Killer Girls Page 6
Did Kea imagine it or was there something like pride in his voice?
Before she could say anything, he continued. ‘The cops have cold feet, that’s why the dolly waved that damned pump gun about. They’ll call for reinforcements and seal the whole area off. Next, we can expect the visit of a SWAT unit.’
‘But I’m not Lucia.’
She had hardly uttered the word before she felt ashamed. It was stupid to rub that fact in his nose; after all he was the brother of that mad woman. She had taken off the helmet. At least, if the heavily armed policemen should storm this place, they would realize at once that she was not the killer girl facing them., he was the brother of that mad woman. She now took off the helmet, which she had utterly forgotten to do earlier. At least, if the heavily armed policemen should storm this place, they would realize at once that she was not the killer girl facing them. Which meant she did not have to be afraid to catch a stray bullet. Or did she?
It seemed Mario could read her like an open book.
‘In your place I wouldn’t count on it that the cops won’t shoot before they ask questions. After all, you’re wearing my sister dear’s haute couture outfit – typical Lucia-style I should say.’
Kea found no suitable answer to that. It did not matter since Mario was fond of hearing his own voice as she had long learned.
‘And even if you should survive unscathed, have you thought what will happen to you once they nab you?’
Kea shrugged her shoulders.
‘I suppose they’ll send me back to Germany.’
Mario shook his head, laughing as if he were dealing with a stubborn child.
‘Really? Your friend is dead, but the FBI is still looking desperately for the kidnapped baby without a great many leads. They have the media on their necks. The uncertainty of Adrian’s fate is fodder for the newspapers, full of drama. Which means the FBI is under enormous pressure to deliver. So they’ll try and squeeze every drop of information out of you. If you’re unlucky, you’ll be accused of aiding and abetting a kidnapping and land behind bars. And believe me, you don’t want to see the inside of a federal prison,’
But I don’t know anything!
That sentence seemed to become Kea’s mantra. But she did not speak it out loud. Why should she? No one seemed to believe her. Except maybe Mario and he was himself a criminal.
Her heart missed a beat as she heard the sirens of police vehicles draw closer. And they were sitting here in an apartment they had entered illegally, engaged in pleasant – or not so – conversation with the brother of a mad killer fury.
‘Shouldn’t we try to flee somewhere else?’ She asked anxiously.
He laughed as if she had told a joke.
‘Of course, although it won’t become critical until the special units arrive. That will take a few minutes yet. But I don’t see any reason to wait a second longer. We don’t want to overwork your nerves, do we?’
Without waiting for an answer, he took her hand and pulled her with him. Mario opened the door to the stairway that smelled of cooking grease and cold cigarette fumes. Kea stumbled behind him until they reached a cellar. Mario moved as if he was at home here, as if he had grown up in this dingy apartment block. Perhaps that was the case since he seemed to know his way around.
She knew practically nothing about him. And the little she did know could well be lies.
Mario reached for his multitool and used it to unlock the metal door of the cellar. Cold air wafted into Kea’s face, colder and damper than at ground level.
Her companion knelt down and reached for an iron cover embedded into the damp floor and groaned as he opened it. Then he produced his flashlight and switched it on.
‘Now you will get to know Jersey from a totally different perspective, my dear.’
Kea felt a cold shower run over her back as the heard the agitated whistling of rats.
11
PEDOPHILE
In Lucia’s fantasy, she saw the word blinking in gigantic illuminated letters at Times Square. So strong that it seemed to be visible a hundred miles away.
Her stomach revolted.
She had done things that would turn the stomachs of many people. She lived in a violent world. Who did not strike first would be the first to suffer. She accepted the unwritten rules in the part of society in which she existed. But even professional criminals knew the taboos. And whoever turned against children could expect no mercy.
Lucia fought against her growing nausea. She could not afford to give way to her feelings of utter dejection, hopelessness and revulsion.
Adrian needed her.
It looked as if right now, no one could help him. He was somewhere on another continent.
Gordon’s information had seeped into her blood like slow poison and could not be dislodged. She pressed her fists against her forehead.
