Fatal Demand: An Action Adventure Thriller
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Synopsis
In a chase down to the wire, Jess risks her own life to stop Luigi. But will his last demand be fatal?
Investigative Reporter Jess Kimball’s impossible mission to find her kidnapped son and get justice for crime victims returns in this new novel from New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Diane Capri.**
** (Fatal Demand is Expanded and Revised from the novella formerly titled Flight 12: A Jess Kimball Thriller)
For fans of Greg Iles, Lisa Gardner, Karin Slaughter, Lee Child, Jack Reacher, John Grisham and the Women's Murder Club
“Full of thrills and tension – but smart and human too.” — Lee Child, #1 World Wide Bestselling Author of Jack Reacher Thrillers
“Expertise shines on every page.” -- Margaret Maron, Edgar, Anthony, Agatha and Macavity Award Winning MWA Past President
"Relentlessly determined to bring justice to an unjust world, Jess Kimball is like a female Jack Reacher, only nicer!" -- Martha Powers, award winning author of Conspiracy of Silence and Death Angel
Readers Love Jess Kimball and Clamor for More!
“Smart, fast-paced, personal and, dare I say, thrilling. It's the kind of "this could happen to me" thrill that really chills me to the bone if I think about it too much. I could not put this book down until I found out if everything was going to turn out okay. Does it? Well you'll have to read it and see!”
“Highly recommend-- kept me on the edge of my seat and I had a hard time putting it down-- Great characters and storyline-- can only hope Diane Capri will make a series out of Jess and Helen-- I do want more!”
“This thought-provoking novel is populated with strong women and likeable men. Ms. Capri fully develops these characters while maintaining a tension-filled pace that will keep you turning pages well into the wee hours of the morning.”
Start reading the Jess Kimball Thrillers and you'll be glued to the page. But lock the doors first. These books are nail biters!
Release date: January 15, 2016
Publisher: AugustBooks
Print pages: 298
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Fatal Demand: An Action Adventure Thriller
Diane Capri
CHAPTER ONE
Montreal, Quebec
Sunday, April 20
It’s a good day to commit suicide, the Italian thought as he got off the train at the Bonaventure Metro Station.
Avoiding the Underground City, Enzo Ficarra raised the collar of his supple black leather trench coat with a black-gloved hand and adjusted his fedora before he climbed the stairs up to the sidewalk.
Icy rain pelted his face. Frigid wind matched his mood and further hardened his heart. But it wasn’t enough to cool the molten anger seething inside him. He shouldn’t be here, in this wretched weather, on Sunday, the first day of spring. He should be in Italy. He should be at Mass.
Damn Marek.
Clouds blackened the sky as if he’d entered the city he knew so well at midnight, not mid-morning. He glanced the length of the sidewalk along the rue de la Cathedrale. The deserted street was weakly illuminated by streetlights sensitive to darkness. He watched frozen rain melt when it touched the warm street. As the day progressed and temperatures continued to fall, he expected treacherous black ice to capture the city, halting all traffic. He’d be gone by then, and the weather would grant him reprieve from potential pursuit. Not that he expected pursuit. But he was a careful man.
No one walked along the streets. Citizens foolish or determined enough to venture out on such a wicked morning kept to the routes of the Underground City until they reached their churches, reminding him that his own wife and children were at Mass this morning without him. His lips pressed into a grim line. He rarely missed Sunday Mass. His absence would be conspicuous, noted by everyone. This additional grievance further hardened his resolve.
Head down, walking briskly into the blowing sleet, he made his way along deserted sidewalks toward Les Canard. The last time he’d been here had been a pleasant Saturday night in July. The streets were busy then, alive until the bars closed at 3:00 a.m. Inside the club, a band played hard rock, dancers crowded the floor, the smell of baking bread wafted out of the kitchen, and the bar bustled with locals chatting in French.
His French was excellent and he had blended into the environment easily, avoiding the English pubs nearby. He always enjoyed the cosmopolitan city. The mix of people and languages, French as well as English, made Montreal better for his work than others. He easily avoided detection here. The city had served him well. God was good.
Now, he rolled his shoulders, lifted his coat collar higher, and waited. He glanced left and right. No pedestrians were near and traffic was sparse.
When the light at boulevard Rene-Levesque changed, he stepped off the curb and hustled across the street, walking quickly toward Rue Drummond. Marek knew he was coming, but he detected no sign that he was being followed. Marek was not a cautious man. That was one of the many problems between them.
