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  Brandon noticed the thin beam of light and tried to stand still. Azure was only a few steps away from Collin. She raised her voice. “Glover-man, why you play trick on me, huh? Get up.” She moved forward, almost on top of the dead man’s body. “Hey, you no wanna play…fine. I leave then.”

  Curiosity got the best of her, and she bent down closer, pushing the phone towards his face. A loud shriek erupted from her. Her phone dropped to the floor. She clawed in the darkness in search of it, but panic soon overtook her. Azure tried to get to her feet. The blood pooled around Collin’s body had created a slick surface, making her attempts almost futile. She screamed, managing to stand up, but her success would be short-lived.

  Brandon cut her off, a few feet from the doorway. He gripped the stun-gun, sending ripples of electricity through her core. She scratched at him and was able to rip off his mask. Brandon grabbed at his face, retreating a few steps. He groped at the ground to retrieve his evidence. This action gave Azure a chance to break from his grasp. Even though she was more than impaired from the attack, she stumbled to the doorway. Snatching the keys that hung from the lock and hugging the wall, she attempted to flee the unknown killer.

  Shit! Can’t let her get away. Brandon stuffed the mask into his coat. He rushed to the door and peeked out. Azure hadn’t gotten that far, and the voltage from the weapon had turned her into a sobbing mess. Brandon reached behind the door, releasing the locking device. Easing the door shut, he slipped out of the complex. He located the parking garage stairwell and knew right where the Asian girl was headed.

  * * *

  Azure was weak and kept looking back over her shoulder for the man chasing her. “Mikki, help me.” Azure’s voice was hoarse, and unless someone was within earshot, it wouldn’t be noticed. “Help me…please, help me…”

  She stopped to get her breath, but the pain in her side started to overwhelm her. Stripping off her coat, she tried to rid herself of anything that would slow her down. No die here…no die here. Azure put the house keys of Collin Glover in her right hand and let a few jut out between her fingers as she made a closed fist. The homemade weapon would be able to inflict some damage on the man, if she could keep up her strength.

  Azure remembered where Collin had parked his car, as a thin lipped smile crossed her face. I make it. I no want to die. She could see the snow-covered Jaguar through the outline of the small, oval-shaped parking garage windows. Few more step, and I safe. She turned one more time, expecting to see the man, but the hallway was empty, and the steady sound of the heating unit was all she could hear.

  Azure pushed against the double door and was exhausted of all her energy when it finally opened. She crumpled to the ground, excited the car was right in front of her. Collecting every ounce of strength she had, she shakily got to her feet. Her friend Mikki, and more importantly a cell phone, was just a step away. Azure had watched Glover use it earlier, and she would use it now to get help.

  Staggering to the driver’s side door, she pounded at the window, trying to wake Mikki from her drugged slumber. She loosened the death grip on the keys. Azure pounded even harder, but her effort was not being heard. Her hands were shaking, making it almost impossible to find the right key. Luck may have been on her side because her hands became steadier. She finally was able to find the right key. Azure turned ever so slightly to see if her attacker was anywhere close. I safe…have to get Mikki up. The sound of the lock clicking finally gave her a sense of security.

  Azure pulled at the door, but before she could step foot inside, pain exploded in the back of her head, forcing her to the ground. She tried to stand, but someone had a hold of her hair and was pulling her towards the rear of the vehicle.

  “Mikki, help…please,” she cried.

  Azure reached back to use what was left of her strength to fight off the attacker, but another searing sensation overtook her. This time, she felt the warm liquid cascade down the side of her face, watching as it flowed endlessly down the front of her shirt. All of a sudden, she stopped being dragged and began to feel like she was floating. Am I dead?

