Authors: Anne Marie Becker
Deadly Bonds (27 page)
Someone in the Circle risked his life for this one young woman? It had to be an undercover agent. The Circle was known for a wide range of crimes in a number of big cities—New York, Chicago, Miami, Dallas, Las Vegas and Los Angeles were all infected with their influence. This man could be FBI, CIA, ICE or DEA. Or maybe he worked alone.
“The police report says you couldn’t remember where you’d been held,” Becca said. “Or how you got out.”
“That was for my own protection. I was stupid.”
“How so?”
“There never should have been a police report. The guy who helped me…my angel told me to forget everything I’d seen. To run like hell and start a new life. But I went home to get some things I thought I couldn’t live without…and to say goodbye to my parents. I told them what had happened, hoping they’d care.” She pressed her trembling lips together and looked away. “Stupid.”
When Selina looked back, she’d wiped her expression of all emotion linked to the memory. “My parents called the police while I was up in my room. Just in case I wasn’t lying, I guess. Or maybe they wanted me admitted to the loony bin. I wasn’t home more than fifteen minutes before a cop was there, asking me questions. Almost like he’d been watching for me to pop up somewhere. That’s when I knew my angel was right. I should run.
“I told the officer I couldn’t remember anything. As soon as I could, I snuck out my bedroom window and never looked back. Started a new life with my new identity.” She met Becca’s gaze. “Until you found me, I had become Selina. Now I’m back to dealing with the old me again.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I thought I could keep in touch with a friend or two from high school, but I guess I should stop that, too.” Selina’s anger faded quickly. “If telling my story will save someone else from the Circle, I’m happy to help. But if you tracked me down via a police report and figured out how to get my email address, then the Circle can do it, too. Or the NYPD mole.”
“Mole?”
Becca was sure her eyes had gone as wide as the rims of their coffee cups. A mole working on the force was leaking vital information to a crime ring? It would explain why the police closed Selina’s case so quickly. And why the Circle had operated for decades, seemingly without interference from law enforcement. They were usually one step ahead of police raids. It made sense that they might have a reliable source of information within the NYPD. Besides, money could buy almost anything.
But an undercover agent
within
the Circle
and
a police officer leaking information
to
the Circle? As this investigation proceeded, Becca would have her work cut out for her figuring out who was friend or foe.
“My rescuer said that there was a cop who was dangerous and might kill me to keep me quiet. At the very least, I was afraid the Circle would come looking for me, especially if they thought I’d testify.”
“Let me assure you, you’re difficult to find.”
“And yet you found me.”
“I’m very careful. I know my words might not be worth much, but I promise you can trust me. You call me and I’ll come running to help.” This time Becca did reach out to touch Selina’s wrist lightly. She was encouraged when Selina didn’t pull away.
“But how can I help you?” Selina’s eyes brimmed with misery and regret. “I won’t put myself at risk again.”
“Do you remember where you were held?”
“I do.” Selina took a napkin from the dispenser. “Got a pen?”
Becca promptly handed her one, and a moment later, Selina pushed the napkin toward her. She’d written down an address in Brooklyn. Below it was a name that froze the air in Becca’s lungs.
“What’s this name at the bottom?” Becca asked, hoping her words sounded normal when she was nearly choking on them.
“That’s the name of the mole. My angel warned me not to talk about it, but I figure you’d better know who you can or can’t trust.”
“Diego Sandoval? You’re sure that’s the name your angel gave you? That’s the name of the guy working for the Circle, betraying the NYPD?” Becca’s stomach twisted.
“No way I could forget it.”
And there was no way Diego would sell out his brothers in blue. No freaking way.
The Diego she’d known, the man she’d held in her arms, the proud NYPD detective who’d vowed to rebuild his career, would never accept bribes from a crime ring. Unless she’d never really known him at all.
Friday, 3:12 p.m. Central Time
Chicago
Deathbed confessions were rarely light. Often, they were heavy, like “Jane is adopted.” Or “I stole that silver from Grandmother’s cabinet before my sister could get her grubby hands on it. It’s in the attic.” Where, over the past fifty years, the silver had probably served no purpose, denied the warmth of some relative’s fingers pulsing around it because of the dying person’s greed.
Light
wasn’t what he craved, anyway. Dark was more his speed. Dark was
real.
Which was why he had the woman in his basement.
He tightened the noose around her neck, ignoring her whimpers and focusing on the thundering in his ears. Blood, adrenaline, endorphins—a cocktail that produced a natural high. And if it was natural, it was right.
“What kind of name is Fanta, anyway?” he asked his victim. “Your mother had to have been a crack addict, too, to choose a god-awful name like that. Was she a whore like you?”
The woman moaned a response. Probably because she couldn’t do anything else with duct tape across her mouth. Her mascara smeared as tears and snot ran down her face. He reached for a tissue and gently wiped the mess, then checked the bandage on her upper arm. The wound wouldn’t completely heal in time but the symbol he’d branded there was legible.
“It’s not your fault. Destiny is predetermined by genetics, then shaped by environment. You were at a disadvantage in both areas.” He adjusted the chair she was strapped to, balancing it on two legs against the wall so that if she tried to shift, it would slide out from under her, the noose would engage, losing its bit of slack, and she’d be gone within minutes. No muss, no fuss.
“You should be thankful.” He reached for his camera. “Nobody noticed you before, standing on that street corner. Not the
real
you. But now they will. Thanks to me. Your contribution to society will go down in history.”
Her deathbed confession—that she was a drug addict and a prostitute, which he already knew, since he’d used both to lure her into his basement—was certainly no ray of sunshine. But her lifestyle ensured he could get what he wanted without repercussion.
More important, it would prove his loyalty to Tony.
He shifted the camera to the side so that he could look into eyes wide with surprise. “I’ve even written a glowing obituary for you. And once I talk to people at the church, you’ll be considered a victim of society, ignored and neglected. I’ll make sure you get a proper funeral.”
Tears of gratitude streamed down her cheeks. Again, he dabbed at them around the duct tape.
“It’ll be beautiful. The organist is a friend of mine. I’m sure she’ll donate her time. I bet I can even get a couple of choir people. Mother is a member of the ladies’ ministry. There’ll be casseroles and cakes. I’ll make sure people notice you.
Understand
you.” Nobody had given her a second look before…unless they’d been looking for a cheap quickie in the alley.
He would make Fanta fabulous. He’d also satisfy his cravings and ensure Tony’s continued cooperation.
Win-win-win
.
He snapped a few more pictures. “Now don’t you move, or this’ll be over too quick. Although, I do have to be kind of quick. I have places to be.”
The airport, to be exact. He’d have to leave Mother alone for a day or two, but it would be worth it. He had a job to do.
He grinned as anticipation fizzed in his blood, adding to the addictive natural mixture already pulsing through his body and making him lightheaded. It was the same kind of buzz he got pre-kill, though he was a man of caution and had restrained himself from killing as much as he would like. Nobody seemed to understand that burning need.
Except for Damian Manchester and his agents. At the wedding this weekend, he would be among people who understood the necessity of death, the beauty of it. He strived to be like them, to channel his urges—his
gift
—to better society. This weekend, he’d be among the SSAM group, even if they didn’t know about him.
Or what he did in his basement.
In New York, he might even get a hint of what the SSAM agents’ consciences hid. Certainly not prostitution or drug addiction…but every conscience had burdens to bear.
Copyright © 2014 by Anne Marie Becker
ISBN: 978-14268-9588-3
Copyright © 2013 by Anne Marie Becker
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