Wrong Chance (19 page)

After the brutal ripping of her hymen, he cleaned the mess of blood from his penis with her sparkling white wedding gown, then beat her and told her it was a wedding gift. Through fear, intimidation, and the threat that her family would be harmed if she ever spoke a word of her abuse, Jazz became a submissive and obedient wife over the years. She had the trial-and-error scars to prove it. When Leon divorced her because she had snapped and gone crazy, all he left behind was a hollow shell of a woman.

Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.
“Read about people like you. You're the classic definition of a functional dysfunctional.”

“You don't know a thing about me.”

“I know you sublimate hurt and pain into bestsellers.” He spun the ball on his finger. “You pretend to be happy living in a self-deprecating vacuum.”

“Is that what you think is wrong with me?” Jazz raised a brow above her sunglasses.

“I know you have little regard for your worth. Be yourself—your real self. Not whoever this imposter is hiding behind dumb ball caps, ugly sunglasses, and those dark clothes that are way too big for you.”

Be herself, she thought. If only Jazz knew whom herself really was. Ever since her wedding night, she no longer had use for an identity.

“Know what your problem is?” Jaden said.

“Nope, but I'm sure your smart ass has a theory.” Jazz dismissively waved a hand and stared back out the window into the sky. She wanted to be pissed because he hit home and had read her true, but she couldn't zero in on the emotion. In the few minutes she had been in his room, he'd stripped her bare and left only her nerve endings exposed.

“You're afraid to live, afraid to love someone again. You compensate real life for fiction. The real you hides beneath the layers of your characters because you're running from yourself. Your real story. You pour so much emotion and love into your books, but you're afraid to express those feelings in real life where it counts. Pathetic.”

“Watch how you talk to me.”

Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.
“Or what? I'm not the person you should have taken a stance with. You know I'm right and that's what keeps you awake at night.” Then: “And what scares you even more. Every time you look at me, you see the face of your greatest fear.”
Buank. Buank. Buank. Buank.

Jaden brought back memories too frightening to explore any further, but too intrusive to ignore. Jazz wanted to trust and feel
safe and beautiful. She wanted to outwardly express love and know she would genuinely receive it in return. But her only relationship didn't support any of those notions ever being a possibility. She no longer believed Twin Flames existed. Happiness was a hot commodity that left her bankrupt when she'd invested. The only happy endings she'd ever known to be true were the ones she penned into bestsellers; the ones she imagined and fantasized for herself; the ones that didn't magnify her fear of death.

S
cenario's skin crawled. She had an eerie feeling she was being watched; a feeling she couldn't shake. The short hairs on her neck stood like pine needles. She felt the heat of a familiar gaze on her. She jerked around in her seat—heart pounding—to the faces of complete strangers.

Brenda McGinnis, a sharp FBI profiler from Quantico's Investigative Support Unit, stepped to the front of the room. She was one of the few ISU agents who traveled the country profiling serial killers and giving professional advice to law enforcement agencies on how to apprehend them. Brenda got right down to business painting a psychological portrait of the unidentified subject.

“The unsub fits historical homicidal models like the Boston Strangler, Son of Sam, Unruh, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Ted Bundy to a tee,” she said. “That means we can catch him because we can predict his movements, his state of mind. He's impulsive. Lacks normal anxiety. He has no behavioral control. His emotional deficit is his central flaw. He's a risk taker. The unsub is definitely a white male from a middle-class background with an above average IQ. The fact that he has targeted all African Americans suggest that he's either a member or supporter of a hate group or aberrant ideologies.”

Scenario felt the sharp gaze tighten its focus on her. She rubbed the back of her neck hoping her hand would break the ray of heat.

Detective Aspen Skye spoke up: “The authorities in Denver haven't found any connection among their victims. It's too early in our investigation to know if Yancee Taylor has any connection to either of the Denver victims. So how do you think the unsub is selecting these people? Is it a build? A look? A particular act?”

“Among the two females and five males,” Detective Leonardo Scott said, “none of the Denver victims are similar in build or complexion.”

