Drop Dead Perfect (An Ellen Harper Psycho-Thriller) (22 page)

There he was again. On her mind. Hell, maybe a little in her heart. Or maybe a lot.

But Sanchez’s action said it was more than her duty or some directive from a big blue book telling her how a cop should act. If she’d wanted to, Sanchez could have reacted a tad too late, and maybe, just maybe, Ellen would be in a drawer downstairs instead of standing in front of the woman who just saved her life.

Uncrossing her arms, Ellen stuck out her hand.

“Thank you. You’re right.”

The look of astonishment flowering across Bella’s face was one for the ages.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“I said you’re right. He could have killed me. You acted like you should have. I wanted what he could tell me, but it wasn’t worth dying for. You did it right, and I’m thanking you.”

The detective’s expression evolved to one that Ellen could have sworn was almost friendly. Almost.

“Ahh, okay. You’re welcome. Just remember that when IPRA shows up.”

“I will.”

Sanchez
looked toward the ceiling, down to the floor, then back to the ceiling. Then she spoke in a quiet, pointed voice that Ellen didn’t think she’d heard before.

“Harper. I need to talk to you about . . .” she hesitated, shifted her weight, and then shifted it back.

“About what, Sanchez?”

Her expression changed, and Ellen swore she could see the wheels turning. Whatever it was, it wasn’t coming easy for her. The rest of her body language said as much.

Finally, shaking her head, Sanchez gave her a tight-lipped frown.

“It’s nothing. Maybe later. The blues will take care of Jansen, and your staff knows what to do, so come with me. We need to check out the shit I found on the video feed from the intersection where Oscar died.”

Ellen’s heart leapt a little at the mention of Oscar and then died in the same second. It was still a severe concept to get her mind around. It probably always would be.

She nodded. “I’d almost forgotten what I’d come here to do. Let’s go.”

“Follow me.”

Two minutes later,
Sanchez sat at the workstation that the FT team utilized to analyze anything captured on video. It possessed a twenty-seven-inch, high-definition screen with the latest video enhancement software. She turned on the screen, and it immediately displayed the scene where Oscar was killed.

Reaching for the dial on the side of the monitor, the image went blurry then refocused with sharp clarity. It was almost a 3D image.

“This new program is pretty lethal shit. It won’t harm the original feed, and I can break it down frame by frame, then use the next filter to focus on any area of that frame to see what’s what.”

Ellen was forced to grin, in spite of the reason they were there. Sanchez knew what she was doing.

“I know. I test-piloted this baby a few months ago. I thought I was the resident expert. I have to say, however, that maybe I’m not. You work this pretty well, for a detective.”

“Yeah. And don’t forget it, Gringa. I didn’t become a detective based on the size of my tits. I can think a little too.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Okay. I can’t tell you why I’m into this or why I seem to see more than most, it’s just the way it works. I did some video editing in college for a project and just totally got absorbed in it. I get the whole filter thing, and I can even make the sounds better. Except this ain’t like CCTV. There’s no sound from the city’s camera system we’re looking at. We do have color though.”

“Better to capture moving violations with.”

“True. We must need the money.”
Sanchez’s voice turned somber. “Listen. I hate to run you through all of this, but it’s important, got it?”

“What does that mean?” Ellen asked, not wanting to really know the answer.

“Sorry, Harper . . . it means . . . I’m just going to show you.”

Ellen’s stomach clinched as the video rolled backwards like a 1930s silent film shown in reverse to garner a giggle or two. When the video, in all of its clarity, began to run forward again, the last thing on Ellen’s mind was laughing.

Oscar’s SUV came into view. Sanchez made a quick move to make the screen larger without losing any detail. On the screen, the light turned red and Oscar stopped. Ellen couldn’t see for sure, but it looked like a taxi had pulled up behind the SUV. Then a ghostly image, a man, suddenly appeared at Oscar’s window. He was tall—Ellen could tell by how high his head rose above the driver’s side door—and he was wearing a hat pulled down over his face. The shadows caused by the dark might not have allowed a good look, but he was making sure. He gestured for Oscar to open the window and, although it was fuzzy, she could see the window lower.

“He knew this guy,” she whispered.

“Good, Gringa. I think you’re right. Keep watching.”

In the next five seconds, the mysterious man pulled something out of his pocket and she saw a flash. She jumped, and then felt her insides turn to lead as she saw two more flashes.

“He killed him in cold blood. My God, he just shot him,” said Ellen.

“I guess we knew that. Made me sick the first time I saw it anyway, but ya gotta keep watching.”

“Okay.”

In the upper left-hand corner of the video she saw the green aura from the traffic light reach toward the SUV, then turn to red. In the time it took for that to happen, she watched Oscar’s killer reach in, spend a few moments with both hands inside the window, then step back.

“That’s all the time it took to mutilate Oscar’s chest?” Ellen asked softly.

Sanchez
sighed. “I guess so. I can’t tell what he used, but it must have been sharp. I’m just not sure why he did it.”

“Maybe it was to make it look like something it wasn’t,” said Ellen.

“Good guess. You might make a good cop yet. Anyway, keep watching.”

The killer had apparently grabbed the keys, and then he moved to the back of the SUV and opened the door, but that was all they could see. The feed was blocked by the door itself.

“Shit,” said Ellen.

“
Pay attention,” said Sanchez.

Then something else flashed across the screen, capturing her full
awareness.

Again, seeming to appear out of nowhere, another man entered the video. He moved back to the back of the truck and joined the other. They were hidden from the camera’s angle, but in less than fifteen seconds they both were walking away from the unit, taking different routes away from the crime scene.

