Dark Angel (Lassiter/Martinez Case Files #2) Read online

  “Two graves? How’d you come up with that?”

  “Took it from someone I talked to a few years ago.”

  “You sure about that TOR site?”

  “Hell, Eric, even the NSA can’t hack it. It bounces traffic off encrypted proxy servers. It involves over six thousand relays. And the software I downloaded is encrypted, as well.”

  Matus shot Race a sour look. “I just don’t understand all that stuff, so I get nervous.”

  Race pointed at his Mac Book Pro. “Between the Dark Web, TOR, the burner phones we use, and that baby over there, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Forget I mentioned it,” Matus said and left the room.

  Race exhaled as the door closed. He used the next fifteen minutes to pack his bags and to stow his computer and the envelope Matus brought him in his briefcase. Then he left the room, walked three blocks north along 10th Street, to where it transitioned to Luna, turned right onto a residential street, and went to his two-year-old Chevrolet Impala.

  The ride from downtown Albuquerque to the Old Town Plaza took five minutes. He parked on the plaza, in front of a small shop with a sign that read Treasure House Books and gazed around. This early in the morning on a cold February day, the plaza was almost empty of people. There was a gaggle of elderly women who had just exited the San Felipe Church on the north side of the plaza, and a delivery truck of some sort circled the square.

  He sat in the car for a minute and thought about the private investigator out of Dallas who he’d hired to track down the men who’d murdered Mary, Sara, and Elizabeth. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. Heartburn had become a part of his daily existence. It seemed to occur every time he thought about how little progress the investigator had made. So far, the guy had found nothing. Three years and two hundred fifty thousand dollars. The three men who had invaded his home and murdered his family had certainly not stopped robbing and killing. The crew had invaded at least six homes since they’d broken into Race’s Amarillo home over three years ago. He made a mental note to call the investigator and fire the guy.

  Then Race thought about the conversation he’d just had with Eric. Warning vibes ran through him. He paid Eric two hundred thousand dollars, plus expenses, each year to do his research, to identify targets who had not been punished by the judicial system, to vet the families whose loved ones had been injured or killed. That was more than twice as much as Eric had ever earned in any single year. And now his old friend had again brought up the subject of charging their clients for their services.

  The heartburn pain became worse. Race pulled a pill case from the Impala’s console and popped two antacid pills. He’d have to be especially observant about Eric’s actions. It wasn’t about money for Race. Not just because he didn’t need to charge for what he did. The insurance proceeds he’d received for his stolen goods and the cash from the sale of his house and the sale of his business had brought him enough money to live in almost any manner he chose for the rest of his life. But he didn’t want it to be about money for Eric, either. He wanted their mission to be all about doing right, about making bad people pay for hurting good people.

  Race took the envelope from his briefcase and pulled a folder from it. He stared at a photograph paper-clipped to several sheets of paper. The face in the photo was smooth and pinkish, almost child-like. He wondered if the man ever had to shave. The guy wore his blond hair short, in a sort of brush cut. His eyes were languid-blue; his lips slightly purplish. The nose small, almost feminine.

  Race lasered in on the eyes in the photo. A shudder shook his body.

  He considered Eric’s question: How many ways have you killed? He’d never thought about it. A minute passed as he ran his assignments through his head. He could tick off each murder in chronological order. Could remember each one as though it had occurred yesterday. Thirteen in all over three years. Five different methods: Gunshot, fall from a roof, hanging, explosives, and drug overdose. One guy had even died of a heart attack when he realized he was about to be shot.

  But Race’s favorite method was to administer a liquid heroin overdose. It allowed him to talk to the target for a while before he passed out. To tell him why he was about to die. And, finally, to watch the scumbag suffocate. He never shared any of this information with Eric. The less his friend knew, the better. But there was another reason. He didn’t want Eric to know about the conversations he had with his victims. He guessed Eric would find that weird . . . sick even. Those conversations satisfied Race’s appetite for justice. When he first began on the path of vigilantism, he never imagined he could do what he now did. Sure, he’d killed in the Army, but that was different. His first assassination was only about payback, about giving the loved ones of an innocent crime victim some degree of satisfaction, of closure. And ridding the world of evil, too. But the more scumbags he confronted, the more disgusted he became, and the more he wanted them to suffer. Their pain seemed to ease his own suffering over the deaths of his wife and daughters.