Had he been wrong about Marek, all these years? All through school, the Italian had been stronger than Marek. His Polish friend was short and wiry, but always the weaker as their wrestling matches invariably ended with Enzo the winner. Marek had thus been consigned to follow Enzo’s commands and he’d executed each one faithfully.
Which made today’s task unpleasant for him.
Resentment fueled Enzo’s resolve. Why had Marek made such a disastrous decision? Was it his American wife? A man should never, ever confide in a woman. Women could not be trusted to keep secrets. Nor could men, for that matter. From personal experience, he’d confirmed many times that three people could keep a secret only if two of them were dead.
Whatever the reason, Marek’s stupidity had endangered them all. The situation could still be reversed; perhaps Marek had reconsidered.
As he walked, the Italian visualized Marek’s club, recalling every detail as sharply as possible. The interior of Les Canard was cool, dark and quiet, due to its thick granite walls and dim lighting. When the club was open, the raucous noise inside was muffled.
He arrived at the front entrance. A small sign boasting French calligraphy and an artistically drawn mallard swung from hooks on an iron arm on the left side of the door, squeaking in the gusty wind. The once soft gray granite façade of the club was now dark with decades of soot and city grime. Deep green shades were pulled over the front windows and the closed sign was posted on the door.
All senses alert, he reached for the pitted brass handle and pulled the door open. It had been unlocked for him. He moved soundlessly inside and then flipped the lock to prevent interruption. He stood in the interior foyer of the bar, allowing his vision to adjust.
“Come in, come in!” Marek sat in the shadows facing the door. He rose and hurried toward his guest.
The Italian arranged a friendly smile on his face. They hugged briefly in the Gaelic style.
“Enzo my friend, you are frozen,” Marek declared. “Spring, my ass.” He shook his head, shrugged at the incomprehensible weather. “Come in, come in. Coffee?”
Marek walked toward the coffee machine behind the bar as he asked the question.
“A double, please.” Enzo removed his garments, shook the water off and hung them on the pegs by the door. He grasped his gloves in his right hand.
Marek steamed espresso and poured the rich brew into small white cups, carried the cups with two spoons to the table where small pitchers of cream and sugar waited. He gestured toward the seat he’d vacated, allowing his guest to sit with his back to the wall facing the door. An offer meant to show his partner was welcome, safe here. No one threatened.
They lingered over the fragrant coffee for a few moments, sipping while it was still hot enough to scald their tongues. When the Italian replaced his cup on the saucer, Marek spoke. “Thank you for coming on such a terrible day. We have the place to ourselves.”
Enzo nodded, but said nothing.
Marek cleared his throat. He seemed tense, tired. There were dark bags under his eyes. He had not slept well, probably for many nights. Good. Fatigue made him a weaker adversary. “I don’t quite know how to begin.”
He halted again, drained his espresso, set the cup down on its saucer. He placed both hands on the table in a gesture of trust. He was holding no weapon.
Enzo watched, but kept both hands under the table in his lap. He’d touched nothing except the small white porcelain cup.
Marek flinched when church bells rang in the distance, pealing through the quiet morning, followed by a rumble of thunder. He grinned a bit, embarrassed.
The Italian prodded. “What did you want to see me about, Marek?”
Marek’s hand shook when he lifted his cup to his lips. He seemed chagrined to realize it was empty, and set it back down. He took a deep breath and said softly, “You and I, we have only a few open projects just now. All are at the stage to be easily completed. The money we’ve received has been deposited to your Swiss accounts.”
After a pause, Marek continued, “I must quit, you see.”
“Oh?” Enzo conveyed mild surprise he did not feel.
“You know my second son was born last month.” Marek gestured with his head toward the ceiling because his family lived upstairs, above the club. “He has a brother, like you now. He needs a respectable father with a business he can inherit. Like you have in Tuscany. A legitimate enterprise,” he whispered as a man with dry mouth does.
In the quiet, following the muffled sound of thunder, Enzo understood. The wife had made Marek do this. Women stupidly protected their children, failing to appreciate the consequences, and men followed their wives even into disaster.
“I see.”
Marek loosened the top button of his gray flannel shirt and rubbed his neck with his left hand. “I know what we agreed. With this kind of work, a lifelong commitment is required. And you know I will always be loyal to you. Completely. But…” He swallowed. “But I must stop. We’ve had many successful projects together. I’ve bought this club. It’s paid for. All mine now. And I have a home. Here. To raise my sons. Be a husband. Build my own family. You understand, Enzo my friend,” he paused a beat. “Yes?”
