’d been in and out of prison most of his life. Prostitution, racketeering, assault. According to Morton’s file, Shuman had been a bodyguard. His official title with Trask Enterprises was “Head of Security.” He’d been out of prison for three years and seemed to have kept his nose clean, but as Noah knew, most were criminals for life: career criminals—few changed their stripes, they just got better at hiding.
“I’ll talk to Shuman,” Noah said. “He knew Ralston and Morton.”
“Shuman is a piece of work, and dangerous,” Kate said. “I had a couple of run-ins with him, but couldn’t nail him for anything substantive. He was in prison before Trask went into hiding—assault, I think. I tried to get him to turn on Trask, and he wouldn’t.”
“Good to know. He sounds like a possible.”
“Oh yeah, if Morton pissed Shuman off, there’s no doubt Shuman could kill him. But why?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
“Anything on Ralston?”
“ERT is processing the evidence. His computer was trashed, the hard drive destroyed.”
“The killer didn’t want us to find anything.”
“They haven’t narrowed time of death. The autopsy is scheduled for later this afternoon. The killer left the windows open; the apartment was a friggin’ icebox. But the ERT said he’d been dead for more than forty-eight hours, and the last witness we spoke to saw him coming home Friday night at approximately six-thirty in the evening.”
“So the big question is whether he was killed before or after Morton,” Kate said.
“I don’t think that really matters. He was dead before his flight left on Sunday morning. I’d like to find out what kind of information he gave to policeman Jerry Biggler.”
“Biggler?” Kate frowned.
“Ralston was a CI—a criminal informant. He talked only to Jerry Biggler, a D.C. cop who died of a heart attack six months after he retired—back in 2006.”
“You think Ralston was murdered because he’d been an informant? Why now? It doesn’t make sense.”
She was right, but Noah suspected there was something here. He just hadn’t been able to figure it out yet.
But he would. He always did.
EIGHTEEN
I watch her skate on the ice with her boyfriend. She laughs at something he said. Lucy Kincaid is having fun.
Lucy Kincaid is a whore. I saw her sex tape. I know exactly who she is. She’s a liar. And a killer. A whoring, lying killer.
I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing. Control. Need control. Slowly I breathe in. Hold it. Release. In. Out. Calm down.
I repeat the deep breathing until I regain my composure. Acting out of anger, in public, would be unwise. I do not want to go to prison. I could kill her now, but I would be arrested.
I will kill her, and I will not be caught. They won’t find her body, because there will be nothing left to find. Just like the other females.
I allow the images to flood my mind. They make me smile. The women I trained. How well they learned to obey as a good wife should.
But like all females, when I gave them the chance to make the right decision, they always chose the wrong option. They all lied.
Lucy Kincaid is the worst of the lot. She is the poster girl for all that is wrong with the female of the species. Did she think she was equal to men? Superior? That she could kill without punishment? That she could entice me with her snake tongue, trying to convince me that she was someone she wasn’t?
Rosemarie lied as well. She told me she would never leave. Some women leave in mind, some in body. Rosemarie had been everything to me. Perfect. She did everything I told her. I gave her everything in return for her obedience. I loved her. I loved her!
Vixen! She tricked me. The lying, cheating whore deceived me.
My father had warned me, but I did not listen because I believed I had learned from his mistakes.
Father knew best …
I never allowed another woman to deceive me, until Lucy Kincaid said she was someone she wasn’t.
She slips and her boyfriend grabs her before she falls to the ice. My hand wraps around the cold grip of my gun. I want to shoot her now. Pull the nine-millimeter from my pocket and press the trigger. One bullet, two bullets, three bullets, four … the entire clip. Watch her blood spill onto the ice. Watch her blood spray across her boyfriend’s too-pretty face. Watch Mr. Pussy-Whipped Boyfriend look down in horror at his dead whore.
He, too, has been deceived, has he not? He will learn, just as I have, that no woman is trustworthy.
Maybe it would be better if I kill her boyfriend first. A bullet in the right part of his skull would force his brains out on the ice, all over her. She would stare, horrified, at the headless corpse. Then I would walk over and tell her he died because of her. I would tell her who I really am and why she will die.
Because she is a Jezebel. A liar. Pretending to be someone she is not.
I need to hear her pleas for mercy. I need to taste the tears on her face. I need to see her break. I need to smell her fear. I need for her to obey.
Calm. Down. Breathe.
I take my hand off the grip of my gun because I am too tempted to pull the trigger.
I breathe easier now as I watch Lucy Kincaid rub up against her boyfriend. He is being led by the whore, given to weakness because of her deceit. He may have to die, but that is not my first choice. Only if he interferes.
I must be strong. This is the wrong place for action. I already draw looks because I don’t have a child or a wife on my arm. It is time for me to leave.
I’m watching you, Lucy. From now until the day you die.
Lucy had never been ice-skating before.
After brunch, Sean took her to an outdoor skating rink in Arlington. Lucy argued.
“I barely know how to roller-skate.”
Sean said, “But you ski, right?”
“Not well. I’m still on the bunny slopes.”
“Skiing is next, then. It’s all about balance.”
“There’s a huge difference between ice and snow. Ice is hard. It hurts more when you fall.”
“So don’t fall.”
She glared at him. “You think this is funny.”
He feigned offense. “I take my playtime very seriously.”
She sighed. “I don’t know,” she said, looking out at the rink, dominated by kids who could skate rings around her. “Maybe we should go to a pool hall. I can play a wicked game of pool—”