  He flicked a finger against the photo. “What will I do with you, Mr. O’Brien?”

  DAY 2

  CHAPTER 2

  Detective Barbara Lassiter smiled at the reaction of the four male detectives to Detective Susan Martinez’s entry into the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department Violent Crimes/Homicide Squad. The men were seated at four desks that formed a square on the other side of the squad room from hers and Susan’s desks. Since they were promoted to Detective Sergeant rank about six months ago, after they’d solved the Victoria Comstock and Nathan Stein murders, Susan had toned down her appearance. She’d swapped her skirts and blouses for conservative suits. She now wore low heeled shoes instead of spiked heels. But there wasn’t much she could do to hide her long black hair, mahogany-colored eyes, sensual mouth, and perfect figure. Barbara suspected that Susan would still turn heads even if she came to work in a burlap bag.

  Susan wasn’t just gorgeous, she was bright, gutsy, and one of the most intuitive detectives Barbara had ever known. Barbara glanced down at her own outfit and wondered for the thousandth time whether she could ever turn heads the way Susan did. She was tall and statuesque, and now that she’d lost twenty-five pounds, she figured she could get away with wearing clothes that were sexier. But that had never been her style. She looked severe compared to Susan.

  Susan moved to her desk. “Thanks for covering for me this morning. I’d put off taking my car into the shop for too long.”

  “What’s wrong with it now?”

  “Apparently, it needs a new transmission.”

  Barbara frowned at her. There was no point in telling Susan to sell the damned car. She was nuts about the vintage Corvette.

  “What’d you do last night?” Susan asked.

  “Henry and I went to the movies.”

  “I can’t believe you. Henry, Henry, Henry. It’s always Henry.”

  Barbara blurted a laugh. “You’ve got to get over my relationship with Henry. He’s a—”

  “—nerd. A stone-cold, anemic-looking, bore-me-to-death nerd. Look at you.” She shot Barbara a toothy smile. “Next to me, you’re the hottest woman in the BCSD. There are hunks that want to take you out, but you won’t give them the time of day. Because you’ve hooked up with nerdy Henry.”

  Barbara smiled. She and Susan had had this conversation a hundred times since she’d first started dating Henry Simpson. She knew Susan actually liked and admired Henry. He was a full professor in the Geology Department at the University of New Mexico. He came across as a little geeky, and his wire-rimmed glasses only accentuated that impression. Susan was correct that there were a number of good-looking men in the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department who had hit on her, now that she had gone on the wagon, slimmed down, and toned up. But Henry had followed her around like a puppy dog when she was out of shape, when some of the cops she worked with had referred to her as “Big Babs.” From the first time they’d met, Henry had looked at her as though she was the most beautiful, fasc
inating woman on the planet. They’d met when he stopped to help her change a blown tire. From that minute, Henry’d acted like a love-sick teenager around her.

  And Henry had turned out to be a selfless, attentive, energetic lover. There was nothing nerdy about him when he took off his clothes.

  “You’re just jealous,” Barbara said. “Compared to Leno Sanchez—”

  “Oh, that’s got to be it.” Susan made scales of her hands and moved them up and down. “Henry Simpson, Leno Sanchez; Henry Simpson, Leno Sanchez. How could I be so screwed up? I could have had Henry instead of Leno. What a fool I am.”

  “Leno Sanchez is all brawn and no brains. What the hell do you two talk about?”

  Susan sneered. “You’re supposed to talk?”