The Italian drained the last drops from his cup. He smiled sorrowfully at his oldest friend. “Of course. I want you to be happy. Family is important. I love children. You know that. You must have a large family, and a wonderful life. Like I do. Naturally.” He laughed, as if anything else would be too absurd to contemplate.
Marek laughed along, shakily. He pulled out his wallet and displayed pictures of his new son, his three-year-old boy, and beautiful wife.
“They know nothing of my work for you,” Marek volunteered.
Which meant that he’d told his wife everything.
Enzo’s anger grew hotter. Marek had jeopardized not only his own family, but the entire business.
He took a deep breath, and they talked of earlier times. They shared stories. Enzo asked about Marek’s plans for the future. Eventually the Italian glanced at his watch. “I must go. My train departs soon. My own family waits. But I will miss you, old friend.”
His words flowed easily, though he never allowed himself such sentiments. Not even with his own brother.
The two men stood. Enzo reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out the capsule, hiding it in his left palm. They moved closer to hug again, Marek foolishly relaxed.
The Italian quickly turned and grabbed Marek by the forehead from behind, cruelly twisting his neck and pulling him against his shoulder.
Marek gasped, and in that instant, Enzo forced the capsule into his open mouth and pressed Marek’s jaw closed using the butt of his other hand.
Brief comprehension registered in Marek’s eyes as the capsule broke and cyanide drained into his mouth. He wrestled and fought, but like in their younger years, he lost. He tried to breathe through his nose. His arms flailed, beating on Enzo’s chest.
“I’m sorry, old friend, that you have chosen to betray me,” Enzo said, holding Marek’s chin shut lest any of the poison seep out.
Marek blinked his eyelids one last time. The poison had done its job as it always did. He slumped to the floor, eyes open, staring at his friend until gravity dragged his eyelids down.
Enzo knelt, felt Marek’s carotid artery for a pulse and found none. He waited ten minutes to be sure Marek was dead and that no one had heard the encounter.
He had one more task. Enzo stood, glanced around briefly. Where would Marek hide his electronic equipment? He searched behind the bar with no luck.
A loud thump followed by a crying baby sounded from the apartment above.
How could that be? Marek’s family was upstairs?
“Idiot!” he swore. Marek had been told that there should be no one else present. He couldn’t follow directions anymore. Another good reason to have eliminated him.
Enzo hurried now, completed his search of the entire club, finding nothing. He could not leave without Marek’s computer and cell phones. There must be no trace of his connection to the Italian’s business. He had no choice. He must search upstairs.
Damn Marek.
Quickly, he pulled on his gloves, walked back to his coat and pulled a .22-caliber Smith & Wesson and suppressor from deep pockets. He reached for the extra magazine, dropping it into his trouser pocket. He assembled the suppressor as he hurried from behind the bar, into the kitchen, and then climbed the stairs to Marek’s apartment.
Halfway up he heard a woman’s voice, “Marek? Is that you?”
Enzo hustled up the remaining stairs and entered the living room, startled to find Marek’s wife seated directly across from the archway, looking straight at him, nursing the new baby.
Enzo had not seen the woman in the flesh before. Marek had thought her plain features, and horsey face, beautiful. Another mistake.
Her eyes widened, not in surprise, but recognition. She knew what Enzo looked like.
He scanned the room. The apartment was empty but for the wife, the infant, and Marek’s toddler seated beside her on the couch, sleeping with its thumb in its mouth.
Now, all options were canceled. She’d seen him, and would know that her husband had not committed suicide. She would identify him to the authorities. Not an insurmountable problem, but an unnecessary one. Easier to stop her now.
The moment Marek had revealed them both, her husband had signed her death warrant. What followed now was blissfully not the Italian’s choice, but white-hot anger fueled him nonetheless.
“Damn Marek!” Enzo spoke aloud.
He raised his pistol. She gasped. He shot twice. The forehead. Small holes. Her head bounced backward against the sofa. A bit of blood pushed out from the two bullet wounds. Her heart still pumped, she wasn’t quite dead. He waited for the message of her demise to reach her heart.
