UNDERCOVERS 2:
STRIPPED TO SERVE
by Ruth D. Kerce
copyright © 2004, all rights reserved
Published by ChangelingPress.com
Artwork by Brian Keller
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Prologue
Each ragged breath she pulled into her lungs enraged him.
Eliminate her correctly, efficiently, permanently. The words repeated in his brain, commanding his actions.
His fingers tightened around the slim column of her neck. Die!
Her pathetic struggles made him even more determined, and little by little, his grip closed off her throat. End her wretched life before the night is over, the voice ordered. He obeyed.
The skin beneath his fingers turned red and bruised. He smelled her fear. Sweet.
She gasped and fell to her knees, her hazel eyes bulging. She appeared so fragile, so alive -- but not for long. Clawing at his hands, she drew blood.
Go ahead, bitch. Fight. The pain felt good.
Each time he killed her, the heady taste of revenge flooded him like a drug, better than any street narcotic. And every time she died, he believed he was free -- until she reappeared.
Trolling for johns month after month during each new moon, he saw her on the street, resurrected like some fallen angel. Damn the whore!
Anger and frustration hit him like a fist to the gut, and his fingers clenched tighter. If the slut stayed dead, he’d find peace for himself and his brother, who now lay decayed and worm-eaten in some stinking grave.
He heard her neck snap. Ahh.
His fingers loosened, and her body tumbled like a ragged doll over onto the stained hotel room carpet. Her auburn hair drifted across her features, covering the mask of death on her face. She always looked so different after she died, less threatening to his sanity.
It didn’t matter, for he knew the threat still existed. “You will pay. I’ll kill you a thousand times, you fucking cunt, before I let you get away with what you’ve done.”
Chapter One
Detective Alan Grady sat hunched over his cluttered desk, studying the Raul Cortez file. The department had just connected the con with the recent brutal strangulation deaths of several hookers.
At each of the murder scenes, officers had found some strange trinket left behind -- first a black thong, then a small greenish jewel case, and most recently a silver key -- all clues to the killer’s identity. No connection to a known perp turned up until the last murder. When they dusted the key, a thumb print appeared that matched the one in Cortez’s file.
Looked like Raul had finally gotten sloppy.
The on-staff psychologist chose a different take on the matter. He believed Cortez left definitive evidence on purpose, wanting credit for the crimes. Alan wasn’t so sure. Cortez could have dropped the key by mistake. A slip-up made more sense to him.
The department was keeping the existence of the items confidential. Only the officers directly involved in gathering the evidence, along with a few supervisors, knew about them. A handful of crackpots always confessed to the city’s highly publicized crimes. Before they found the print, they’d needed an ace in the hole to identify the killer.
Alan’s mind raced as he mulled over the evidence and possibilities. Even if Cortez truly had lost the key, the department knew the jewel case and thong weren’t dropped accidentally, given the precise placement on each victim’s back. The key had turned up beside the latest victim on the carpet. If it had originally been placed like the other items, then it had slipped off. A possibility, he supposed.
The idea that Cortez had been toying with them from the beginning left a sour taste in Grady’s mouth. The psychologist speculated the con finally grew impatient at their identification efforts, which was the reason he’d left a print -- a taunt.
Newspaper articles ran every few days about the “Streetwalker Strangler,” which Cortez probably read. He knew the status of the case -- the public version anyhow.
Alan shook his head as he read through the file. This case was his. This was personal. He’d requested a temporary transfer to Homicide to track down the bastard who’d taken out two of his best officers. Enough twists and turns existed in this particular case for one hell of a suspenseful movie. Good detectives sank their teeth into cases like this. And he was no exception. They didn’t call him Pit-Bull Grady for nothing. Once he got a hold of an evidence file, he worked the facts until the perp got what he or she deserved.
He memorized Cortez’s mug shot, taking in every line and pore on the man’s face. The guy’s days were numbered.