  Barbara shook her head. Susan’s expression suddenly went sad. She suspected Leno did nothing more for Susan than satisfy her libido. Ever since her husband, Manny, had shot her and then been shot and killed by Shawn Navarro, Susan had avoided emotional attachments with men. Leno Sanchez served a purpose, but it was a shallow purpose.

  Susan’s expression changed. She smiled and her eyes narrowed. “I don’t get it. Your husband, Jim, was tall and handsome, a real hunk. Henry’s like the anti-Jim.”

  Barbara slowly nodded her head. The conversation had suddenly gone in a direction that made her uncomfortable. Susan wasn’t just her partner at work; she was her best friend. But she hadn’t shared something with anyone, even Susan. She took in a big breath, held it, and then let it out.

  “Yeah, Jim was wonderful. But what he looked like wasn’t what I loved about him. It was the way he brushed an errant strand of hair away from my face. The way I’d catch him staring at me with a look of amazement on his face. How he’d bring me a cup of coffee in the morning, kiss my forehead, and walk away without a word. Jim loved everything about me. When cancer took him, I thought I would never get over his loss.”

  Susan’s eyes glistened. “You don’t have to talk about—”

  Barbara held up a hand. “You need to understand something. Henry is nothing like Jim in the looks department. But he’s everything that Jim was in almost every other way. I won the lottery when I married Jim. I won it again when I met Henry. How lucky can one woman be?”

  Susan smiled again. “Henry’s still a nerd.”

  “Yeah, maybe he is. But remember something—he’s my nerd.” She slung her purse over a shoulder and picked up a file from her desk. “Can we please drop the subject of my personal life and get to work?”

  Susan pointed at the file. “We got a case?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  They took the elevator down to the underground parking garage and crossed the concrete expanse to their department-issued Crown Victoria. Barbara opened the driver side door and slid behind the wheel, while Susan got in on the other side. After she cranked the engine, Barbara handed the file to Susan. “We’re going south on I-25 to Rio Bravo. Got a cold one. Been dead a while.”

  “Oh, damn. That means it’s foul by now. It’ll be a half-jar-of-Vicks day.”

  Barbara had never gotten used to dead bodies, which she knew was a disadvantage for a homicide detective. Susan somehow compartmentalized the victims in a non-emotional part of her brain. She could talk about homicides as though they were nothing more unusual than shopping or going to the movies. Barbara just couldn’t make that happen. To change the subject, she said, “What did you do last night?”

  “Nothing.”

  Barbara glanced over at Susan and knew from her body language and sour expression she’d done far more than ‘nothing’ last night. “Come on, fess up. What did you do?” She glanced at her again, and added, “Were you with Leno?”

  “No. One night with Leno goes a long way.”

  “You mean you can only stand the asshole once or twice a month.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Hey, I remember. Didn’t you have that hot yoga thing last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You usually talk my ear off after you’ve been to your yoga class. All the hot bodies and great workouts. What happ—”

  “Geez. Can’t you stop bugging me?”

  “Now you’ve got me worried,” Barbara said. “What happened?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Of course.”

  “Promise you won’t say anything if I tell you?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Susan sighed. “You say one word to anyone and I’ll make you pay big-time.”

  Barbara waited.

  “I’m forty-five minutes into my class and the place has gotten real raunchy. I mean, there are maybe forty people in the room sweating their asses off.” She scoffed, and said, “You know, that locker room smell that makes you wish there were a thousand Febreze Plug Ins in the room. That’s all bad enough, but the guy on the next mat smells like he’s been soaked in pickle juice. He reeks as though he hasn’t bathed in a month. Got nothing on but a pair of short-shorts. No shirt. No socks. He’s been spraying me with sweat every time he swings an arm. Then, like I said, we’ve been there forty-five minutes; he stands up, rolls up his mat, and announces to the class he has to leave.”

  “That should have made you happy.”

  “Thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. I was thinking I’d be able to breathe again.”

  “He didn’t leave?”

  “Oh, he left all right. He took the shortest route to the door and stepped right over me. Right over my head. Showed me his junk. Dribbled sweat right on my face. Came out of the bottom of his shorts.”