Despite the gun’s noise, the toddler still slept. If he didn’t awaken, he would live. The infant, too. He lay in the cradle of her arms, resting on a sturdy pillow, nursing, unaware of the mother’s death. He had seen his own infants feed and he knew how intent they could be on the nipple. He was curious as to how long the mother’s milk might flow, but he had no time to watch. He still had to search the apartment.
Enzo glanced at his watch. Four minutes had elapsed since he’d climbed the stairs. His own breathing was normal. Very little exertion in the project so far. He strode through the four-room apartment, checked the closets quickly. There was no one else. No more witnesses to eliminate.
He considered where Marek might have kept his electronics. Since Marek’s wife knew about his work, he probably had a small desk in the apartment somewhere. He went quickly from room to room until he located Marek’s desk in the back hallway. The laptop was turned on, connected to the Internet. Marek’s cell phones were also on the desk.
He pulled the cables from the laptop, folded it closed, tucked it under his left arm, and slipped the phones into his trouser pockets. It took only a few moments. He considered whether Marek might have hidden anything that would incriminate either of them here. If so, he knew he couldn’t find it quickly.
He’d have to take that chance and the lack of choice Marek left him further confirmed his actions. No, he didn’t regret the kills. He regretted only that Marek had been such a fool in the end.
Enzo turned and hurried back down the stairs. Despite his gloves, he wiped the gun using the tail of his silk shirt, knelt and placed the gun in Marek’s hand, making sure to imprint it properly. Then he shot a round into the baseboard of the wooden bar by pulling Marek’s finger on the trigger to assure there would be gunshot residue on his hand. He dug the bullet from the wood and dropped it into his pocket.
The Italian surveyed the scene, recalling his movements, making sure he’d left no evidence that might cause suspicion or lead back to him.
The scene was perfect.
He picked up the coffee cup and saucer he’d used and, to be cautious, the extra spoon.
He was satisfied he’d touched nothing else. No fingerprints nor DNA was left behind. The scene accurately depicted an insane, sleep-deprived father who killed his family and then himself on a cold and depressing Sunday morning.
The Italian donned his long coat, turned up the collar and set the fedora on his head. He flipped the small button on the door handle that would lock it again when he closed the door behind him.
He retraced his route through sleet-slicked streets, the cup and saucer still warm in his pocket.
CHAPTER TWO
Dallas, Texas
May 10
Jess Kimball waited in the private visitor room at the jail normally reserved for meetings between inmates and their lawyers. She wanted to write this scene effectively for her Taboo Magazine readers, but she found nothing compelling about the room. No windows, no noises. No atmosphere of any kind. Thick walls kept the world outside and the criminals inside. Exactly what a jail should be, even if it was too good for the lowlife she was going to meet.
She heard a spritzing noise and noticed the cloying citrus aroma. A quick glance around the ceiling revealed the automatic air freshener in the corner behind her chair.
The door opened. A deputy came in, and looked around. “All clear. Send him in.”
The inmate, Stosh Blazek, entered unrestrained. He was forty-three years old. Average in every way. Average height, average weight, average hair and eyes. Not one thing remarkable about him. It was his very averageness that caused senior citizens to trust him, and follow him deeper and deeper into heartbreaking financial losses from which they never recovered.
Jess hated thieves, but those who stole from the elderly were as bad as they came. At that moment, staring at Blazek, she knew she’d met the poster-boy for heartless scum.
On a tip, her publisher had sent her to the first heartbreaking interview six weeks ago—Sam Nelson, a proud ninety-four-year-old World War II veteran, and his wife Jane. Sweet people. Hard working. They’d outlived their friends and two of their children, but they were survivors. They hadn’t let hardship or grief derail them. Until they met Blazek.
Blazek had targeted them, tugged on their heartstrings until Jane persuaded Sam to contribute to Blazek’s phony African AIDS victims’ charity. Starving children needed their meager savings, Blazek said. Sam’s generous nature overcame his good sense.
Blazek had cheated Sam and Jane out of every cent they owned. When Jess met them, they were eating canned fish because they were too proud to collect food stamps. Their home had been pledged to Blazek and they were being evicted. Jane spent the entire interview crying and Sam patted her shoulder because that was the only thing he could really do.
Jess promised to help them. She had uncovered and interviewed a grand total of forty-six of his victims. After their lifetimes of hard work, Blazek had hounded them all to ruin. He took everything from them. Their money, their dignity.
From some, he stole their will to live. For others, Jess had been too late. She’d heard time and again how desperation caused Blazek’s victims to murder their spouses and commit suicide.
