9 Kill for Me

  Mrs. Papadopoulos shrugged. “Already I have forgotten her.” Then she smiled kindly. “You didn’t have to save her.”

  Susannah swallowed hard. She’d had blood drawn and cultures taken, knowing every possible test would be run to ensure her health. Still it was possible she could pay dearly for what she had done today.

  But Jane Doe had paid dearly for what she had not done all those years ago. “Yes, I did. I really did.”

  “Then yes, I do,” Mrs. Papadopoulos said, so gently that new tears sprang to Susannah’s eyes. “I really do. So say thank you and allow me this good deed today.”

  The need to do a good deed Susannah could understand. “I’m a seven petite,” she said. “Thank you.” Luke’s mother gave her a giant hug and left her alone in the chapel.

  Susannah squared her shoulders. She’d done what she needed to do this morning when she’d found the box. She’d done what she needed to do that afternoon, when she’d saved Jane Doe from bleeding to death. Now she’d do what she needed to do tonight. Daniel’s boss had given her the phone number for Chloe Hathaway, the state’s attorney who’d be prosecuting the sole remaining survivor of Simon’s club.

  Susannah picked up her briefcase and left the haven of the chapel. She had things to do. Calls to make. Her self-respect to regain. But first she’d check on Jane Doe.

  Ridgefield House, Friday, February 2, 8:00 p.m.

  “They’re ready,” Rocky said.

  Looking up from the personnel files on the computer screen, Bobby stowed the fury that bubbled up at the sight of Rocky, who’d put everything in jeopardy. I should have gone to the river place myself. Now Bobby had to find a new doctor to issue health certificates on each shipment and a new cop on the inside of Dutton’s sheriff’s office.

  At least Chili had come through. Finally. The scanner was abuzz with calls for every available firehouse to converge on Granville’s house. Mansfield’s should be next. Who knew what incriminating evidence those two had kept in their homes?

  The business would be protected. And tonight there was money to be made.

  Bobby looked over the five young women standing in a row. Two were brand new pretties from the river place and they were clean again, dressed and presentable. The other three were old hands. Every one had her eyes downcast. Every one trembled, two of them shaking so hard their dangling earrings swayed. Good. Fear was good.

  The outcome of tonight’s business venture was a foregone conclusion in Bobby’s mind. Haynes liked blondes with that healthy, tanned, all-American look. That look was Bobby’s niche in an ever-expanding market of foreign imports. They offered their clients a chance to buy American. “Haynes will choose the blonde. Ashley, right?”

  “No.” The blonde shrank away while the other four slumped in relief. “Please.”

  Bobby smiled pleasantly. “Rocky, what is Ashley’s home address?”

  “Her family lives at 721 Snowbird Drive, Panama City, Florida,” Rocky replied instantly. “Her mother died two years ago and her father works the night shift. Now that she’s ‘run away,’ her father’s hired a sitter to stay with her brother while he’s at work. Her brother sometimes sneaks out at night to hang at the—”

  “That’s good enough,” Bobby said when the blonde began to cry. “I know everything about your family, Ashley. One misstep, one dissatisfied client, and someone in your house will die. Painfully. You’re the one who wanted adventure and now you have it. So stop crying. My clients want smiles. Rocky, get them out of here. I have work to do.”

  Bobby reopened the personnel files and was deep into review of a very promising medical candidate when the throwaway cell phone trilled. This was the number given to contacts and informers, those who could be convinced to become Bobby’s personnel because they’d done some very naughty things they didn’t want made public.

  Information was power. Bobby liked power. The incoming number had an Atlanta area code. “Yes?”

  “You said to call if anything happened at the hospital. I have information.”

  It took Bobby a few moments to place the voice. Oh, yes. Jennifer Ohman, the ICU nurse with the drug problem. Informants usually had a drug problem. Or a gambling problem. Or a sex problem. Whatever the secret addiction, the result was the same.

  “Well, go ahead. I don’t have all day.”

  “Two patients were airlifted from Dutton. Special Agent Daniel Vartanian was one.”