‘Damn, damn, damn! Why couldn’t I stop Old Barns’ gunmen from rubbing that son-of-bitch German out? If the ransom isn’t paid, those perverts will …’
Even a seasoned criminal like Lucia could not complete the thought.
Gordon lifted a hand as if to stroke her head. But at the last moment he withdrew as if he sensed something akin to electricity that filled her.
He knew she had no wish to be touched or consoled.
‘Nothing has happened to the boy so far, Lucia. I’m certain of it.’
‘I’m relieved!’ She snapped, far from convinced. ‘We can’t risk anything, Gordon! You must take part in the auction, whatever happens, do you understand? If those bastards auction the child, you must be part of it. And if they want money, they’ll get my knives instead. Or a bullet in the brain. Or both!’
‘On the darknet you have to pay in bitcoins.’
‘Really? As if I didn’t know. As far as I’m concerned you can bid in marbles. The main thing is, these bastards keep their hands off Adrian. They will do that, won’t they, if they expect to be paid?’
With these last words, Lucia no longer sounded like a bloodthirsty Amazon, more like a frightened young girl.
Gordon nodded slowly.
‘That’s my considered opinion. For those people, the baby is nothing else but goods that have to be sold in perfect condition. Their reputation in the circles of pedophiles depends on it. I’ll try my very best.’
Lucia showed a grim determination.
‘And I won’t leave one stone unturned. When you called me, I was about to squeeze the pips from that German bitch. She acts dumb, but I don’t believe a word she says. She will know where the ransom is to be handed over. And I shall work on her until she sings.’
Gordon noticed her glittering eyes.
‘I would hate to be in her shoes.’
Lucia gave a coarse laugh.
‘You’re damned right, you wouldn’t! Do you still deal with Gomez?’
‘Sure. There is always a market for false papers. Are you going to fly to Belgium?’
‘What else? Those perverse bastards will hardly send me Adrian by free delivery. How long will it take until Gomez can come up with what I need?’
‘I’ll call him right now,’ Gordon replied. ‘Why don’t you use an Italian passport? Gomez mentioned the other day, they’re easier to fake than our American ones.’
‘Yes, why not’ Lucia answered distractedly. ‘A tribute to the motherland of my family. To be honest, I don’t care what kind of passport it is, as long as it is a good one.’
‘Okay, I’ll see to it,’ Gordon promised. ‘But first I’ll see if I can get a foot into the auction.’
He powered up his high-end PC. Filled with a feeling of gratitude, Lucia planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘You’ll be in touch if there is any news, yes? First thing now, I’ve got to deal with that bitch from Germany.’
She left the former railway complex and drove back to her hideout. But she bit her lips as she halted some distance away, warned by the flickering red-blue lights of a number of police vehicles. Was it possible that Mario and Ke
a already languished behind bars?
12
Borges blood boiled angrily by the time she and Jablonski reached the old industrial site at Red Hook. Although she could not see the whole site clearly, there seemed to be no sign of the green Chevy.
Her colleagues had reached the place too late. And of Lucia Lezzi not a trace was to found.
The FBI agent massaged her temples. It would not do any good to get mad now. There had probably been just a few minutes between the successful flight of the suspects and the arrival of the police.
‘I want no stone left unturned. We need to find whatever evidence there may be!’ Borges ordered while she struggled to pull her Latex gloves on. ‘And I want no stupid comments that there are more than enough stones here.’
Jablonski raised his hands in defense.
‘I haven’t uttered a single word.’
‘But you were about to, I could feel it.’
He reached for his microphone to order a CSI team to the scene.
Borges in the meantime began a thorough and time-consuming search of the deserted factory. Even the homeless seemed to have found it too discouraging to move in. At least, that was what the absence of the usual litter of the dispossessed indicated. No plastic bags, empty cans, bottles, no condoms or syringes.
But Borges found something else.
‘These tire tracks could be from a Chevy!’ She said pointing to the dirty gray marks on the cement floor. She took as number of pictures on her Smartphone.
‘So we’re both agreed that the suspect was here.’
Borges nodded distractedly.