Sam Nelson had done that two days after Jess interviewed him. Before Jess could get Sam and Jane the help she’d promised.
She hated Blazek and every lying piece of crap like him.
Too bad he didn’t get the death penalty this morning. He deserved it. And if Jess had anything to say about it, she vowed he’d never walk out of here a free man again.
“You know the drill, Blazek. You’re being watched and recorded by that camera in the corner over there. You have fifteen minutes,” the deputy said, before he turned and left.
Jess glanced at the camera again. The red light on the bottom meant it was operating.
She sat with her back to it, making sure Blazek was facing the lens. If he said anything that could be used against him, she wanted an airtight recording.
She kept her hopes in check. Unlikely he’d say anything important, but she’d had luck with smarter criminals than Blazek before. She couldn’t fail Sam and Jane or the others. She simply could not, would not fail.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Kimball,” Blazek said. Even his voice was deceptively average.
Her stomach soured. She felt bile rising in her throat. “Why did you want to see me again, Mr. Blazek?”
“Call me, Stosh. Everybody does,” he replied, automatically, as he had when she’d met him before, as if he’d said it thousands of times. He probably had. Probably in this very room.
Back when he routinely perched on the lawyer side of the table instead of the criminal side where he sat now.
She might have engaged in a contest of wills with him under different circumstances. But time was short. “Why did you want to talk to me, Mr. Blazek?”
“I saw you in the court room. You know I’ve read your work since we talked the last time. You really do care about crime victims. Like me.” His expression revealed no irony at all.
She clenched her jaw tight to keep her mouth from falling open. How could he possibly believe he was any sort of victim? The guy had brass balls, for sure. “You pled guilty. Fraud, larceny, and grand theft. And a few other offenses. They couldn’t make murder charges stick. You lucked out with that plea bargain. How does that make you any kind of victim?”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand you cheated a long string of elderly people, Mr. Blazek. The ones who weren’t so devastated that they committed suicide will live out their lives in hopeless poverty.” She kept her voice level and stone cold. “You’re the polar opposite of the kind of person I want to help.”
He pounded his fist on the table. “I had no choice! Don’t you understand that? You need to stop them before another life is ruined forever!”
Jess stared at the man. Could he be such a stranger to reality? Or maybe he felt betrayed. Some thieves did after they were caught.
The air freshener spritzed again and the sickly sweet citrus aroma filled the room.
She lowered her chin and narrowed her eyes. “Stop who?”
“They tricked me. They took everything I had. They said I’d get the money back that I borrowed from my clients to help them. But they lied.” The pouty child he’d probably been a few decades ago seeped through in his aggrieved complaints. “And now they’re going to kill my friends.”
“Who is ‘they’?” She glared at him. “And who do you think they’re going to kill?”
He shrank back and shrugged. “Who knows? Could be any of them.”
“Any of who?”
“They took everything from me, and—”
“No one took anything from you, Mr. Blazek. You willingly gave away what you had, and then cheated and stole from everyone who trusted you so you could chase a pot of gold at the end of a fraud.” Unmoved, Jess stated the hard truth. “You crippled seniors who will never recover from it. You pled guilty because you are guilty.”
“They were going to kill me,” he whined.
She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Stop sniveling and prove it.”
“It’s an international crime ring. Italians. Maybe even Mafia—”
“Mafia?” Jess curled up one side of her lips as if he’d said Martians. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
“They target businessmen like me. Rip us off so they can get access to our accounts. They promise a return on our investment that never materializes until we’re tapped out. And then…then…well, they don’t stop. They wring everything out of you. Everything. And then they go after anyone who knows you.”
“Italians? The Mafia?” She shook her head. “I heard your testimony, and I believe it’s the first honest thing you’ve said.” She leaned forward. “You were the center of the crime ring. You’re the one who cheated and stole from those people.”
“They made me do it!” He shouted, standing up abruptly, knocking the metal chair over behind him. It clanged against the floor.
She shrugged, still relaxed in her seat. “Uh huh. Why didn’t you cooperate with the FBI then?”
“I did! I did, I tell you!” Still shouting.
Calmly, Jess replied, “And?”
“And they failed. The FBI failed to find them, and failed to stop them.” He glared at her, eyes wild, nostrils flared.
Jess looked up into his face. She pointed to his chair. “Sit down, you’re making my neck sore.”
Blazek continued to glare. The citrus air freshener squirted. The big clock on the wall ticked off a few seconds.
