Carolina Rain (30 page)

“So she’s found something akin to love? Is that it for
her
?” asked Josh.

“I think that’s a certainty. We’re probably dealing with a psychopath as pure as the term could identify. She has no remorse, no emotional fixation or baggage, and has probably spent a great deal of her life researching why she doesn’t work like others. What is broke? What
does
it mean to really feel something? It was probably an obsession m
asked by her ability to disguise herself
as
normal. In
variably, these people are geniuses, or a notch below, so figuring out what work
s
in social situations was as simple as observing others.”

“
What do you mean pure?” asked Ben Garcia, sitting up a little straighter. “You make her sound like she’s different than other serial killers, other than being a woman.”

Running his hand through his hair, Manny organized his thoughts.

“When a predator hunts, they
usually
hunt to eat. Nothing personal, just survival. They don’t wait around to consider the morality of what they’re compelled to do. They just know they have to eat and
,
in many cases, feed their young. They don’t lack a sense of instinct or even emotion toward their families
,
they just
do what it takes to survive.

“
Human killers, serial killers, usually have an underlying motivation to what they do, no matter how trite. They are trying to scratch a
psychological
itch and
,
somewhere along the line, lost the concept based in reality on how to accomplish that. Killing someone, and in the way their mind sees fit, has no moral implication, thus no remorse. They’re driven by the end game, no matter what that means to them and regardless of who
is
hurt in the process.”

“I get that because I read some of your articles
.
I don’t see the difference
here
,” said Garcia.

“Fair enough. I’m saying this one has no agenda
like money
,
power
,
or revenge. She kills to get a rise. The difference is fine, but a difference, nonetheless
. I believe she killed just t
o see what would happen
. No benefit, no reward, simply a pure killing machine. Except
—
”

Sophie interrupted. “That might be true, Manny
. B
ut at the root of the killing, doesn’t she expect something in return? Some benefit? I mean
,
even to kill someone just to
see what happens
carries a
purpose
, right?”

“Great observation, Sophie. It does. That’s where the ‘except’ comes in. She probably didn’t realize she was seeking a way to get in touch with that
—
a
”

“Let me finish that one for you,
A
gent
Williams
.”

Manny turned to the source of the voice and felt
the shock ripple through his frame
. Aphrodite stood in the doorway, covered
in
blood.

CHAPTER-40

He stared at the screen, stroking his chin absently, then punched the ENTER key and waited for the next image to appear. It did
,
and his mood changed. He felt more alive, more meaningful
,
than he had
at any
instance
during
the private
slideshow
that held at least some semblance of a
life-
time
line for him.

Pouring another glass of amber Puerto Rican Rum, he sniffed it gently, took a hit, and set the crystal down near the wireless mouse. He pressed ENTER again
.
A
nother black and white,
appearing
more like yellow and gray, image appeared on the screen. His thought
s quickly
rolled in another direction as his anger r
o
se to the surface.

His f
ather.

Most people had some positive memories, somewhere, to go with the man that helped shape their lives
.
His old man
wasn’t one of them,
however,
was he?

“Positive, my ass,” he said softly.

The man had been one of the worst sorts of people. The kind that sucked the life out of you with looks, innuendo, sarcasm, and a brand of berating that couldn’t be matched this side of an interrogation in some
t
hird
-
w
orld prisoner
-
of
-w
ar dungeon. The
warped prick
never had to lay a hand on him to
instill
an almost psychotic fear of good old
D
ad. In fact, he would have rather had the beatings and none of the verbal
abuse
. Lucky him, he got both. Even after he
,
his mother
,
and sister
had left
F
ather, moving hundreds of miles away, his
father’s
imprint remained.

He shook his head, tapping the keyboard. The next portrait caused him to stare burning holes into the screen as the memories of his father disappeared into the void. His disdain, even borderline hatred
,
for his father had no doubt generated an anger issue or two for him, ending
four
years ago when he had captured a completely different philosophy regarding life
.
B
ut this man
on the screen
, this hypocrite, brought his rage to a different level.

Gripping the mouse, it began to make sounds as if it were being
crushed
in a large vise. He released it, closing his eyes as he captured his runaway emotions. They did little to enhance his work and weren’t useful, given what he did for a living. Still, he was only human, was he not?