“Wait! Roll that back,” she yelled.

“You saw it?”

“If you mean the walk, yes?”

“Yeah. I know that walk.”

“Good again, Harper.”

Her voice couldn’t contain her disbelief. “It looks like
Steve Jansen.”

“Yeah? Well, that makes sense now, doesn’t it? The question is what was he doing and why did he kill Oscar?”

“And who was he with?” asked Ellen, hardly getting her mind around what Bella was showing her. Steve’s sins were becoming more obvious to say the least.

Sanchez
didn’t say anything; instead she hit a couple of keys on the keyboard. Suddenly the killer’s partner came into view, well at least part of him, as he passed under the street lamp to the very edge of the camera’s peripheral lens.

“I wanted to see what I could on this one. I’m pretty sure he was carrying something, which makes sense, so I cleaned up the feed the best I could. It looks like he’s carrying some kind of cooler, but from the angle, I’m not totally sure . . . still, I think I stumbled onto something. See the way he moved his hand and how the streetlight lit that part of the frame? I got a good look at his hand.”

Sanchez
did
have a good look at his left hand.

“Impressive,” said Ellen.

“We might be able to enhance it to show some type of fingerprint, maybe. Yes?”

Ellen started to answer
the detective’s question, but her voice caught in her throat. She scanned the screen with more purpose.

The next moment, she thought her mind might explode.

The close-up of the man’s hand showed a ring and, unless she missed her guess, the ring looked eerily similar to the one that she’d seen on the first murder victim’s phone.

His head felt like it was in a kettle drum. Even through the lessening disorientation, the sound was deafening. Brice wondered if he were in some factory that ran forty-ton metal presses. It took a moment to realize the maddening sound was internal. The battering originated from his beating heart as it vibrated from his spine to his brain.

Each rhythmic explosion caused him to wince with pain as it added to an ever-advancing nausea. The kind that forces one to accept the pure fact that whatever you ate last is going to travel up your gullet then color the front of you. Of course, the encompassing odor of that vomit will contribute to yet another such session. He fought like hell to control it, but in the end, there was no such thing as control.

It came sooner than Brice had anticipated. With all of the strength he could muster, he turned to his left and lost his lunch, barely keeping it off his chest. Each lurch of his gorge spurred on the pounding pain in his head to a new level of agony. He’d always thought that committing suicide while experiencing great pain was just another excuse to check out. His understanding and compassion grew by the second. If this pounding continued unchecked and he didn’t go absolutely mad first, he’d consider the possibility of swallowing the barrel of his weapon.

Slowly, as he rested on his side, eyes closed, his senses began to return while the brilliant flashes of pain ebbed to the tolerable then devolved to an annoyance in the background of his thoughts.

He opened his eyes again and found the fog had almost lifted. He could see that he was in a small room resembling the construction inside many of the warehouses he and his crew had just searched. Mingled with the disgusting scent of his regurgitation was the stale aroma of dusty wood. But there was something else. Something organic. He’d been down this road before. There was no mistaking the stench of blood.

How in God’s name did I get here?

Then he remembered. He’d been shot. Twice. The second one must have grazed his head. Or else he was in a version of the afterlife he’d never envisioned. He stuck with his first theory, at least for now.

Twisting to his back and enduring another round of teeth-clenching hurt, he tried to reach up to touch the side of his head, where the throbbing seemed to begin. Except he couldn’t. Another flash of pain in his shoulder wouldn’t allow it.

Breathing in a deliberate, purposeful cadence, he began to reach toward his head with the other hand, only it wouldn’t move either. Glancing over to his hand, he saw the yellow nylon rope looped over and around both hands, leading to somewhere below his waist.

“What the hell?” he said out loud.

“Oh. I’m sure Hell has nothing to do with it, Detective Rogers. Unless of course, one believes such a place exists.”

A breath later, the shooter stood over Brice, straddling his waist, bending toward his face.

“Feeling better after your little puking episode?” asked his captor, grinning.

Gathering a strength he wasn’t aware he had, Brice answered, “Get bent, sick bastard.”

He laughed. “That’s not a good attitude, Officer. You’re not the friendly type, are you? I know you, and I’m ready to agree with those who say you don’t play well with others.”

“You don’t know shit, asshole. And did you hear me? Go screw yourself.”

“Really? Not a plausible act for most humans, wouldn’t you agree?”

Brice leaned his head back against the wooden floor. “Who said you were human? Just stop the dumb-ass questions and let me loose. You’re already in deep. This won’t help you.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but perhaps you’re wrong. Maybe I won’t have a case to make. After all, there’s the matter of being caught, finding evidence, and then being able to put that all together. That’s not a particular strength for the Chicago police these days. Besides, as I see it, you’re the one in deep, as you say.”

With that, he kicked Brice’s shoulder. The pain was hell sent. He gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. A moment later, after the stars had danced away, Brice answered.

“Really? Do you know how many people have thought exactly the way you do and are now enjoying dating arrangements with their cellmates?”

His tormenter dropped down on his chest, grabbing his shirt and pulling Brice’s face close to him.
“I’m not like others, detective,” he snarled. “In the event your pea brain doesn’t comprehend that, let me enlighten you. I’ve killed nine people, and none of you have a clue concerning who I am, where I’ve been, what I’m about, and what I’m going to do next. You fool yourself into thinking you know, yet I do whatever I want.”

The man’s eyes were wild, but there was calm in them as well. Crazy, yes. Smart, yes. Prone to mistakes, no. It added up to
no good
by any equation.