She waited silently until he finally bent over, picked up the chair, and reseated himself.
Only then did Jess ask, “Stop who, precisely? Because that’s the problem with your story, isn’t it? There’s no one involved in these thefts except you and your victims.”
He crossed his hands on top of the table and leaned in. “Talk to Morris. He’s got the information I gave him. He’ll tell you what happened. And you’ll see I’m telling the truth.”
He meant FBI Special Agent Henry Morris. Jess had already interviewed him twice on the phone. He wasn’t at all sympathetic to Blazek. “Tell me the names of the friends you’re worried about.”
He slid a scrap of paper across the table. A list of five names in tiny, precise, cursive script.
She glanced at the names. She’d come across none of them during her investigation. Which meant he was probably lying again.
“You didn’t name your friends or accuse the FBI of failing in court when you pled guilty this morning.”
Blazek slumped and shook his head. “People said I was greedy, wanted to get rich quick. That’s not true. I got in way over my head. But I was gullible. And desperate.”
“You’re still alive so you’re not half as desperate as the old folks you cheated.” Jess figured Blazek was about the least gullible person she’d ever met. But she’d buy the desperate part. He had wriggled and squirmed in every way possible before his trial like a trout on a hook. But he didn’t get away.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like being the son of a wealthy man?”
Jess snorted a laugh. She hadn’t seen that one coming.
Blazek pushed his chin out. “Well, it’s not as great as you might think. Especially if you’re a constant screw up, like I was. My dad gave me a viable business before he died. I ran it into the ground.”
“Common story.” She pressed her eyelids closed a moment. She was tired and she needed a break and she had a long way to go tonight. There was still a lot to do. Every minute she spent here was a minute she wouldn’t spend searching for her son. Blazek wasn’t worth another second of sacrifice.
She picked up her notepad and pen, and tossed them into her oversized messenger bag. Time to go.
“But then I got a chance that would have saved me. Saved my business. And I took a risk.” Blazek raised his intensity. “You would have, too. Anybody would have.” He lowered his gaze to the table, maybe trying to appear contrite.
Jess wondered if he’d taken acting lessons or if he was simply another manipulative sociopath with a lot of experience at conning others.
Either way, she figured he rarely felt contrite at all. He felt nothing remotely like empathy for his victims. This wasn’t Blazek’s first trip to the justice system rodeo. Only this time, he was getting gored.
Jess shrugged as if to say Who cares? The wall clock said she’d only been talking to Blazek for five minutes. It seemed a lot longer. He was a waste of her time.
During the next part of Blazek’s performance, he lowered his voice as if he was embarrassed or ashamed, like a normal person would be. Or maybe he wanted her to think he was telling her something secret.
“The thing is, they got access to my books. I had client names in there and some were prominent business people. A few were friends for years, since school. I didn’t even know they’d been contacted.” He raised his head and looked directly into her eyes. Was this supposed to be sincerity, now? “My friends got into the deal because they believed if I was in, the deal was legitimate.”
The citrus spray squirted again and the heavy scent was nauseating. Or maybe sitting in the same room with Blazek was the cause of her stomach’s revolt.
Jess stood up. “But the deal wasn’t legitimate. You knew that. And you didn’t warn them? Some friend.”
“By the time I found out, they were already involved. There was nothing I could do.” He stopped pleading briefly. His eyes were glassy with tears.
Jess had met sociopaths before who could cry at will. Perhaps tears were an effective weapon on some people. But not her. She’d cried too many of her own.
“So you’re saying that we haven’t found all of your victims yet. In addition to the senior citizens you stole from, you also created a cadre of thieves just like you who could steal from their victims, too.” She sneered. “What a guy.”
“Just before I was arrested, I lost contact with my friends.” He blinked his tears away. “I’m worried about them, Ms. Kimball. Very worried.”
Maybe he was. Or maybe he had a different agenda. Either way, it was none of Jess’s concern. She was done here.
The buzzer sounded and the door opened. The deputy held the door with his hip. “Come on, Blazek. Time to go.”
Blazek looked directly into Jess’s eyes again. “Be careful, Ms. Kimball. These Italians are bastards. Ruthless.” His tone was as hard as blood diamonds. “Don’t think they won’t kill. They will. Unless you do something about it.”
“Thanks for the tip. Good to know.” Jess turned off the recorder and dropped the phone into her bag.
