Like this unsub…
I pulled out a grainy picture of her profile I’d printed from the surveillance tapes. The few photos I’d printed from that night were in a separate folder off to the side. Tracing her outline with a finger, she was slender, but curvy in all the right places. This was barely enough to get any kind of idea what she actually looked like. The woman was clearly trained in how to avoid detection and stay off radar. Or at least she knew exactly where the camera had been.
Folding it up, I tucked it inside my wallet then finally left my room.
“You got it. Thanks for the call.” I hung up, and jogged down the steps.
This could be nothing, but my gut was telling me in that town, that I’d already connected to the unsub, and a victim who was a known associate to the less savory population, could have something to do with this woman.
Pops would say I was seeing her in every case, when in actuality they had nothing in common, but he would be wrong.
The drive was fast, with only one piss stop and coffee break to sober up.
When I pulled into the back alley of the victim’s house, I was met by a scurry of detectives and police clearing the crime scene.
The house was in the middle of bland suburbia. This murder was most likely rocking the world of perfectly manicured lawns and PTA superstars. For months, the inhabitants would probably glare at everyone in suspicion, until enough time had passed before they felt safe again.
A few mostly senior officials were standing on the sidewalk, surveying the scene. One, I recognized.
Shit, what was he doing here?
Gregory Lescheva wasn’t part of the FBI, thank Christ, but he was very well connected and worked as a consultant for more than a few investigations throughout the US. I didn’t know him well, he’d mostly worked with Pops through the years, but what I did know was that he was a hard ass.
At six foot two, a full head of silver hair, and cold blue eyes, he was a man most people didn’t want to fight with. Good thing I wasn’t here to fight with him. As long as he gave me a wide berth, once I got the information I needed, I’d be on my way.
Of course, the old bastard noticed me before any of his colleagues. Separating himself, he raised a hand in greeting that was more a formality than it was a pleasure to see me. “Morgan, what brings you to our crime scene?”
Giving him one dip of the chin, I turned my attention to the coroner pushing the body, zipped up in a black bag, out of the house. Damn, I’d hoped to get here before they fully processed the scene.
“I was called in as a possible connection to the Judge cases. What are we looking at?”
Lescheva gave me an odd look, but didn’t question me. I was sure he’d wait to do that once we were tucked away into an office somewhere. That was one thing I could count on. He shared the we versus them mentality, and he was squarely on my side of we.
“Danny Lions. Twenty-six, longtime resident in Claremont. A proclaimed self-investor and mostly a hermit. He wasn’t involved in any local organizations, no churches or anything of the sort. What we do have, is several photographs of him with Claire Avery and Don Weston.”
I nodded. Not surprised. When Holiday said he had unsavory connections, those two were the first that came to mind.
“Cause of death?” I said as he walked me up to the back door.
“Gunshot to the head.”
A young officer jumped out of the way as soon as he saw us in the doorway. “No one heard anything?”
He shook his head. “No, so they must have used a silencer. It’s also been days since he was killed. Surprisingly, the body didn’t decompose at the normal rate. Whoever was here turned the air down to fifty. It was like he was stuck in an icebox.”
That was the beauty of the Judge. She was so random in her methods, it took an insane amount of attention to piece together the patterns. She was also brilliant. In all my years of working with the FBI, I didn’t think I’d ever studied a brighter, smarter unsub.
“Outside of known associations, who was Danny Lions?” I surveyed the room.
Plastic covered every inch of the main living space. This must have been a dining and formal living room. It looked like it could also encompass the foyer at the front of the house. Long sheets of plastic were easy to get at a local Home Depot or Lowe’s. But the man had draped them over the walls, floors, and ceiling.
“Quiet man. Big into computers, and not a lot of history. No debt. No credit. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was a ghost.” Lescheva walked to the far wall, where a pool of blood had coagulated over the plastic. From the amount of blood, that had to be the kill site.
Then there was the other, much smaller pool of rust colored blood across the room. I walked over to that one. This was more consistent with a beating rather than a shooting. There were even tears in the sheeting where the discarded wooden chair had scraped against the plastic.
“What was this?” Because it sure wasn’t from him. I’d bet my career on it.
The old man sighed, taking a white handkerchief and wiping his brow. “We aren’t sure.”