Cortez had wounded two detectives, friends of Alan’s, several months ago. He’d almost killed Renee Atkin and Sam Hooper, right in Renee’s own apartment after she’d returned home from undercover hooker duty one night. But Cortez had underestimated Renee. She’d turned the tables on him and saved herself along with Sam. She was one gutsy lady!
Unfortunately, even though he was injured, Cortez had gotten away.
Renee was back on undercover duty now, and Alan welcomed her involvement in the case. Raul was eluding them so far, though he kept to the same routine and basic locations. He merely expanded his territory from time to time, when in need of more victims. His luck at evading them would eventually run out.
All the females killed so far had something more in common than just spreading their legs for johns. The department was keeping the details private, but the reporters had picked up on one of them. He’d wager most of the auburn-haired hookers had dyed their hair or bought wigs by now.
Why didn’t Cortez flee, instead of killing hooker after hooker? His actions didn’t make sense. As long as he continued the pattern, they were bound to nab him.
“The guy is a major whacko, but he’s also crafty.” The deadly combination of brains and questionable sanity in a criminal made Alan’s ulcer churn. He scratched his chin. The roughness reminded him the last time he shaved was two days ago.
Callie always said scruffy looked sexy on him. He smiled, but then gave himself a mental shake. Thoughts of his wife had no place in his life now. She’d made her feelings quite clear the last time they spoke -- no, argued was a better word. A frown replaced his smile, and depression squeezed his chest tight. She was through with him -- and his job. Not quite the future he’d envisioned.
Alan sighed and flipped a page. Where the hell was Cortez holed up? Canvassing the city required too much manpower, but someone knew where the man lived. They just needed one small break.
He checked his watch. He was due on stakeout later. Maybe they’d get lucky and find the bastard tonight. His stress level was nearing the meltdown stage. After this arrest, he planned a long-overdue vacation.
Alan flipped through a few more pages in the ever-thickening report. Renee often did hooker duty for the department. Once Cortez got out of jail for stealing high-priced artwork, he’d encountered Renee posing as a prostitute on the street. He had tried to kill her, but failed. Now he was exacting his revenge on real streetwalkers.
Cortez was one sick bastard, for sure, and probably under the influence of some drug of choice most of the time. Or maybe he’d lost his mind while behind bars and was truly insane.
Once they’d finally identified Cortez as the killer, the department’s psychologist determined he was killing Renee look-alikes for revenge, payback for the death of his brother, who Renee shot in the line of duty a few years ago. It was almost as if Cortez thought those women were really Renee, and he kept killing her over and over again, releasing his anger upon their bodies.
“Brilliant.” The sarcasm dripped off his tongue at the conclusion, worthy of any rookie cop. Alan had thanked the psychologist and walked out of the team meeting after that exchange of information.
With Renee back on duty, he wanted her input about the items left behind at each murder scene. She might understand their significance, since all the murders were connected to her.
“Grady?” an officer interrupted.
Alan spotted the uniform out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t look up from the file. His concentration on this case right now was imperative. He didn’t need some departmental problem, another case, or office trivialities distracting him. “What? I’m busy.”
“Your wife’s been brought in on drug trafficking charges.”
Geez! These guys never stopped trying to get a rise out of him. They knew his wife was a sensitive subject. They must have another pool going. Well, he wasn’t bait-worthy today. “That’s not funny. Go away.”
Outlining a better trap to get Raul Cortez off the streets was the key. The captain had already caught enough heat from the district attorney’s office about this case. He’d had his ass chewed off about their lack of progress from her. A repeat performance was inevitable if something didn’t break soon. “I have no time for practical jokes.”
“It wasn’t meant as a joke, sir.”
Irritation grated along Alan’s spine. He looked up from the report in his hand, ready to snap, but the expression on the junior officer’s face kicked his heart rate up a notch. Sweat broke out on the nape of his neck, and immediately a sense of dread gripped him. “Callie is actually here?”