Blazek walked ahead of the deputy as they left the interview room. Jess stared at the door after it closed, wondering whether she should believe anything he’d said.
Now what?
Wrap it up and move on.
Liars like Blazek always had another excuse ready when the last one flopped. Only gullible people believed them. Jess was a lot of things, but gullible she was not.
She glanced at the clock on the wall under the security camera. She was booked on a flight back to Denver in four hours. Plenty of time to nail down Blazek’s latest excuse and close her story with a bit of extra flair. She had time to burn.
Maybe she should have her head examined, but she couldn’t think of a single legitimate reason not to follow up on Blazek’s last statement.
Cases like this one, where nothing she did could make a significant difference to his victims, sucked her soul. She needed a break from the never-ending supply of heartless scum like Stosh Blazek who never, ever picked on somebody their own size.
After today, she promised herself, she’d take a break. Before her work snapped her in half and she was no good to anyone.
Tonight, she’d wash off Blazek’s slime with a good, long shower. Tomorrow she would file her article, then take a few days off. She’d already requested the vacation time and she’d planned to spend it looking for Peter, as she always did.
But maybe she’d take a real break this time. First time in years. To clear her mind and renew her senses.
Maybe a quiet hotel in a remote town. Near a river or a lake. The water soothed and relaxed her the way nothing else did. She could do that, couldn’t she?
But not a place so remote as to be cut off from the world. One of her investigators could call. She wouldn’t ever be totally unavailable. Not until she found Peter, until she knew he was safe.
She sighed. Maybe she’d come back to her search for Peter with fresh ideas, and to Taboo less weary, not as jaded. She’d heard vacation time could refresh and renew like that, but she’d never tried.
For now, she’d finish the job she came to do. She’d close up Blazek’s coffin tighter than a sealed air cryovac capsule. She couldn’t undo the harm Blazek had caused, but she might be able to prevent more harm from flowing through his crimes.
She looked at the names he’d given her: Kowalski, Warga, Zmich, Supko, and Grantly. They weren’t unique names, but there couldn’t be that many Wargas, Zmichs, or Supkos in the country. She included their first names and texted the list to her assistant with a request for a search.
A few minutes later, she got a list back. Wargas, Zmichs, and Kowalskis popped up all over the country, but there was only one Joshua L. Supko on the list and he lived in Texas in a town with the unlikely name of Highland Village.
She Googled the address, and his house appeared on the map not half an hour from her present location.
She sat in her rental car considering her options. If she were to approach Supko, she’d need a good reason to get him to talk.
The Blazek story had been on the news, and point blank asking the man if he’d been involved in a scam was a sure way to get thrown out.
She kicked herself for not finding out how Blazek and Supko knew each other. Her dislike of Blazek had clouded her judgment. It was a loose end, and she should have picked at it, found out everything she could before moving on.
She sighed. With nothing else to go on, she’d have to play the dumb girl reporter, and hope the man liked to talk.
It wouldn’t be the first time a man had boasted how much he knew and how much she didn’t. The best strategy she’d found was to let them underestimate her as long as she could stomach the ruse.
CHAPTER THREE
Jess followed her GPS’s directions to Highland Village. As she suspected, there was no sign of any highlands, the place was flat for miles around. Despite the lack of geographic features, it had some character, and there were more lakes and ponds than seemed likely for a state that frequently boasted triple-digit heat waves.
In an area that could certainly be called upscale, Joshua Supko lived in a gated neighborhood another step up the scale.
Following a Lexus through the gates, she smiled and waved like a ditzy blonde at a security guard as he tried to stare through her windows. She kept to the posted twenty mile-per-hour speed limit in the hope the man would be fooled into believing she belonged inside the walls.
The houses varied dramatically in scale. French chateaus nestled beside monumental Pueblos and English cottages with what appeared to be genuine thatched roofs. Lawn crews worked in gangs. Now and again she passed a bright green VW Beetle with the name of some house cleaning company emblazoned on the side.
She eased the rental over a narrow humpback bridge, and the GPS announced her destination was on the right.
Supko’s house stole its style from the bold straight lines and simplicity of Frank Lloyd Wright. Low rise windows stretched across seemingly unlikely portions of the building, and a mixture of wood and concrete highlighted a stark, but sympathetic, contrast of man and nature.
She angled her budget rental car into a wide horseshoe driveway and parked behind a pair of Mercedes SUVs with vanity plates. She wasn’t planning to fool anyone into believing she lived in the neighborhood.
