No Chance in Hell (3 page)

“Where do you work?” Nate asked.

“I used to work for Patterson Marketing, but since my parents’ deaths, I’ve concentrated on volunteer work.”

Nate looked up from his notepad. Marcus recognized the expression. They needed more information. “Go on,” Marcus prompted.

“I’m not rich by any means. But my parents’ estate left me in a good financial position, which allowed me to purchase a town house using my mother’s maiden name. I’ve kept to myself, lived simply, and have been careful not to do anything that would reveal my whereabouts.” She paused. “I could leave the country, hide on some tropical island, but I’m not going to turn my back on my commitments. After last night, I’ll have to reduce my contacts with two girls in the Big Sisters program. I’m hoping to maintain our relationship through phone calls and texts until this is over.”

“It’s a smart decision to separate yourself from the girls,” Marcus said.

“I’m betting we can figure out a way for you to see them if necessary.” Kay shot Marcus a don’t argue look. Thank God, they had her around to be the heart of the organization.
 

“Why doesn’t this guy just put a bullet between your eyes?” Marcus refused to look at Kay. No doubt, she’d admonish him for not picking a gentler way to ask that question.

Chris didn’t flinch. “You’ll have to ask him that question.”

Marcus nodded slightly. “I will.”
 

Their new client opened her purse and removed a checkbook. “Then you’ll need a retainer.”

“We’re pretty flexible about that.” Nate held up a hand to stop her. “We’re in the business of helping people. If you can’t—”

“I pay my way.” She clicked her ballpoint pen and held it poised.

Kay glanced at her husband, and they exchanged knowing grins. “I gave Nate five thousand as a retainer to protect me. We can start there.”

“Looks like he did a good job. You’re still alive.” The corner of Chris’s mouth twitched.

“So good I married him,” Kay joked.

“I can’t take all the credit. It was a group effort.” Nate winked at Kay. “I don’t have but a couple of weeks before my next assignment. Marcus is just coming back from a week off, so he’s refreshed and ready. Kaycie not only runs the office, she’s one hell of a detective. She’s always available.”

Having Nate’s help for any length of time was a bonus in Marcus’s opinion. “Let’s get a few more facts, and then you’ll need to report the break-in. We need to know how he got in your house. While we’re there, we’ll take a look at your security system. It needs to be a top-of-the-line model.”

Chapter 2

The silent vibration from DaVinci’s cell phone was an alert. His mentor, Michelangelo, had sent samples of his latest creation. Pictures waited on his laptop. Anticipation put a bead of sweat across his forehead. At last, the elevator dinged, and the doors swished open. His heart raced, and he hurriedly unlocked the door to his apartment.

DaVinci paid little attention to his luxurious surroundings, caring only that the door had locked behind him and he was in the privacy of his living room. His fingers trembled as he shrugged out of his suit coat and then unlocked his private office. Once inside his sanctuary, he sank into the plush executive manager’s chair and logged on.
 

His breathing became labored as he scanned through the different poses. The clarity and beauty of the snapshots were classic. He hated to be bested, but he had to be honest, Michelangelo had created another work of art.

The second time his cell vibrated, a smile crept up his face. No need to wonder who was calling, because only one person had this number. “The final presentation is a masterpiece, my friend. Truly breathtaking.”

“I thought you’d like them.” Michelangelo’s velvety smooth voice slid through the phone. “The work took awhile to accomplish, but the end result was worth the effort.”

She’d suffered a lot. DaVinci could see the fear and agony on her face. The bulging veins in her eyes, her slack jaw, and swollen tongue had been captured beautifully. Her legs were spread open so the world could see her overused cunt. What pushed this picture into the winner’s circle was how the flesh on her chest hung loose, and that she held a breast implant in each hand.

“Brilliant. Just splendid.” DaVinci tamped down the jealousy brewing in his stomach. How could he not love this work of art? “It’s new and fresh. Without a doubt, it has never been done.” He might as well surrender. “I’ll have a check written and waiting.”

The laughter drifting through the phone reminded him how much he appreciated his old friend and mentor.
 

“Thank you. For what it’s worth, I feel a bit guilty about taking your money.”

“I might have been poor when we met, but I’m not anymore. I pay my debts.”

“I wasn’t insinuating you didn’t. You haven’t been at the top of your game for the past couple of months.”

Even though he knew it to be a true statement, DaVinci’s temper flared. “Are you saying you allowed me to win last time?”

“I’m saying you have been distracted of late.” A long moment passed. “I don’t understand your continued fascination with the Holland women. Frankly, it’s bizarre.”

“Keeping tabs on her has gotten much easier now that Christine has moved to Plano.” He instantly regretted sharing that tidbit. He clicked off Michelangelo’s masterpiece and opened a clear image of Christine’s front door.
 

“You cannot be serious. Next you’ll be telling me you’re neighbors.” Venom dripped from his mentor’s words. “How’d you find her?”

“It cost me a bundle, but I needed to know.”

“You hired someone to trace her?” Michelangelo’s tone was sharp, irritated.
 

 
“No worries,” DaVinci said, trying to soothe his mentor’s angst. “After he located her, he mysteriously disappeared. Forever.”

“Fine. You killed one of them already. Now kill this one and be done with it.”

“In my own good time. For now, I’m having fun.”

“Don’t make me do it for you.”

“That would be a mistake.” He hoped the icy tone in his voice sent a clear message. He had no words to explain how important Christine was to him. She had much suffering to endure before he killed her. Not even his dearest friend and mentor would dictate when or how Christine would die. “I would react poorly to your interference.”

“Interfere? I’d be saving you from yourself.” Michelangelo’s smooth tones had turned hard. “Get her out of your mind. Our clients will not tolerate anything less than perfection. It’s time you explained yourself.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” he lied. His reason for letting Christine live was his alone.