“Rodriguez from Narcotics is questioning her now. Interrogation Room A.”
“Shit!” He tossed down the folder and surged to his feet.
He and Callie separated months ago. After his last injury, she said he’d been hurt one too many times for her liking. When he refused a transfer to a less dangerous division, she told him no more and moved in with her sister. Donna, the sister-in-law from hell, hung out with losers and lowlifes. He knew there’d be trouble.
But drug trafficking… No freakin’ way!
He jogged down the hall.
An officer stopped him outside the interrogation room. “You can’t go in there, sir.”
“Like hell! Get out of my way, Carmichael.”
“If you storm in now, you’ll make the situation worse. She needs you calm, Grady.”
All the energy drained out of Alan, and he sagged against the wall. Carmichael was right. “Fine.”
“You’re good?”
“Yeah, get out of here.”
After Carmichael left, Alan almost charged right in anyway, but didn’t want the confrontation turning into a piss-and-shout match, so he waited for Rodriguez in the hall. He paced from Processing to Interrogation, pulling his hands through his hair. “Drugs?”
“A big haul,” the desk sergeant told him while he waited. For simple possession, the arresting officer booked and locked up the collar until bail was made. Joe was only brought in on major busts.
Damn. He had to know what was going on.
He stalked into the observation room and watched the proceedings through the one-way mirror. He pressed his palm against the glass. Callie. Geez, she seemed so different from when he’d last seen her.
She looked worn out, and more than the harsh fluorescent lighting usually showed on a subject. Her shiny blonde hair looked dull. The strands were pulled back into a ponytail, not her usual style. She wore lightweight gray sweats and running shoes, instead of her designer duds. What had happened to her?
Concern clutched at his heart. Then anger built up inside him.
If anyone had mistreated her -- cop or otherwise -- the person was history. He and Callie lived apart now, but he still loved her and wanted her back in his life and in his bed. Even now, she exuded the most interesting combination of innocence and eroticism all rolled into one. No wonder he fell hard, just watching her.
She and Rodriguez were the only two in the interrogation room. Where the hell was her lawyer? Certainly, she wouldn’t have waived the right to an attorney during questioning. She knew better. He switched on the intercom and listened.
“Who’s your supplier?” Rodriguez asked, planting his fists on his hips as he towered over her.
She twisted her fingers, then set her hands flat on the table, trying to appear calmer than she obviously felt. “I told you. I don’t know. The drugs aren’t mine.”
“The car is registered in your name. Who else had a key?”
“Nobody.” Her eyes shifted back and forth. “Um, well, Alan, but nobody else.”
Shit. Alan rested his forehead against the glass.
“Just the two of you had keys?”
“The whole neighborhood had access to the trunk. The car was parked outside. My sister doesn’t have a garage, and I’ve been staying with her.” She met his stony stare. Her rapid blinking gave away her nervousness though.
“Right. And someone just decided that leaving a stash of cocaine in a stranger’s car was a good idea. Come up with something more believable. Where were you taking the cocaine?”
“Nowhere.” She chewed at her bottom lip, then released it. “I didn’t even know it was in there, I tell you!”
“If you didn’t know the drugs were in your car, why did you refuse a search?”
“I --” At his intense look, she squirmed in the chair. “I didn’t refuse.” She sat straighter. Her eyes darted toward the mirror, almost as if she felt someone’s presence on the other side.
“You did at first, ma’am. It’s in the report.” He slapped the file down on the table. “Now tell me what you know about all this?”
“I don’t know anything!”
Alan shifted uncomfortably. Callie wasn’t telling the truth. She always bit her lip while thinking up a lie. He needed to talk to her before she made matters worse for herself… and him.
As soon as he bailed her out of here, she was coming home with him, even if binding and gagging her was the only way to get her there.
“You’re lying!” Rodriguez slammed his fist down on the table, jarring the shaky piece to near collapse.
Callie jumped, then settled back in the chair.