He looked back at the screen. The man in the photo was laughing and had his arm around his wife, oblivious to the photo shoot he was starring in. The old saying that suggested one couldn’t judge a book by its cover came to the forefront of his thoughts. Looking at this scene, who would have guessed the violence the man
was
capable of? He espoused morals, loyalty, faithfulness guided by an invisible God, but never thought twice about shooting a man in the head and ending his life. Wasn’t that the ultimate sin? Taking another man’s life, no matter the circumstance?

H
e himself operated under no such moral allegiance
,
and death was a way to further the big picture, at least for him and his. Max Tucker would agree with him. The thought that this
particular
man could be driven to compromise his val
ues just to protect a loved one
fascinated him in several ways. It defied logic, at least as he saw it.

Rising from the table, he moved to the balcony on the second story of his oceanfront home and watched the sun begin to rise above the endless Atlantic. Folding his large hands together, he leaned over the weather
ed
railing and contemplated what was next and the timing of it. And
,
after all, timing was everything.

“Let’s see how good you really are, Agent Manny Williams
. H
ow good, indeed.”

CHAPTER-41

Manny sat
unmoving
on the opposite side of the table from the young woman who’d turned herself in some eight hours prior. Lily A. Cruz
—
a
.
k
.
a.
Aphrodite
—
hadn’t raise
d
her head in over three hours, choosin
g to sit quietly, her eyes open
and her hands resting in her lap. She’d been booked, cleaned up,
had DNA samples and finger
prints
taken
, and then
had dressed in an orange jumpsuit
that was entirely too large for her.
T
hrough it all, she’d only given the locals her name and hadn’t delivered on her promise to finish the statement Manny had started
. . .
but she would. Her body language
at the time
she’d entered the meeting room last night and the interrogation cubicle this morning said so. He couldn’t recall having seen someone so desperate to talk, but just as reluctant to hear the words come from her
own
mouth. Odd,
particularly
from a serial killer
who
had completed what
Aphrodite
had. The usual repartee for these creatures had much more to do with narcissistic, confident answers and lies
.
Not Lily. This one had a sense of self
-
control that was beyond anything he’d encountered.

“Coffee?” he
asked, again
.

Her dark hair twisted to the left with a slight shake of her head, then Lily raised her face, shocking Manny with her
expression. Her
large brown eyes glistened with tears and the internal pain etched on her pretty face wasn’t anything he’d expected
;
far from it. Her expression wasn’t typical serial killer MO. Anger. Rage. Confidence. Condescension. Contempt
, for sure
. But not remorse or regret.

Something had changed, drastically, in Lily’s thought process. Unless, of course, she matched the theatrical ability of most psychopaths and was feeding him complete bullshit. It
didn’t feel like that
. H
e’d know when she started to speak. And what if she w
as
sincere? What if her face
,
lined
with
despair
,
was a legitimate poster child for the contrite? Then what?

There was
a
theory, perhaps an accurate one, that the reason serial killers are typical
ly
under forty-five years of age is that
the
brain develop
s—
particularly the prefrontal cortex, the part that helps control emotions
—
as
people
grow older
. T
he urges and emotional imbalance that
controls serial killers becomes normalized with age
, at least within reason. Many experts believe that
could be the very reason some killer
s stop completely and are never heard from again.

“Your wheels are turning far too loudly,
A
gent,” said Lily softly, moving her hands to the top of the table.

Her voice pos
sessed a trace of Latino accent. It wasn’t heavy. More
like she’d been raised in a bilingual home
,
but he already knew that
, didn’t he?
Her eyes now latched onto his face with a somewhat unnerving stare. Not threatening or condemning, but curious, like she was seeing something for the very first time.

The would-be monster awakens.

He nodded, meeting her gaze. “I’m not the only profiler in the room, I see.”

“I’ve been called many things
, worse things.
I don’t suppose you’re far off from that one.
You know,
doing what I did, you have to be able to read people, study them for strengths, weaknesses, and interpret what their words don’t tell you.”

A faded smile tugged at her mouth. “But I don’t have t
o tell you that, Agent Williams.
People say you might be the best true profiler on the planet, according to my research.”

“I’m not sure about all of that, Lily. But thanks for the compliment.”

Test number one.

He waited.

She hesitated, glanced at her hands
,
then
looked up. “You’re welcome.”

Incredible. She’d pulled it off
and
had passed the first test. Acknowledging something as small as saying
‘
thank you
’
was out of character for most psychopaths. It meant the focus was off
from
them
,
and that usually didn’t sit well with people from Lily’s world.