“Prove it. Dispose of her and concentrate on business.”

“Have you received complaints?” The line remained silent for a heartbeat. “Then the subject is closed.”
 

“You’re risking us both. And not just our lives, but also our art and our clients.”

“This is something I have to do my way. Please understand.”

Michelangelo’s deep sigh indicated his surrender. “I have a buyer for your Van Gogh reproduction. I’m leaving for London tomorrow.”

“Perfect. I’ll start on a replacement piece right away. Have it ready for your next buyer.”

“You have a showing next week. The damage to your reputation will be irreparable if you let the artist and the public down.”

“I have trained personnel who are capable of receiving and uncrating the paintings. I’m going to the studio after lunch to ensure things are going as planned. The exhibit will be perfect.”

“Good. But remember we have other clients, too. If things go well in London, you’ll have new orders to fill.”

The line went dead, and DaVinci dropped the cell on the desk. He closed his laptop and his eyes, letting his memory wander back to his youth. His mentor had found him on a street corner selling cardboard copies of the great artists made with stolen paint. He was sixteen years old and a runaway, and nobody had given a shit about him. Michelangelo had moved an unknown kid into his home, educated him, and trained him on the finer things in life. His guidance had turned an undisciplined painter into a true artist. For that, DaVinci would always be grateful.
 

In Michelangelo’s position as art buyer, he brushed elbows with the elite. He’d quickly found a lucrative market using DaVinci’s ability to clone the great masters.

DaVinci had been twenty-one when he’d killed his first whore. He’d confessed his predilection for torturing blond sluts when Michelangelo had caught him with a white shirt covered in blood. Much to DaVinci’s surprise, his mentor had begged to be included the next time.

Over the next few years, they’d worked as a team, perfecting their abilities. Their careers had separated them when DaVinci opened his art gallery in Plano, and Michelangelo had accepted a position as the art director for the Willingdale Museum in Sundance Square over in Fort Worth. Soon after, the competition had begun.

DaVinci had never confided his true motivation to his friend. His plan had taken shape only after his gallery became profitable and he could afford the luxury of taking revenge on Christine and her family. Simply killing her wasn’t enough. He wanted her to suffer. Know how it felt to be alone.

He leaned forward and opened the view of her town house. She’d tried to hide after he’d killed Chelsea, but he was way too smart for her. Money had bought many things, including information, so he’d allowed her to run. Much like a rat in a maze, she’d darted from one location to the other, searching for a way out and ultimately failing.
 

This last move had been her best effort. It had taken a few weeks to locate her. Since then, he’d monitored her movements via the camera he’d paid to have hidden in the tree across from her town house. Now he watched and waited. He’d learn who and what meant the most to her. When the timing was right, he’d systematically take it all away from her.

DaVinci shook his head. For the next few days, he had no time for her. He had to concentrate on the gallery show and his next project. Michelangelo had thrown down the gauntlet with his latest win. It was time to pick it up and meet the challenge.

****

“We didn’t call Dalton,” Marcus commented as Nate drove out of the parking lot behind their new client.

“I figured we could talk on the way.” Nate pushed a button on the steering wheel and dialed Dalton Murphy.

“Hey, Nate. What’s up?” The FBI agent’s baritone matched his dark suits. All business.

“Marcus and I have you on speaker.”

“Okay. How was the vacation, Marcus?”

Marcus took the lead. “Short. Congrats on cracking the dog-fighting ring. Too bad the bastards didn’t fight back.”

“True enough. How’s the dog you brought back from Colombia?”

“He’s a fast learner and smarter than most people I know. You got a minute to talk shop?”

“Sure.”

“What can you tell us about Chris Holland?” Marcus asked.

“She reached out to you guys for help?”

“Yeah. She asked us to help find her sister’s killer.”

“I’m glad. Based on what she told me, she needs more than that. She needs protection, too.”

“She’s going to get both.” Marcus thought he’d picked up a softening in Dalton’s tone. “It might save time if you’d share your thoughts. What’s your take on her?”

“She’s not making up any of her story. I’m glad she contacted you guys. Sounds like she’s admitted to herself she can’t go it alone any longer.”

“She told you about her sister’s death?” Marcus asked as Nate turned into a neighborhood of well-kept town houses in Plano, which was a suburb in North Dallas.
 

“Yeah, but not a lot. She stayed busy with the other volunteers. One of her coworkers mentioned the murder. Chris didn’t bring it up, but I caught up with her over coffee, and I asked her about her sister. That’s when I learned the bastard was terrorizing Chris. After I got back to Atlanta, I checked with Dallas PD. They have a file on both the homicide and Chris being stalked. I pulled some information I can share.”

“Good. So you agree that this man is a real threat?” Marcus asked.

“Yes. I do.”
 

Nate had remained silent. To an outsider, it might have looked as if he hadn’t been paying attention, but Marcus knew better. The ex-Navy SEAL listened and kept incredibly accurate mental notes.

“So give us your take on the murder,” Nate said.

“I think the bastard’s a sadist. He’s addicted to other people’s pain. You’ll be shocked when you see the crime-scene photos.”
 

“That brings up the question I asked earlier today. Why doesn’t he just kill Chris and be finished with her?” Marcus asked.

“He gets off watching her squirm.”

“We’re meeting the police at her place now.” Marcus gave Dalton a quick update, explaining the killer’s visit to Chris. “She said he wore gloves, so fingerprints are out, but we need to figure out how he got past her security system.”

“What do you need from me? Dalton asked.

 
“Send Kaycie everything you can dig up on the sister’s murder,” Nate said.