Chapter 3
“You asked for miracles, Theo. I give you the F.B.I.”
—Alan Rickman as Hans Gruber, Die Hard
Maverick
I tapped my pen against my desk, the quote the first one that always popped into my mind when starting a new book. Given I was halfway finished with book number twenty-one, the reason the line from my favorite movie lingered in the forefront of my mind was entirely different.
Brutal visions had taken front and center of my mind, images so gripping I’d had difficulty sleeping the night before.
Why was I questioning a case that had been closed almost thirteen years before?
Because the incredible beauty had challenged me as if playing a game?
Maybe. Or maybe because all the old emotions had popped into my mind. Samuel Wells was a heinous monster. There was no denying that he deserved to die. So why was I revisiting aspects of the case in my mind?
In the two days since the signing, I’d thought about Alexia more than once.
She’d sought me out for a completely different reason than to meet a famous author.
The realization had nagged me enough I’d pulled out my old notes used in writing Gone Before Dawn.
Technically I didn’t have the actual case files, as agents of the FBI were forbidden to bring work home for fear of tainting the case.
However, I’d had thorough notes, sketches, and late-night scribbled thoughts kept on paper and my personal laptop during my investigation into the horrific case.
When I’d sat down to pen my first book based on the heinous crime, I’d separated out fact from fiction.
While the monster behind the serial murders was behind bars, I’d been very careful with what I’d written so some gung-ho junior defense attorney didn’t take it upon himself to try to declare a mistrial.
However, that hadn’t meant the crux of the crimes, the horror of being unable to save all but one hadn’t eaten away at the decent man inside.
Now, as I moved from screen to screen on my computer while ceremoniously shoving scraps of paper involving the case around on my desk, I realized I had no clue why I was delving into it again.
I’d lived, breathed, and suffered through the months of horror.
I’d barely slept, ate on the run, and had consumed way too much alcohol during that year.
In truth, the horrific crimes and the long-term manhunt had taken a significant toll, one of the strongest factors in my deciding to leave the FBI.
Against policy, I’d taken personal photos of several of the victims. Now I was flipping through them, reliving the nightmare all over again.
I’d made the decision to break the rules at the time after the case had dragged on for two months with not even a single clue as to the person responsible.
The bastard had been clever, more so than any other criminal I’d experienced.
He’d taunted everyone with his cunning abilities, especially me.
I shifted my cursor to the dossier I’d developed on the man, discoveries made, and information retrieved that far exceeded the typical rhetoric gained by the FBI administrative staff.
Alias. Residences. Work and school histories.
Criminal records. They all came into play, but what had enabled me to follow the trail leading directly to him had been very personal characteristics.
Food habits as evidenced by the few fast-food wrappers found at three of the scenes.
Substances on the victims’ shoes and clothes. Debris under fingernails. Records of odors and other items found near the bodies.
And a single phone call, the kind nightmares were made of.
Every scrap had finally led to a twisted trail of blood and carnage, allowing a hunt to ensue. Even then, the asshole had been onto me, taunting me with phone calls and the stalker-type methods he’d used with his victims. I’d dogged him until he’d made a mistake.
I stared at the picture of the man taken just after his arrest. The funny thing was that even after all my psychological training and my understanding of how normal serial killers could be, the look in his eyes hadn’t been what I’d expected.
Maybe I’d assumed that anyone who could stalk, kidnap, and both mentally and physically torture someone before introducing them to the dangers of the Everglades would appear deranged.
Lifeless eyes. A maniacal smile. Something to indicate the bastard had been soulless, spawned by the devil himself.
Yet Samuel Wells had had a bright smile and twinkling eyes.
Plain James and then some. Nothing special.
The FBI director had convinced me that the expression was nothing more than a mask, and I’d been ready to tie up loose ends and dive into a bottle of booze at the time. But I’d always wondered whether I’d caught the right man.
Given the contacts I had in law enforcement, I knew for certain there were no new murders similar or trying to imitate the depths of horror Samuel had gone to.
Did Alexia have additional evidence and if so, how was she involved?
I pushed myself away from the desk, folding my arms behind my head as I twisted and turned in the chair.