  A moment of recognition informed her that wasn’t the case. Her assailant was lifting her into the air and was carrying her towards the edge of the parking garage wall. She made one more feeble attempt to break away, but another wave of fire slammed into her chest. This time, she submitted to her destiny. Azure Sutaki’s body plummeted onto the icy pavement of Chester Street, scraping flesh from bone. For her, the suffering was finally over…

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Mercedes dealership was almost desolate, except for a few eager pre-holiday shoppers who didn’t so much care for the car itself as they did for the status of being able to buy one. Patrick Morgan skimmed through his notes as he waited in the main reception area for the manger of the establishment. Aiden Jacobs had described a late-model Mercedes parked in front of the church, not the tan Caprice, which had been a consistent lead up to this point. The killer could be the owner of both vehicles, but his instincts told him these were two different men.

  Graneth Kensington was the district manager of Hager Imports. He had a medium build, coupled with a blotchy complexion. The dark hair and chemically whitened teeth gave him the look of someone who thought he had power. He cleared his throat. “I’m ready for you now, Detective.”

  Patrick took a long sip of the complimentary hot chocolate before he got to his feet. Oh, we’re in a hurry now? He left the plastic cup on the table. “Thanks, Mr. Kensington. I know you’re a busy man, so I won’t take long.”

  They walked along a line of mirrored glass until they stopped in front of a single doorway. This opened into a cramped hallway that led to several interior offices. Graneth Kensington waved to a few employees as he led his guest to a most spacious office. The thick, white letters engraved on the door identified him as the manager.

  Graneth removed a pen from inside his pocket and waved it in front of the locking mechanism. Patrick heard a metallic sound, and within a few seconds, the door opened. He shook his head in disbelief. Automated sensor? Just a little expensive.

  When Graneth stepped through the entryway, the overhead bank of lights automatically illuminated. The halogen lights adjusted themselves to a friendlier glow. This revealed a wall of framed portraits, the largest being a personal replica of Graneth Kensington himself. Just a little narcissistic. Patrick raised an eyebrow at his host.

  Graneth mocked his stare but afforded an explanation anyway. “My wife had it done years ago.”

  Okay, so she enables him. Patrick flashed him an insincere smile. “Looks nice.”

  He motioned Patrick in the direction of three leather chairs. The manager pulled up a chair behind a modest computer workstation. He typed on the keypad for a few minutes before looking up. “So, Detective, I received the voice mail you left. Do you know what color and type of Mercedes you’re looking for?”

  Patrick thumbed through his notes. “The information says it’s one of the newer models out there. Our witness thinks it’s blue or dark green.”

  Graneth eyed his visitor with interest. “But you’re not sure, eh?”

  This guy is an asshole. Patrick shifted forward. “That’s why I came to you…figured you’re the only import dealer in town.”

  “You would be correct…I am.”

  Patrick flipped to a page in his notebook. “He mentioned this model was in the new issue of auto magazine.”

  A conceited smile stretched across Graneth’s face. “Ah, I know which one…this dealership only carries two colors in that design. One is blue…the other is red.”

  Patrick nodded. “Many of them sold lately?”

  The smile on Graneth’s face faded. “Very few, Detective, very few.” He pecked at the keyboard. “We sold two last month…prior to those, only one has been sold.” He pointed to the computer screen.

  Something at least. “Can you tell me if the sales were local?”

  “We don’t usually give any information on our es
teemed clients. They wouldn’t consider us very trustworthy if we did that, would they?”

  Patrick loosened his tie. “This isn’t a usual circumstance. It’s possible evidence in an ongoing investigation—”

  Graneth held a hand up. “I guess that’s why they put the ‘I’ in investigation, my good man.”

  Is he fucking serious. Patrick scowled. “You can’t help us with three names?”

  Graneth stared at him. “You only need one.”

  Patrick’s face was feeling hot. “Mr. Kensington, what the hell does that mean?”

  “Two of the other purchases were made out of state. We have very loyal customers.”

  “And the third?”

  Graneth’s eyes lit up. “One of our best customers. You and he hang out in the same professional circles.”

  Patrick stood up. “Would you care to enlighten me?”

  “I told you…our clients like that we our trustworthy—”

  “You know, I can always subpoena the records if I have to.”