  Barbara said, “I hope that’s the end of the story.”

  “It gets worse. Musta been a gallon of sweat on his yoga mat. He tipped the damned thing as he crossed over me and drained it right on my face. It was like being water-boarded.”

  Barbara stared at the highway ahead and tried not to laugh. She tried with all her might. To no avail.

  “You promised me you wouldn’t say anything,” Susan said.

  “I’m not saying a thing. I’m laughing. There’s a big difference.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  Barbara pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket and blotted her eyes. She attempted to control her laughter but failed. She laughed even harder when she looked over at Susan and saw her expression.

  “I told you it’s not funny,” Susan said. But then she broke out in raucous laughs. It took them ten minutes to control themselves.

  A BCSD cruiser was parked cantilevered to the four-foot-tall chain link fence that separated the street from a well-tended front lawn, backed by a tidy, blue bungalow with white window trim. The vehicle’s roof rack lights flashed red, white, and blue in a hypnotic cadence that would have, Barbara thought, triggered a grand mal seizure in an epileptic.

  She pulled up next to the cruiser while Susan radioed their location to the dispatcher. Then they exited the vehicle and moved through an open gate to the bungalow’s small, blue-painted, concrete porch where a deputy waited.

  “Hey, Patterson,” Susan greeted the man.

  “Good to see you, Detective.”

  “Where’s your partner?”

  Patterson pointed at the far end of the porch. “I’m breaking in a rookie. He’s around the side fertilizing the lawn with his breakfast.”

  “His first stiff?” Barbara asked.

  “Yep. And it’s a rank one. Somebody turned up the heat to max level after they killed him.”

  Susan tilted up her head and took in a big breath through her nose. “Boy, I can smell it from here.”

  “Bring us up to date,” Barbara said.

  “9-1-1 got a call from a neighbor. Old lady in her eighties. Said the man who lived here would come over every morning and have coffee with her. When he didn’t show this morning, she walked over to see him.”

  Patterson turned and pointed at the window on the front of the house. “Said she looked through the window and saw the occupant lying on the couch. Stark ass naked. When s
he knocked on the window and the guy didn’t move, she called it in. We caught the call and found the front door unlocked. Just like the old woman said, he was naked on the couch. And deader than dead.”

  “Cause of death?” Susan asked.

  The deputy raised his eyebrows. “There’s a tent peg in the guy’s chest.”

  “A what?” Susan asked.

  “A tent peg. You know, for anchoring a tent rope to the ground.”

  “Huh,” Barbara said. “Did you call OMI?”

  “Yeah. Wulfie’s on his way.”

  Barbara thought that was good news. Martin Wulfe, the Chief Field Investigator for the Office of Medical Investigation, was the best the department had.

  “Why don’t you and your partner tape off the property.”

  “Sure,” Patterson said. “By the way, the victim’s name is Sylvester O’Neil. He’s—”

  “You’re shitting me?” Susan said. “The guy who killed that kid, then got off because the chain of evidence was corrupted?”

  “One and the same.”

  DAY 3

  CHAPTER 3

  Barbara and Susan drove to the Office of Medical Investigation on the University of New Mexico campus at 9:30 in the morning, after they’d gone to the Sylvester O’Neil crime scene. They sat in a glass-fronted observation room and watched a pathologist and morphologist work on O’Neil’s corpse.

  “What do you think about all this?” Barbara asked as she pointed at the body on a metal table.

  “I think this case will be a bear to solve,” Susan said. “O’Neil had a long history of child molestations, with two stints in the state pen. The guy was an unrepentant pedophile. I went through the computer database last night. There were seven complaints brought against him over the last ten years for everything from indecent exposure, to fondling little boys, to Adam Graves’s murder.”

  Barbara shook her head. “I could kick the ass of the cop who screwed up the Graves case. I mean, how hard is it to log in evidence and follow the chain of evidence rules?”