She’d seemed pointed about the words she’d used.
Now, I wished I’d snatched a look at the annotations she’d written. What was the point?
This was getting ridiculous. The case was finished, the monster caught, tried, and convicted. So why was it nagging me as much as it was?
After exhaling until my cheeks were puffed out, I closed my eyes. Maybe I was off my rocker, but one aspect of what she’d said I could check: whether or not a date had been set for Samuel’s execution.
Snatching my phone, I dialed Gabriel Rawlins. As one of two judges on the poker team, he should be able to discover the information quickly. I’d searched on the internet. When a savage like Samuel Wells was set to die, the news was usually all over it. I’d yet to find anything.
“Hey, buddy. We were beginning to think you dropped off the face of the earth. Then I saw your face on a building in Times Square.” Gabriel laughed. My buddies loved to make me the center of attention for my success.
Especially teasing me about the romance end of my books.
“Unlike my friends, I have a job to do,” I teased.
“Ouch. Nice try, but you get to sit on your ass all day while I’m working hard to eliminate the city of dangerous criminals.”
“Speaking of which. I need a favor. Do you remember Samuel Wells, the Python Killer?”
“How could anyone in Miami forget. What about him?”
“I haven’t seen this on the news, but have you heard anything about an execution date?”
Gabriel huffed. “Yeah. It was on the local news a couple days ago. Can you believe that? One of the most offensive murder cases in decades and I find out about the dude’s execution on the television.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Didn’t the FBI director call you or the prosecuting attorney?”
“Nada.” That pissed me the hell off. Okay, so I didn’t leave on the best of terms, but for God’s sake, what had happened to professional courtesy?
I’d spent over a year immersed in the case, so much so I’d gathered a true feel of the monster.
Maybe more than I should have given the thoughts and dreams I’d experienced since then.
“Does this have anything to do with your new book release?” my friend asked.
“In a manner of speaking. Just putting some curiosity to bed. Can you find the details surrounding it? The last I heard, his execution hadn’t been on the docket for at least another year or two.
” It took fucking forever to work a capital criminal through the system.
Just something else about law enforcement to piss me off.
Was I thrilled it was happening sooner? Well, hell, yes. I certainly couldn’t lie about that.
“Yeah, I can do that although I’m not sure what’s left to tell you. I think everyone will breathe a little easier when that fucker is gone. Are you coming to the damn poker game tomorrow night?”
My thoughts drifted to Alexia, still able to hear her voice in my mind. I almost begged off the game but had no excuse at this point. “Sure, why not.”
“About damn time.”
“Sue me.”
“One day I will. It’ll be worth taking my time since you’re a bestseller.”
“Very funny.”
Laughing, I shook my head as I tossed the phone. Maybe getting out of my house would be a damn good idea.
Maybe freeing the chains wrapped around my mind involving the case was an even better one. Gabe was right. We’d all breathe a little easier. A single image of her beautiful face popped into my periphery of vision. She’d certainly gotten to me in just a few minutes.
I had no clue about the woman or why she’d been dead intent on seeing me. Curiosity? There were a lot of people who wondered if I was a twisted fuck given what I wrote. No, that wasn’t her reason. Something much more tangible.
Was it remotely possible I’d run into her at the coffee shop?
Maybe. But what was the point? To put to bed the gnawing I’d experienced for years?
My entire purpose for joining the FBI had been about obtaining justice while putting the people responsible behind bars.
A noble thought until you factored in the various possibilities that an innocent person could have their lives ripped away.
After another spin of my chair, I decided to take a chance in finding her at Moxie’s. If I did, I could solve my curiosity as to whether she knew more than she’d been willing to tell me.
I’d also be able to soothe the ache between my legs.
She was an amazingly beautiful woman and I was a man. What would it hurt to explore additional avenues of electricity?
As I grabbed my keys, I chastised myself. I was a damn writer and couldn’t come up with something better than that?
Moxie’s was crowded even at three in the afternoon. The spot was located just inside South Beach, a location I’d been to twice before, both after signings at the popular book seller. While the frequency didn’t make me a regular, I already had my favorite coffee.