“Dammit, Joe. Go easy on her.” Rodriguez stood six-feet-three-inches and had body-built himself up like a professional wrestler. The man knew the art of intimidation. Alan saw tears mist Callie’s big blue eyes, but she held them back. He admired her courage. Joe made men, as big as he was, sob like babies.
Alan tapped on the glass.
Rodriguez looked up with a frown. He headed for the door, then hesitated before exiting. “Don’t get comfortable, Mrs. Grady. We’re not finished.”
When Rodriguez entered the observation room, Alan turned on him. “That’s my wife, Joe! Don’t bad cop her.”
“Grady, your wife’s a lousy liar.”
“What’s this shit about drug trafficking?”
“She was stopped for speeding. The officer said she appeared more nervous than the situation warranted, so he asked her to open the trunk. At first, she refused. Then she seemed resigned to the situation and complied. Enough cocaine was found for a small army to buy a truckload of weapons off the street value. From the way the kilos were packaged, we think it’s a Mexican shipment. She was probably transporting the lot from the supplier to a dealer or worse on the East Side.”
“Worse? What? You think the mob is involved?”
“I’m keeping the possibility open at this point. I’m sure you heard. She’s denying the drugs are hers, along with any knowledge of them even being in the car.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“No can do, Grady. You know that. Regulations.”
“Screw the regulations!”
Rodriguez slapped him on the back, then squeezed his shoulder. “Sorry. I have procedures. This is a big haul, not just some simple possession case. We don’t want any screw-ups.”
He would welcome a screw-up, if the result got Callie out of there.
“Just hang loose. She’ll be moved to a holding cell soon. You can see her after she’s settled.”
“Has she asked for me?”
Compassion entered his eyes. “No, man, I’m afraid not. Sorry.”
It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going through this without him by her side. “Has bail been set? I want her out of here as soon as possible.”
“Not yet. It’ll be hefty, if set at all, given the amount of drugs. She’s probably here for a while, especially without a lawyer representing her. On a Friday night, a judge won’t be available. She’s here for the weekend, Grady, at least.”
Alan’s discomfort grew. He wanted her out on bail, no matter what. Tonight. He wouldn’t let her sit in a jail cell for a second longer than necessary.
“Do you have any ideas on this one?” Joe asked. “She doesn’t seem the drug-trafficking type. She’s covering for someone, I’m sure.” A small smile crossed his face. “Maybe you.”
Alan stiffened. Was the man serious? The assumption was logical, he supposed. He had the access, means, and the knowledge to carry out the job if he’d wanted. “Am I a suspect?”
“You have keys to the car, Alan. The information is going in the report. What happens is up to the D.A. and Internal Affairs.”
Internal Affairs. Fuck. “Those drugs aren’t hers, Rodriguez. Or mine. She wasn’t transporting them to a dealer. And the mob theory is ludicrous. She’s not involved with them.” More than likely, the cocaine belonged to Donna or one of her sleazy friends. “I’ll find out the truth.”
“Yeah, well, you better. And you better find some proof too, or one of you is going down. Now get out of here. I’ll call you when you can see her.”
“I’m staying.” He wasn’t leaving her, even if he just stood here watching from behind the glass, in case she needed him. Rodriguez would never hurt her or do anything unprofessional, but still he felt a responsibility.
“Forget it.” When Alan opened his mouth, Rodriguez held up a hand and shook his head. “You’re deep enough in this shit, Alan, as it is, just by association. Don’t push for favors.”
“Where’s her lawyer?” He already knew the answer, but asked anyhow, in case his suspicions were wrong. He really hoped her counsel just went out for a leak, and Joe continued the questioning, thinking Callie would break down, while no one was in there sticking up for her.
“She waived the right. That’ll make things easier.”
He cringed -- so much for his hopes. Tonight started out bad and kept deteriorating. “It’s only easier for you, Joe. Not her.” He’d call Larry himself. They needed all the legal help and advice at their disposal.
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