Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) (19 page)

Halting at the far end, he paused until Dwayne had turned the corner, knowing where he was headed. Thankfully, it was after ten o'clock, and the building was quiet. Still, people came and went at all hours, especially from the investment-banking firm on the thirty-sixth floor. He would have to be swift.

He paused at the door to the small utility room and listened. The familiar sounds of TV leaked under the door. Dwayne considered the closet his office, and he had somehow managed to rig it with cable TV. As far as he could tell, Dwayne spent his nights watching porn movies and jacking off. And Dwayne had the nerve to call him a moron.

Easing the door open, he saw Dwayne sitting with his back to the door. He crept through the small opening and quietly shut the door behind him.

A woman with huge breasts that filled the screen was bobbing up and down, panting and moaning. The camera zoomed to her crotch. The bobbing motion grew faster as her moans grew louder. Dwayne began to rock in his chair, his hand out of sight.

TV sex or violence had never been much of a turn-on. It was all so much better live. He moved up behind Dwayne and raised the radio above his head. As the woman climaxed with a piercing scream, he slammed the radio down on Dwayne's head. The senior guard fell forward out of his chair and onto the floor.

Adrenaline's acid burned through him as he stepped forward and flipped the body over and pressed his hand to Dwayne's neck. His boss's pulse was clear, and he was pleased. He had plans for Dwayne, clear plans for his death. He shut off the TV, the sounds of moaning distracting from his own excitement. Dwayne would provide the sound effects for pleasure.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his penknife and snapped it open. He spotted Dwayne's overcoat and cut slices from it. He tied Dwayne's hands and feet and then bunched a small piece of fabric into his mouth, careful not to press it back too far. In an unconscious victim, it would be easy to push a gag back too far and suffocate him by forcing his epiglottis or tongue to occlude the airway. That would be far too pleasant a way to go for Dwayne.

Dwayne moaned, and his eyes shuttered open and closed again. He straddled him, poised to strike him when he was awake enough to process what was about to happen and to be afraid. Excited and empowered, he couldn't wait to see the fear in the other man's eyes.

Chapter 17

"Again," he shouted, the South African accent adding a spicy flavor to his scratchy voice. "Same sequence."

Sweat dripped across her eyes as Casey pumped her arms.

"Talk to me," Frank yelled. "Got to make sure you're still breathing." He paused as she finished the sequence. "Again."

"Jab, jab, head shot, head shot, hook, hook, undercut, undercut." Casey snapped her gloved hands out, landing the punches with muffled slaps against the bag. Her shoulders ached, but she didn't slouch.

For four straight mornings, Frank had watched her like a hawk. As soon as he saw her weaken, he made her stop. She was getting stronger, but not nearly fast enough.

"One more time," Frank shouted.

"Jab, jab, head shot, head shot, hook, hook, undercut, undercut," she said, panting.

"That's it. Let's go to the mat and do sit-ups."

Breathing heavily, Casey would have liked to continue, but she was too exhausted to argue. For four days, she had worked daily on regaining her strength. Starting in the morning, she sat with a foam squeeze toy in each hand, forcing her fingers open and shut, fighting to close her grip. Though her left hand seemed to be slowly regaining some power, her right hand still felt helpless. The hand's dexterity had improved only slightly more than the strength. She still couldn't maneuver a button without a ten-minute struggle.

Her knee, on the other hand, felt much improved. Wearing the brace that the orthopedic surgeon had made for her after the accident, she'd jogged up the hills near her house and then walked down them backward.

She'd also changed some things around the house. She'd had a full, fancy alarm system installed over the old one, changed the locks on all the doors, added bolts, and strengthened the window locks. She'd also had a lock added to the main electricity panel, and the alarm system now ran a five-foot perimeter around the house as well as to all doors and windows.

The alarm system itself had done nothing to ease Casey or her checkbook, but she knew the killer had seen it was there and that made her feel better. She had also pulled out the old case files she'd hidden away in a suitcase when they'd moved out to California. She had reviewed her old notes and added new thoughts as things occurred to her, sharing them with Jordan when they spoke.

She had a full profile on Leonardo again, most of it matching what she'd had originally—loner, above-average intelligence, thirty to thirty-five, well kept, college educated. She thought about the language he had used in her attack. Look for a medical job history—nurse or ambulance technician, maybe a coroner's assistant. Every time she boxed, she pictured him in a bit fuller detail, adding each new clue to her list until she knew him as well as she knew herself.

"Too hard today, McKinley."

"I'm okay," she argued.

Frank shook his head, laying his hand on her shoulder. His dark eyes scolded her. "Too hard."

She started to lower herself to the mat. "I need to get stronger." She leaned back and raised herself up with the first sit-up. The muscles in her abdomen seemed to tear from her rib cage. She felt bruised and beaten. For some reason, the sensation was almost comforting.

Frank knelt beside her and caught her on her next sit-up. He gripped her hands. "I know you're impatient, but rushing, it's not going to help. You need to build endurance, and that takes time."

"I don't have time."

He shook his head lightly. "You got time."

Casey freed her hands and continued her sit-ups.

Shaking his head, Frank walked away.

Casey felt her legs begin to shake as she reached forty-three. Teeth clenched, she pushed herself. Only seven more. Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six.