“An act?” Brenda McGinnis' brows pinched. “Interesting. That's an angle worth taking a thorough look at. It's highly probable that the victims offended the unsub in some way and he's seeking revenge through homicidal rages.”

“That would mean he knows his victims,” a uniformed officer in the crowd said.

“Not necessarily.” Detective Hakeem Eubanks loosened his tie. “I turn on the news every day and get offended by people and their acts who I don't know.”

Brenda McGinnis jumped back in: “If the unsub doesn't personally know the victims, he uses one hell of a credible ruse to lure people from safety to danger.”

“Not just people,” Detective Skye said, “risky people. He isn't killing addicts, runaways, or street people who won't be reported missing. He's killing taxpayers with solid family structures. People who start to be missed when they're an hour late.”

“Are you implying that the unsub is using disguises, Agent McGinnis?” Hakeem said.

“I believe his ruse is his profession, which we know has roots in the medical field.” Brenda McGinnis paused to sip water from a Dixie cup. “Maybe he's a doctor who treated abused children and now he's killing off their abusers.”

For some reason Scenario's thoughts were tugged toward Chance. That gave her the creeps on top of the weird feelings she was already having. Was it a coincidence that Chance and Yancee were friends and now… She shut that mental picture down before it grew into something unruly. Chance wouldn't hurt a fly outside of a boxing ring. She was certain that Chance would be devastated when he caught wind of Yancee's death.

Detective Eubanks' voice pulled her from her reverie. “Whatever the case,” he said. “In each killing, the Hieroglyphic Hacker has spent a lot of time in private settings writing on the victims with a scalpel without fear of interruption, certain that he could pack up his murder kit and walk away from the scene of the crime.”

Chief Eisenhower stood up, his belly straining against the fabric and buttons of his shirt. “This is the first of many gatherings of this cross-jurisdictional task force until we nail this guy. And there will be no sleep until that happens, I promise you. We have established a tip hotline. County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport will make the number available to the public in a press conference within the hour.” He had a brief coughing fit and then continued. “Brenda McGinnis will remain charged with advising us on how to nab this crackpot. Representing Denver, Colorado, is Detective Leonardo Scott.”

Detective Scott tipped his Stetson in a “Howdy” fashion like a real-deal cowboy.

“Through him Denver's task force is coordinating their efforts with ours. And the press isn't in this room for one goddamn reason.” Chief Eisenhower burned a hole in Hakeem with a laser stare. “Because they don't have a goddamn dog in this hunt.”

A hand went up in the back of the room.

Brenda McGinnis said, “Go ahead, Officer…”

“Officer Raygor,” the officer said, gesturing to the timeline on the dry-erase board. “It seems like we're overlooking the obvious. Find the unsub's connection to Detective Eubanks and we will find our killer.”

That voice shot a cold chill down Scenario's spine.

A
deluge of cops gushed out of the conference room and spilled into the guts of the Justice Center. Office Raygor didn't walk too fast or too slow. He stepped at just a smooth enough tempo to go unnoticed. The afternoon sun washed over him as he came out the building and stepped onto Ontario Avenue.

He carefully maneuvered—never a backward glance—around a growing mob of media people and eased down the avenue to his car. His police uniform was crisp and squeaked with each step. The squeaking abruptly stopped when he saw a parking ticket under the windshield wiper blade of his Infiniti M37. The meter still had two minutes to the good. Some fucking meter maid was trying to reach a quota, he thought.

He plucked the ticket from the windshield as a burst of lakefront wind blew it from his fingertips and into four-lane traffic. He watched the ticket ride the anxiety-free wind like a surfer planted her feet on a Ron Jon board and rode a crisp six-foot wave. That damn ticket could pose a serious fucking problem. He had a decision to make: chase it down, drawing attention to himself, and risk being filmed by the media thirty feet behind him or let it roll and hope the dice landed on a winner.

He slid behind the steering wheel of the Infiniti and drove away. He looked into his rearview mirror and peeled off the bushy eyebrows
and mustache. At the next traffic light, Chance removed the synthetic skin from his nose and chin. “Law 25: Re-create Yourself,” he said to his reflection. Chance knew he had become a master at hiding in plain sight.