  Bobby abruptly straightened. That Vartanian had been shot had been on the police scanner, along with the deaths of Loomis, Mansfield, Granville, and Mack O’Brien, plus the guard they hadn’t identified. Chatter regarding any other dead bodies the police might have found in the bunker was noticeably absent. “Who was the second?”

  “She’s a Jane Doe, sixteen or seventeen. She was critical but survived surgery.”

  Bobby slowly stood, the swirling, bubbling fury within becoming flat dread. “And?”

  “She’s stable. They’re keeping her secret, with a guard posted at her door, 24/7.”

  Bobby drew a very deep breath. Rocky had been very clear that all the girls left behind were dead. So either this girl was a modern-day Lazarus, or Rocky had lied. Either way, Rocky had made a serious miscalculation. “I see.”

  “There’s more. Two others came in by ambulance, a man and a woman. Bailey Crighton was one. She’s the woman who’s been missing for a week.”

  “I know who she is.” Granville, you asshole. Rocky, you idiot. “And the man?”

  “Some army chaplain. Beasley. No, Beardsley. That’s it. They’re both in stable condition. That’s all I know.” The nurse hesitated. “So now we’re even, right?”

  Now there were three people to neutralize and one lone nurse would not be sufficient, but the nurse would still be a valuable asset. “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. I want the girl dead. Poison her, smother her, I don’t care. I do not want her to wake up. Do you understand?”

  “But . . . No. I won’t do that.”

  That’s what they all said, initially. Some had to be pushed harder than others, but in the end the outcome was the same. Every one did as they were told. “Yes, you will.”

  “But I can’t.” The nurse sounded horrified. They all said that, too.

  “Let’s see . . .” The file on the nurse was thorough. Bobby’s cop on the inside of Atlanta PD had done well, as usual. “You live with your sister. Your son lives with his father, because you lost custody. You let your husband have your son if he wouldn’t expose your little problem. How considerate of him. You can’t watch them all the time, dear.”

  “I’ll . . . I’ll go to the police,” the nurse said, desperation pushing the horror aside.

  “And tell them what? That you were caught with drugs you stole from your hospital with intent to both use and sell, but my cop let you go and now some evil villain is blackmailing you? How long do you think you’ll keep your job when the truth comes out? The day my cop let you go with a warning, you belonged to me. You’ll kill the girl tonight or by this time tomorrow one person in your family will be dead. For every day you delay, another person in your family will die. Now go do what you’re told.”

  Bobby hung up, then placed another call. “Paul, it’s me.”

  There was a beat of silence, then a low whistle. “Hell of a mess you got there.”

  “Really?” Bobby drawled, annoyed. “I had no idea. Look, I need you. Usual pay, usual way.” Paul was a useful man—a no-nonsense cop with a wide, reliable information network and absolutely no moral compass other than unwavering loyalty to the highest bidder. “I want to know who in GBI is working the Granville case by midnight, down to the lowest admin assistant.”

  “Or the guy emptying the trash. Yeah, I got it.”

  “Good. I want to know which local departments are supporting them and if any of the locals are deep enough to be an ear. I want to know their steps—”

  “Before they take them,” Paul finished. “Got that, too. Is that all?”


  Bobby studied the photo Charles had left that afternoon in an oh-so-clever parting jab. In it a stone-faced Susannah Vartanian stood next to her brother at their parents’ funeral. Dealing with Susannah would have to wait for now, thanks to Rocky’s blunder. But when all the threats to the business were neutralized, it would be Susannah’s turn.

  “For now, but stay ready. I’ll be waiting for your call. Don’t be late.”

  “Have I ever been?” And not waiting for an answer, Paul was gone.

  “Rocky! Come here.”

  Rocky’s footsteps thundered down the stairs. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything. I have some extra duty for you. It’s time to start fixing your mess.”

  Chapter Six

  Dutton, Friday, February 2, 8:20 p.m.

  Luke bolted from his car to where Agent Pete Haywood stood grimly watching Dr. Toby Granville’s house—and every speck of evidence inside it—burn. The girls could be anywhere and any links to Granville’s partner were going up in smoke.