  A heavy laugh erupted from the manager. “No need for all that police drama. I’ll give it to you…the client is very well-known, so not such a big deal anyway.”

  A colossal asshole. “Who is it, Mr. Kensington?” Patrick gritted a smile.

  “The secret squirrel himself…Brandon Thornley.” He leaned back in his chair. “You don’t look surprised?”

  Makes sense. The church was on the property Thornley owned. “I’m not…thanks for your help. Next time, don’t be such an asshole about it.”

  Patrick stuffed his tie inside his coat pocket and hurried out the door before Graneth could say anything in return. Patrick pulled out his cell phone, as he walked towards his car.

  “Morgan, what did you find out?” Commander Cromartie’s voice sounded hoarse.

  “Dealership has three purchases for this type of Mercedes. Two of them not local, but the third belongs to Brandon Thornley.”

  “He owns the old church property, correct?” Cromartie’s voiced raised an octave.

  Shit. He’s gonna shut me down before I even get started. “Yes, but I still think it needs to be looked at.”

  “Talk to him, but tread lightly. We don’t have anything but his car at the scene…and it is his property. You got it, Morgan?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Good, we’ll look like major fuck-ups if we start accusing this guy without solid evidence.”

  “Understood, boss.”

  “I’m serious, Morgan…don’t screw this up.” The line clicked dead.

  Brandon Thornley was a key-to-the-city type of guy, and Patrick was ninety-nine percent certain there was a legitimate reason he was at spotted at the scene. Then again, there was always that one percent…

  Chapter Eighteen

  Donovan Petrie parked his Caprice along the side street in front of his next victim’s home. The neighbors wouldn’t take a second glance at him; they would assume by the make and model, he was investigating someone for something. The last of the sunlight had disappeared, leaving bitter cold and darkness in its place. Donovan stared at the house. Only a faint glow from the upstairs bedroom gave any evidence of life.

  He reached over and plucked up the folder on the passenger seat. Lucky for him, his security access had already been established, making it almost too easy to research the biker wannabe. After all, that’s what Marty Brocklin was. The former semi-pro wrestler and convicted cocaine dealer now was playing the role of an angry biker who enjoyed abusing women. He really needs to be put out of his misery. Marty Brocklin had such a tarnished past, the world would hardly mourn his loss.

  Donovan knew the man was alone. The girlfriend had been carrying an overnight bag when she left a few hours earlier. Not coming back tonight, he thought. Donovan turned off the engine and slipped out into the cold. He adjusted his backpack as he crept to the rear of the house and smiled as he eyed the door handle and its absence of a secondary lock system. Just pathetic. The killer removed a few tools from inside his jacket, making quick work of the cheap lock. As he entered, the strong odor of stale beer and burnt popcorn attacked him. Even in darkness, Donovan could tell the ritual of good housekeeping was not a priority for the couple.

  He slipped off the backpack and placed it next to the stairwell. The house was almost too quiet, but after looking around on the main floor, Donovan knew the felon was more than likely upstairs, probably taking part in medicating himself with some type of recreational drugs. He picked up the backpack, unzipping a medium-sized compartment. The newly purchased blade glistened. He ran his hand along the steel edge, being careful to avoid any bloodletting. Donovan sheathed the knife and strapped it to his right ankle. He opened another pocket on the bag, removing the ceremonial candles, plastic sheeting and rolled barbwire. Donovan was about to create a distraction to lure Marty downstairs, when he felt a vibration in his coat pocket. Interesting timing. He withdrew the phone and stared at the blue screen. One new message.

  Donovan clicked the tracking ball. He licked his lips in anticipation.

  Donovan, sorry to bother at this late hour. Just wanted to say thank you for taking the job with us.

  He started to laugh but quickly stifled it. Donovan typed a few lines and hit the send key. A few minutes later, Brandon Thornley sent a follow-up message.

  What am I doing awake? Going over all of these friend requests I haven’t checked in a while. Yes to the drink after work tomorrow. Thanks for asking.

