Chapter 5 #2
It’s not hard to guess what they were used for.
On the bathroom mirror, written in blood, is the phrase, “she has been cleansed.” On the counter, next to the sink, is a jump drive containing an audio recording of what was done to her. Her cries for help and her pleas for him to stop, forever inscribed in ones and zeroes.
My face is carefully composed as I respond to Huntley. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”
“You don’t recognize them?”
“Of course, I do,” I argue with an even tone.
Huntley presses another one of my buttons. “I highly doubt that. These women are just as disposable to you as they were to your father. These women suff—”
I use my finger to point at each image. “Jessica Martinez, Megan Davis, Samantha Thomas, Nicole Garcia, Brittany Wilson, Michelle Taylor, Kimberly Rhodes…” My throat clogs as I struggle to get the eighth victim’s name out. “Angela Bartlett.”
The hole in my chest that formed when my mother was murdered aches. Absent-mindedly, I rub my sternum but stop when I notice both Huntley and Cassidy tracking the movement.
The remaining sixteen names are easy to recite.
When I’m done, my tone turns hard. “These women were not disposable. Who they were and the choices they made do not determine their worth. They were mothers, sisters, and daughters. They had people who cared about them. I would never label them disposable.”
“You mean they were prostitutes.”
“Cam girls,” I correct.
He sneers at me. “You’re just like him, you know?”
My shoulders feel heavy as the muscles along my spine go rigid.
“Huntley,” Cassidy warns, taking a step forward.
Agent Huntley continues as if no one else has spoken. “You think they’re dirty—an abomination—just like your father did.”
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. “No.”
Huntley practically spits at me. “Admit it.”
The door bangs open, and a Hispanic man with short dark hair and what looks to be a million tattoos walks in. His gray suit and briefcase make him look like he’s some type of professional.
If his expression is anything to go by, he’s not happy with Huntley. “Are you questioning my client without counsel, Travis?”
I open my mouth to speak. “Wh—”
“Not another word, Savannah,” the man instructs me in a kind voice, but when he turns back to Huntley, the man’s glower is firmly in place.
“Your client?” Huntley narrows his eyes.
“Who is this?” Cassidy asks.
“Rio Flores. Nice to meet you,” the new man greets Cassidy, then strides to my side like he’s guarding me. “That’s right. Miss Foster is my client. Why hasn’t she called me?”
Because I’m not actually your client…
“She hasn’t been mirandized. This isn’t an interrogation. Miss Foster is helping us with a current case,” Huntley explains. “You have nothing to worry about, Flores.”
So now I’m Miss Foster?
Agent Cassidy coughs to cover the scornful sound he makes.
Rio scrutinizes the blank walls as if they’re a threat. “Interesting. Do you question all helpful New York citizens in rooms like this? Looks like the FBI needs to step it up in the hospitality department.”
“You’re such a—” Huntley starts, but is interrupted.
Rio waves his hand in a sweeping motion to the images on the table. “And do you show all of your witnesses photographs of mutilated women?”
Huntley grinds his teeth.
Rio has done a horrible job faking amiability, but then he releases his inner pitbull, tearing Huntley to shreds.
“Questioning Miss Foster without counsel is a flagrant violation of her rights, and in my absence, you have ignored procedure and protocol, along with subjecting her to intimidation tactics. So, congratulations, Travis. Every word she has spoken is now inadmissible. If you attempt any further questioning, you can explain your unprofessional behavior to your supervisor, SSA Aaron Marreli.”
Huntley looks like he’s ready to blow with how tightly wound his muscles are, and the deep shade of red that colors his face.
Rio places his hand on the table and leans over, asserting his strategic position.
“This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to gather those photos, put them back in your little file, and never show them to Miss Foster again.
Then Miss Foster and I are going to walk out of here, and you will not bother her.
Any questions you have for her can be directed to my office. ”
Rio offers me his hand.
I don’t normally let strange men whisk me away, but I don’t want to stay here with an enraged Agent Huntley.
I place my hand in Rio’s as I gather my effects. He doesn’t let us stick around to make sure his orders are followed. We’re down the hall and in the elevator before I can utter a single word.
“Do I know you?” I ask, disrupting the stillness.
“Not yet,” he mutters without looking at me.
Rio Flores leads me across the lobby and into the cold at a brisk pace. He doesn’t slow down until we approach a Honda Civic idling at the curb with another strange man in the driver’s seat.
I skid to a stop a few feet away. “This is as far as I go. I’m not going anywhere with you until I get some answers.”
Rio spins to me and rolls his eyes at me. “Rio Flores. Attorney at law. Nice to meet you.”
“And who’s he?” I ask, pointing to the newcomer.
I don’t notice that the passenger window of the car is rolled down until the driver leans across the center console to answer my question. “NYPD Detective Zane Kingston. I’m with the tenth precinct.” He flashes his badge at me.
Crossing my arms, I inspect both men closely.
Rio sighs, annoyed, and pulls something out of the inside pocket of his suit.
“Here.” He hands me something with a familiar weight and texture.
“You can hold on to this. Zane and I are going to give you a ride home. You can sit in the backseat, and if at any time you feel unsafe, you can slit our throats.”