Jess grabbed her bag and walked to the double front doors. A panel on the side contained a speaker and a camera. She straightened her back, smiled, and pressed the button.
Gongs chimed deep inside the building. She waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty, forty. She reached for the button. The speaker crackled into life.
“Yes?” said a male voice.
“Joshua Supko?”
“Who is this?”
She kept up her smile. “A friend.”
“Really. What name did you use at security?”
She feigned surprise. “Security?”
“Yeah. The people with guns at the front gate. The ones I’m calling right now.”
“Wait.”
The speaker clicked off.
She stabbed the button. “Wait, wait. I’m a friend. I…I’m Jessica Kimball, from Taboo Magazine. I—”
The speaker clicked back on. “A friend? Or a reporter looking for gossip?”
“I…I have a message. I talked to a friend of yours. He’s worried about you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and…can we talk?”
“No. I’ve called security. You can talk to them.”
Jess looked behind her. A Ford Escape bounced over the humpback bridge.
She looked back at the speaker. “Joshua, Stosh Blazek thinks you might be in some danger.”
The voice in the speaker blew out a long breath. “Jessica whatever your name was, you’re not that much of a friend.”
She held up her hands. “Okay. I’m not really a friend, I’m just—”
“Let me set you straight. We bought this house from the bank. A repossession. A good deal. Nothing more. Got it?”
“Er…okay.”
“We never met this Supko guy who owned the place before. I don’t know him, or anything about him. I’ve only seen his name on some of the papers.”
The Ford Escape screeched to a halt in the driveway.
“So, you don’t know anything about where to find him?”
The speaker clicked off.
Two guards got out of the Ford. One held a pump-action shotgun in front of his ample belly. Texas, she thought, as she dialed up the innocence in her smile.
“Hands where we can see ’em,” said the gray-haired man with the shotgun.
She held her palms out at shoulder height. The second man was younger. Bigger. Bulked up. He’d have been a good candidate for a beefcake calendar if they used his picture only from the neck down. His cheekbones had been broken sometime in his past, leaving his face with a broad, flat profile.
He came close enough. The nameplate on his shirt said James Polar. He patted her down, roughly but with an exaggerated attempt to prevent a sexual assault claim.
She nodded to the bag. “There’s a gun inside. I have a permit. Concealed carry.”
“ID?” said Polar.
She nodded to the bag again. “Zip pocket. Driver’s license, and my press card is in there. Jessica Kimball, Taboo Magazine.”
Polar grunted. “Damn press.” He held out his palm. “Keys.”
She fished around in her pocket and pulled out the huge plastic key tag. She dropped the keys into his hand.
He opened the rear of the Ford. She stepped in and he closed the door.
A Plexiglas barrier separated her from the front of the vehicle. The older man with the shotgun drove the Ford back to the main gate.
Polar drove her rental and parked it in a yellow-hatched spot just beyond the gates.
They hustled her into the guard station, the shotgun in plain view at all times.
A counter divided the room in two. Behind the counter were a bank of video monitors, radios, and blinking lights. In front of the counter was nothing other than a row of hard plastic chairs against the far wall. She sat in a corner.
Polar left to stand guard at the main gate. The older man went through her bag, emptying the contents into a plastic tray. He looked at her press card, and made several phone calls. Thirty minutes later, he stuffed her belongings into her bag, and handed it to her. “Don’t come back.”
Normally, she would have argued about the search, but she still needed information. She took the bag, looked at the silver nameplate above his shirt pocket, and gave him a tentative smile. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble, Mr. Barnes.”
He sneered. “Bull. You knew exactly what you were doing. Something we’ll have to explain to our boss tomorrow morning.”
“I’m—”
“Every time one of the residents calls about an intruder, we’ve screwed up. We’re the ones who get dumped on.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Mr. Barnes,” she frowned, “I just wanted to talk to Joshua Supko. A friend of his thinks he might be in serious danger.”
“You’ve heard of the police, right?”
“I have a contact at the FBI. I’m going to talk to him, too.” She sighed. “I just thought it might be important to tell Mr. Supko first.”
Barnes stowed the shotgun underneath the counter. “I don’t think anything’s very important to Mr. Supko these days, is it?”
“Er…” Her eyes narrowed and she bit her lip.
He did a double take. “Are you kidding?”
She shook her head slowly.
“Some reporter you are.” He rolled his eyes. “Supko’s dead.”
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