  “What the goddamn hell happened here?” Luke demanded, but Pete didn’t respond. He didn’t move at all, just kept watching the flames as if hypnotized. “Pete.” Luke grabbed his arm and had to leap back when Pete whirled, fists clenched at his sides.

  Luke backed up a step, hands out. “Whoa, Pete. It’s just me.” But it was then Luke saw the devastation in Pete’s dark eyes and the bandage that ran from Pete’s temple halfway around his shiny, bald, ebony head. “What the hell happened?”

  Pete shook his head. “I can’t hear you,” he bellowed. “My ears are still ringing. It was a bomb, Luke. Tossed three of us ten feet like we were made of balsa wood.”

  Pete Haywood was six-four, 250 pounds. Luke couldn’t imagine the sheer force it had taken to toss a man his size. Blood was already soaking through Pete’s bandage. “You need some stitches,” Luke yelled.

  “The medics got others to fix first. A shard of flying metal hit Zach Granger.” Pete swallowed. “Might have lost his eye. Chopper’s on its way to take him to the hospital.”

  It just kept getting worse. “Where’s the fire investigator?” Luke shouted.

  “Not here yet. The local fire chief is standing over there by the truck.”

  Luke’s brows shot up when he saw the man standing next to the fire chief. “Corchran’s here, too?”

  “Got here about fifteen minutes after our call went out.”

  Luke led Pete to his car, away from prying ears. “Sit down and tell me what happened, and you don’t need to yell. I can hear you just fine.”

  Wearily, Pete sank sideways onto the passenger seat. “We were waiting for Chloe’s call that the warrant was signed. Nobody had gone in or out since we arrived. Chloe called at 7:45 and we went in. I opened the door and all hell broke loose. Literally.”

  Luke frowned. “What about Mansfield’s house?”

  “Nancy Dykstra’s waiting with her team at Mansfield’s. I called her as soon as I picked myself off the ground, told her not to go in. They’re waiting for the bomb squad to make sure our little pyro didn’t rig both houses to blow.”

  “Good thinking. Have you seen Granville’s wife?”

  “If she was in the house, she wouldn’t come out when we instructed her to. Zach and the rest of the team got here at 5:15 and had all the exits covered.”

  “Okay. So whoever planted the bomb did so between 1:38 and 5:15.”

  Pete frowned. “Why 1:38?”

  “That’s when Granville placed a call to the person we think was his partner. The news that Granville was dead hadn’t hit the media by 5:15. Only Granville’s partner would have known he didn’t leave the bunker with the rest of them.”

  “And the partner would be afraid Granville would talk if he got caught or that he’d left incriminating evidence in the house. So he blew it up. What now?”

  “Now you get that hard head of yours stitched up. Let me take it from here. We’re meeting at Chase’s at ten. If you can, join us. If not, try to call in.” With a reassuring squeeze to Pete’s shoulder, Luke started walking toward Corchran and the fire chief.

  The two men met him halfway. “I came as soon as I heard the first calls for fire and rescue over the radio,” Corchran said.

  “Thanks,” Luke said to Corchran. “I appreciate it.” He turned to the fire chief. “I’m Agent Papadopoulos, GBI.”

  “Chief Trumbell. We’re fighting this from the outside. Given the explosions, I haven’t sent my men inside. I didn’t want them stumbling across any other wires.”

  “So that’s how this bomb was triggered?” Luke asked. “Wires?”

  “Your arson guys will need to confirm it, but I saw wire tied to the front door’s inside doorknob, about six or seven inches left hanging. Looks like a real simple setup. Open the door, wire yanks, bomb detonates. This fire was well in progress by the time we arrived. I’d bet your investigator finds the house doused with some kind of accelerant.”

  “Got it. Look, Granville has a wife. We don’t think she was in the house.”

  “That’s what Haywood said.” Trumbell looked over his shoulder at the blaze. “If she’s in there . . . I can’t risk sending anybody in after her.”

  As if to punctuate his words, there was a giant crash and everyone instinctively ducked except Trumbell, who ran toward the house, radio in hand, yelling orders for his men to back away.

  “I’d say one of the ceilings collapsed,” Corchran said.

  And any links to Granville’s partner with it. “Goddammit,” Luke said quietly.