“Speak for yourself,” Zane contradicts.
Did he really just hand me a knife?
“Fine.” I stomp around him, opening the rear door and sliding into the backseat.
Zane makes eye contact with me via the rearview mirror. “Please don’t destroy my car. It’s not kind to screw someone who’s doing you a favor.”
These are very strange men…
Rio joins us in the car, sitting in the passenger seat. “Let’s go.”
As soon as we merge into the flow of traffic, I jump right in. “Who are you guys? How did you know I was with the FBI? How do you know Agent Huntley? I can’t pay you. I’m a barista. I’m not exactly rollin’ in the dough. And—”
Zane cuts me off. “I thought we covered that. Zane and Rio. Police and a lawyer. Do you have short-term memory loss or something?”
“No one likes a smart Alec,” I shoot back.
Rio shifts in his seat to face me. “Our friend is with the FBI. He texted me when he saw Travis bring you in. Travis isn’t known for being a teddy bear, and our friend knows you had nothing to do with the current or past murders.”
“How would he know that?” I furrow my brows.
Rio waves me off. “That’s not important. And don’t worry about payment. I always have a client or two that I take on pro bono.”
I lean back in the seat and fold my arms, the knife still in my grip. “So, what are you two? My fairy godmothers?”
Zane scoffs. “That’s a first.”
“I think I’d look good with a pair of wings.” Rio shrugs.
Zane tilts his head to the side as he continues to focus on the road. “I don’t know if I could pull off waving around a sparkly wand.”
“What’re you talking about? Sparkles could be your signature look,” Rio argues.
This is the most bizarre situation I’ve ever been in.
First, I’m dragged away by the FBI, then a strange man claims to be my lawyer and gets me out of there. And now, I’m getting a ride home with a second stranger while he and the first discuss dressing up as fairies.
“You two are so weird,” I comment.
“Thank you!” Rio smiles. “All jokes aside, if you listen to nothing else I say, at least abide by this: steer clear of Agent Travis Huntley. He’s getting pressure from higher-ups to get this case closed.
No one, especially law enforcement, wants to see New York City spiral into hysteria like it did before. ”
I nod my head, understanding what he’s getting at.
Zane chimes in. “Travis needs someone to pin the copycat murders on, and who better than the child of the original?”
“Maybe the actual murderer,” I mumble resentfully.
Zane shakes his head. “Travis isn’t usually concerned with things like the truth. He cares about his closure rate so he can finally make special agent.”
“What am I supposed to do if he brings me in again?”
Rio reaches into his briefcase and hands me a small card. “You call me asap.”
I look down at the thick little white card. It’s simple with black ink and Rio’s contact information.
“Arriving at our stop: Brooklyn,” Zane announces.
I peek out the car window as we pull up to the curb in front of Taki Yuki. “I don’t think you can park here.”
Zane points to himself. “NYPD, remember?”
Talk about abuse of power. Although I shouldn’t complain. He’s doing it so I don’t have to walk far.
“Thanks,” I say as I slide out of the car.
Rio rolls down his window. “Save my number in your phone. Next time you see Travis, call me right away.”
I nod my head in agreement. “Okay.” Rio begins to roll up his window, but I call out to stop him. “Wait!” I hold up his knife and step forward. “Thanks for letting me hold onto this.”
Rio holds his hand up, in refusal. “Keep it. I think you’ll get plenty of use out of it.” He winks at me as they drive away.
My jaw hangs open as I stare at the spot where the Honda Civic used to be.
Do they know? There’s no way they could know. But…What if?
Blinking, I shake my head and turn to go inside. It’s early evening, and I have the morning shift tomorrow.
My feet feel like cement blocks as I head up the single flight of stairs. I reach into my purse and pull out my keys. Panic claws at my throat as I reach my front door. Sweat dots my forehead and the back of my neck.
Another gift, wrapped in natural brown paper and tied with a white bow, sits on my welcome mat.
How is he doing this? My father is locked up and doesn’t have access to the internet. Last I heard, he wasn’t allowed mail either.
With panic strong in my chest, I dip and snatch the package, unlock my door, and hurry inside. Unceremoniously, I drop my things right inside the door and take the box to the kitchen.
With a delicate touch, I tear open the paper, revealing a black velvet clamshell box. Carefully, I pry it open and find gold stud earrings. The metal shimmers in the faint LED light above my head.
My hands shake as I stare down at the jewelry.
Daisies.
The gold studs are shaped like daisies.
Another typed note is pinned in the box by the posts of the earrings.
The Lord rejoices in what remains unspoiled and intact.
Love,
Your Shepherd
A rage-filled scream builds in my chest, and I release it. I knock the box off the counter, sending it flying across my apartment.
Nothing I’m doing satisfies the need to make him hurt—to watch him bleed.
Only one thing makes me feel better, but I have to wait. I just went out the other night. The time between kills needs to be longer, but I don’t know if I can last.
Even with the risks, I know I don’t have another choice.
I go through my routine, grab the papers I need from my bag, then sit on my bed, facing the balcony.
The sun will set in about ten minutes, and God help the man who meets my blade tonight.