  Donovan smiled. After typing in a few more words, he stuck the phone back into his jacket. Hmm, we already are becoming friends. He took a few deep breaths, and his focus on the task at hand, soon was back into the forefront. The killer made little noise as he unrolled the plastic sheeting and spread it across the dirty kitchen tile. When the set-up was completed, he slipped off his boots and placed them adjacent to the back door. No bloody footprints to track. Returning to the backpack, he removed a pair of dual-strength leather gloves. Don’t need any of my blood left here.

  Donovan moved through the residence with smooth and calculated timing. He stopped at the bottom of the stairwell. Fuck…you gotta be kidding. The steps were constructed of bare wood, and any attempt to ascend them would alert his victim to his presence. Donovan retraced his steps. He glanced at the large television on the opposite of the room. What a wonderful idea. He leaped back, as somewhere in the room a high pitched ringing started to sound. Damn phone’s gonna spoil my plan. Donovan heard several shouts of profanity as the pounding of the floorboards told him his prey was now awake.

  Marty Brocklin’s half-naked, tattooed figure appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Who the fuck is calling at this hour?” he yelled to no one in particular.

  Donovan could hear personal belongings being thrown chaotically as the man searched in disgust for the handset. “Bastard, there you are.” The ringing ceased, indicating Marty had found what he was looking for. “Hello.”

  Donovan couldn’t hear the person on the other end, but whatever they said upset him even more.

  “How in shit’s sake did you get arrested? Are you that fucking stupid? Don’t fucking answer that…I’ll be down to bail your ass out.” Marty slammed down the phone.

  Donovan could hear the man rumble in his direction. He quietly unsheathed the weapon, watching as the man came closer.

  Marty Brocklin stepped through the kitchen entryway. He flipped on the light switch and reeled back in surprise. “What in the hell—”

  Donovan snuck in from behind, and before Marty “wannabe biker” Brocklin could defend himself, the barbwire had encircled his throat. Not even muffled screams escaped the man as Donovan tightened his grip even further. The razors cut through the man’s skin, leaving a crimson river in its path. Donovan forced his prey to the ground with one hand and with his other thrust the blade into his chest. Donovan didn’t stop putting pressure on the knife until the hilt was the only thing showing.

  He swung around, straddling Marty Brocklin. A few minutes ago,
the man had his anger on display. Now a look of fear had taken its place. Just like all my other victims, Donovan thought, peering into his eyes, relishing the moment that Marty Brocklin’s life source drained away. Ready or not, Brandon Thornley…soon, you will be mine.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Patrick Morgan had contacted Brandon Thornley’s office earlier. The Security Director had been more than happy to accommodate him by answering his questions. Doesn’t sound like he has anything to hide.

  Patrick took a glimpse of his watch. Just a little early. The two security officers stationed at the front entrance looked more like professional football players than the cliché most people had of the occupation. The Italian suits were, no doubt, a lot more expensive than anything Patrick would ever own. He displayed his credentials, as one of the officers put a hand out to stop his progress.

  “Sir, your escort will be here momentarily.”

  Ouch. Nobody trusts the police anymore. Patrick smiled. “No problem, I’ll just take a seat over there…if that’s okay?” He pointed to the lobby vending area.

  The officer nodded and ignored Patrick from that point. Patrick grabbed a cup of coffee from the machine. He found a seat and scanned his notes. He was halfway through when loud chimes started to play in the pocket of his blazer. Oh shit…I knew I forgot something. “Yes, sir.”

  Commander Cromartie’s voice filled the small handset. “Morgan, I’m on a three way call with Sergeant Holly Weinens. A woman’s body was found a few hours ago…right in the middle of Chester Street.”

  Patrick closed the notebook. “A homicide?”

  Cromartie cleared his throat. “The initial indication was suicide…but there were some other wounds that were not from the apparent fall.”

  Patrick scratched his head. “What kind?”