"One thousand, four hundred and sixteen..."

Casey looked up and caught Jordan Gray's face upside down, staring at her. Forcing herself to make it to fifty, she laid back and put her arms up over her head to catch her breath.

"You wonder what I'm doing here?"

She shrugged, too breathless to respond.

"Frank said you might need a ride home. And I've got news."

Despite the ache in her belly, Casey sat up, imagining what the news might be. The pain in her stomach tightened and sank like a heavy weight into her gut. This pain didn't come from the sit-ups, and somehow it wasn't one she could fight off like she used to. "Another child?"

Jordan shook his head, lowering his eyes to the floor.

Watching his face, though, she could tell that something had happened. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them dark and puffy. It almost looked as though he'd been crying.

"Your family?"

His gaze snapped back to hers, and she knew she was right.

Jordan put out his hand, and she took it, letting him pull her up. On her feet, she touched his arm. "Are they all right?"

The muscle in his jaw tightened and loosened. Finally, he looked up and said, "Fine. No thanks to me."

"What happened? Was he at your house?"

"Get your stuff. I'll tell you on the way home."

* * *

Casey watched Jordan pull out of the gym parking lot and head down Broadway toward Piedmont Avenue. Broadway was quieter now than it had been when she'd cabbed down this morning at six. At six o'clock on a Saturday morning, people were still emerging from Biff's all-night diner. Casey watched a tall black man emerge with a woman on either arm. His dark glasses at the early hour indicated it had been a long night. The length of his companions' skirts indicated the women were used to long nights.

Casey focused on Jordan, waiting for him to share his news. His fists were tight on the steering wheel. She studied the lighter skin around his knuckles and envied his ability to grip so fiercely.

Her own hands were still wrapped, a soft foam grip in each one to be sure she didn't break the bones again. The doctor had refused to give his okay to box. She didn't care. At least he was helpful enough to give her suggestions on ways to protect her hands. She pulled off the wraps and struggled to spread her fingers.

"I took them to the Warriors game last night."

Casey looked up at Jordan. His eyes, though blurry and distant, were focused through the windshield. "The boys?"

He nodded. "And, Angie." He paused for a few moments and then blinked hard twice before continuing. "Will was talking trash, and I got so damn mad."

"That's normal, Gray. I get angry with Amy all the time." She caught herself. She didn't get angry with Amy anymore. She never even saw her daughter anymore. She thought of the picture stowed in her bedside table, and the familiar ache took hold.

"He should be with both of his parents, you know?" He glanced over, and then, as though realizing who he was talking to, redirected the conversation. "I took him out of the game to talk to him."

Though thoughts of her own child continued to drift in her mind, Casey remained focused on the story.

"Ryan, my younger son, had to go to the bathroom. So I took them both out." He paused and glanced over his shoulder to change lanes.

Though Jordan didn't shed tears, Casey watched his face crumple when he described the fear first of losing Ryan, and then the absolute terror of knowing Ryan had been in Leonardo's hands. Once, she, too, would have understood it on a deeper level, on the level of a mother. But she couldn't even remember what that was like, the experiences between now and motherhood had so totally destroyed her ability to empathize. "Did you see him?" was all she could think to say.

Jordan shook his head. "I don't get this. I grew up in one of the most violent areas of the country. I lost two older brothers to gang warfare. It was greed and lust and turf. Reputation was everything. I understand that.

"Sometimes, I can even relate to it. The danger of bullet spray and drive-by shootings is almost comforting in comparison to this. This guy makes me crazy. I don't understand him—I can't."

Casey shook her head, her gaze returning to her hands. "I don't think you could."

"But you do."

She nodded slowly. "I don't think it's healthy."

"None of it's healthy. If I wanted healthy, I'd have sold insurance."

She watched his eyes, but he wasn't joking.

"What drives someone to do this? How does he deal with remorse?"

She scoffed. "There's no remorse."

"Come on. He chops up a little kid, and he doesn't feel bad about it later?"

She shook her head. "No. In fact, I think he feels good about it. It makes him feel strong, dominant. Power is very important to him. Wearing the uniform ties in with that. Being seen as an authority figure, especially a trusted one, is very appealing."

"Why is someone like this?"

"He was probably abused as a kid—most of them are, one way or another. In his case, I think he grew up without a father. Probably bailed on the mother when he was young. She felt strapped, took her anger at her situation out on him." Casey reviewed her original profile. Most of it still fit.

"I'd guess a domineering mother," she continued. "Probably had another sibling, one he felt competitive with. Maybe a sister who the mother liked more." She stopped. "The change of victim group is confusing—children from adults. It's unusual. I suspect it relates back to his family, though. A sister who got all the attention. I'm only guessing.

"Leonardo did not grow up with any strong male figures, though. His anger is based almost entirely at females. The children are taken when they're with their mothers, and they've all been female. You're looking for someone who's never had a normal sexual relationship—he'd be very immature sexually. He may even be a virgin. Sex is anger to him. He has no idea how it should function."

Casey thought about all the hours she'd spent profiling Leonardo. "The inability to function in sex carries over into all his personal relationships—he's a loner. He may be nice-looking, though. Remember, he's luring children away in broad daylight and from under the noses of their mothers, so he doesn't look like a monster. That's what makes him so dangerous."