  Corchran pointed down the street. “The vultures caught the scent.”

  Two TV news vans were pulling up. “The cherry on top,” Luke muttered. “Hey, thanks for coming out tonight. I know Dutton is not your responsibility.”

  Corchran looked uncomfortable. “No it’s not, but their police force is in . . . disarray.”

  “Their sheriff and lead deputy are dead, so I’d say that’s an understatement.”

  “If you need support, call, but I don’t want to be stepping on any jurisdictional toes.”

  “Thanks. I expect the governor is appointing a new sheriff as we speak, so hopefully we’ll get some order restored in Dutton. Now I need to set the crime scene boundary.”

  Corchran sent a scathing look toward the TV vans. “Make sure it’s real far back.”

  “You can bet on that.”

  Luke pushed the reporters back, citing concern for their personal safety as well as the safety of the emergency personnel. He endured the occasional muffled personal epithet, proud he hadn’t told one reporter to fuck himself. He’d posted a state trooper patrol to maintain the crime scene line when his cell buzzed in his pocket.

  He frowned at the 917 area code on his caller ID, then remembered it was Susannah’s Manhattan cell number. Don’t let the girl be dead. He looked at Granville’s ruined house. She may be all we have left. “Susannah, what can I do for you?”

  “The girl is awake. She can’t speak, but she’s awake.”

  Thank you. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Ridgefield House, Friday, February 2, 8:45 p.m.

  “Time to party, Ashley,” Rocky said, unlocking her door. “Mr. Haynes is—”

  Rocky stopped in Ashley’s doorway, shock momentarily robbing her of thought. Then the rage came, blistering and hot, and she rushed into the room to where Ashley lay on the floor, curled in a fetal ball.

  “What the fuck have you done?” Rocky snarled, grabbing Ashley by the hair she had left. “Goddammit, what have you done?”

  Ashley’s lip was bloody where she’d bitten it clean through. Her scalp was red, with at least eight bald patches the size of silver dollars visible along the top of her head. The bitch had pulled her own hair out by the roots.

  Ashley’s eyes were wet with tears, but full of defiance. “He wanted a blonde. Does he want me now?”

  Rocky slapped her hard, knocking her to the floor.

  “What the hell are you . . . ?
” Bobby stopped. “Holy shit.”

  Rocky stared down at the bald spots, breathing hard. “She pulled her own hair out. Haynes won’t want her now.”

  “Then he’ll just have to take one of the others.”

  Bobby was not pleased. Which meant Rocky would pay the price. “You want me to give her to one of the guards?”

  Bobby studied the girl, eyes narrowed. “Not yet. I don’t want her bruised, just compliant. Put her in the hole. No food, no water. A few days down there will knock some of the defiance out of her. When you bring her out, shave her head. She can wear a wig. Hell, all the rock stars are doing it, why not our girls? And, Rocky, find me some blondes fast. I promised Haynes one tonight, so I’ll have to give him a discount on whoever he does choose. I want to be able to deliver what he wants next time. A quarter of our new business comes through him.”

  Rocky thought of the girls she’d been chatting online. “I have two, maybe three I can pull in now,” she said.

  “And they’re blond?”

  She nodded. “I’ve checked them out myself. But who’s going to pick them up? That was Mansfield’s job.”

  “You get them ready. I’ll arrange for pick-up. Get this one out of my sight before I change my mind and beat the shit out of her myself. And don’t be late for your meeting. I’ve given you a chance to earn your way back. Don’t fuck it up.”

  Rocky bit the inside of her cheek. She’d known better than to argue over the “extra duty” Bobby had assigned. Didn’t mean she had to like it, though. She checked her watch. She had to get this girl in the hole or she’d miss the shift change at the hospital.

  Atlanta, Friday, February 2, 9:15 p.m.

  “Susannah.”

  Susannah lifted her eyes to Luke’s reflection in the glass that separated her from Jane Doe’s ICU bed. He looked tired. “They let me see her for a few minutes.”

  “Was she lucid?”

  “I think so. She recognized me, squeezed my fingers. Her eyes are closed now, but she may be awake.”