•  •  •

Aspen pushed into the men's restroom as if it had “Unisex” written on the door. “Mind telling me what you came in here with a loaf of bread for?” She looked under the stalls until she saw his alligator shoes.

“Don't talk to me when I'm about to take a dump. I'm not as young as I used to be. I gotta concentrate, Aspen.”

“In that case don't push too hard. You might pop a blood vessel.”

“Get out. Let me take a dump in peace, would you, woman?”

“You're embarrassed, huh?”

Hakeem said nothing.

“I spoke with my girlfriend last—”

“Does this friend of yours even have a name?” He flushed the toilet.

“It's Phoenix Lovelace, and she wants to meet you.”

“It's become quite obvious that you're not going to let me use the bathroom in peace, just like you aren't going to let this business with your friend go. I'll go on one date and one date only with her on the strength of you when we solve this case and not a moment before.”

“One might turn into many. You might really be surprised.”

“I doubt it.” He flushed the toilet again and came out the stall with what was left of the bread.

“You know what? I don't think I want to know what the bread is for anymore.”

“Thanks. I appreciate you not making me give up the details,” he said and crossed the room to the sinks as Aspen's phone rang.

“Hello,” she said.

“Tony here.”

“Make it plain.”

“Yancee's cell phone was used less than an hour ago. I have the address where the calls are coming from.”

S
cenario's internal alarm clock went berserk as she descended the Justice Center's steps to a podium swamped with microphones. All the major networks were present; their correspondents stood out like reality TV stars with thousand-dollar makeup. Local news people and newspaper photographers fought like runts for position and camera angles.

The media machine was nothing more than a pack or vicious black-bellied piranhas fiending for a feeding frenzy on murder, sin, corruption. Now that the most important case of her career had been dumped in her lap, Scenario knew the piranhas would scrutinize her every move and sink their jagged teeth in her flesh every chance they got until the case was brought to justice, until the case was severely prosecuted. Cleveland, Ohio, had become the focus of the nation, and she was moments away from becoming the face of Cleveland.

Scenario could only imagine how the information given today would be chewed, digested, and regurgitated on the evening's news and in tomorrow's headlines. She literally wanted to kill Marcus Jefferson for going out and getting himself killed on her. Now she didn't have a tabula rasa to work from but a precarious start to navigate.

Mayor Nesto Balfour, young and black—ever the pretentious
politician in search of a photo op—made a grand entrance with his entourage, the City Council. Balfour gnawed on a hundred-dollar Havana and wore a tailored suit that emphasized his broad shoulders. The enormous pack of piranhas before him was entirely too small for his ego, too insignificant to tame his media whore and power addiction.

It was as if Phillip Noyce had choreographed the scene for one of his blockbuster movies. This, however, was not art imitating life; this was the real deal and Scenario was in the hot seat. Brilliant burst of lights flashed as Mayor Balfour greeted Scenario and Chief Eisenhower. As Scenario placed her talking-point sheet on the podium, the piranhas fired a barrage of questions.

“Ms. Davenport, with such little experience as a lead prosecuting attorney, can you handle a case of this magnitude?”

“Has Detectives Hakeem Eubanks and Aspen Skye's investigation turned up any solid leads?”

“Are there any persons of interest?”

“What connection does Yancee Taylor have to the seven Denver victims?”

Scenario waved the flesh-eating piranhas quiet. She was confident and comfortable in front of the cameras. Her appearance represented the citizens of Cuyahoga County: innocent, trustworthy, family values, zero tolerance for bullshit. “Our fine city has been pushed to the edge by a psychopath. The Hieroglyphic Hacker's reign of terror ends in Cleveland, Ohio.” Her voice was strong and angelic. She sounded impressive saying absolutely nothing. She knew to only say just enough because public criticism would fall on her. Official blame would point only to her if she blew it. Marcus Jefferson's death had fed her to the piranhas, but she wasn't scared. The Reynolds group home she'd grown up in didn't raise sissies.