‘Yes, and she was not alone. The cops found no one else on the compound. That means, Lezzi is still traveling with that German woman in tow. But why did they stop here, if only for a short time?’
Jablonski failed to answer. He knew, Borges had only spoken out her thoughts aloud.
Now she carefully opened a door to an office that had probably been that of the shift manager long ago.
She whistled softly.
‘Look at that, Chuck!’
She pointed triumphantly at the untidy pile of women’s clothes that littered the floor.
Her partner shrugged his shoulders.
‘Could be rags belonging to Lezzi.’
‘Men!’ Borges replied disparagingly before she knelt down to inspect a blouse and blazer a little closer. ‘I doubt the style suits our knife-wielding subject. I guess they belonged to Kea Kuhn. Which means Lezzi probably stripped the girl to the buff.’
Borges nodded in agreement.
‘That was what I thought, too. We’ve got to remember that Lucia wants to find out where the child is being held. I believe, she probably tried to force the German to spit out the location.’
‘I can’t see any blood here,’ Jablonski expressed his doubts.
‘True, but this blouse here is damp. I assume Lezzi tried a water torture on her prisoner. By now she might have gone to the next stage. She’s working slowly and thoroughly.’
‘You may well be right,’ Jablonski agreed. ‘But why did the two ladies disappear, one of them possibly in her underwear. It would have been nice had we arrived in time.’
‘For you, perhaps.’ Borges replied. ‘As if there isn’t enough porn on television for you already. But we can only speculate. And that usually leads nowhere. I’m asking myself if the German is cowering in the boot of the Chevy, half dressed or if Lezzi has managed to find another outfit for her. Whatever, we can forget our present personal description. It no longer fits.’
Borges was going to say more but her Smartphone rang.
‘Yes?’ She asked with a touch of anger.
Jablonski tried to read the reactions of his partner. The seemed to change from astonishment to confusion. Or fear?
‘Okay. Thanks.’
She switched the phone off.
Jablonski looked expectantly at her.
‘That was a colleague from murder scene investigation who looked around Tom Berger’s apartment a little closer,’ she explained. ‘He found mini spycams on the jackets of both the Irish hoods. That means …’
‘If Lucia Lezzi wore no mask, Old Barns by now has found out who killed his men.’ Jablonski said.
Borges nodded. ‘And in that case, it would be much better for their killer if she should fall into our hands than his.’
13
Old Barns grasped his whiskey glass like a drowning man a piece of driftwood.
His watery eyes looked out over the lovely big garden on Long Island. From his lounge the large panoramic windows offered a wide, unobstructed view of the Atlantic. Beyond that majestic ocean lay the distant shores of old homeland.
Ireland!
Would he ever see the land of his fathers again?
Or would he be in a coffin that would carry him home? That was what the old gangster boss had decreed in his last will and testament.
Right now he wished he were already dead.
It seemed unfair to him, that despite his seventy- four years he should be so healthy – if you ignored the varicose veins ins his legs – while his grandson had been murdered by cruel psychopaths.
Old Barns knew only one form of mourning. Namely revenge.
When he had received the news, he had ordered his men to act. Once, Old Barns would not have allowed for someone else to settle his score with Tom Berger. This filthy lying German had flown to New York for so called negotiations of ransom payments although Adrian had been long dead.
For such deception no other punishment existed but death.
Old Barns knew himself well enough. He doubted that his body would bear the strain, had he attempted the task himself.
Possibly, he would even cry as he shot Berger through the head.
That must never happen. He would not allow for the bastard to think his business was with a doddery old man. No, Old Barns would not grant even such a small victory to an enemy he sent to his death.
And so he had sent his men to remove Berger from this earth. Thanks to modern technology, Old Barns could observe the proceedings live by transmission to his notebook, as if he had been there in person. He had felt a wild satisfaction when he watched Berger shot down and his mistress collapsed in tears.
But then, things had turned from good to bad.
Suddenly, the child’s nurse, the one his son had engaged, appeared.
And this mad woman had killed his men with throwing knives!
Old Barns had experienced many things in his live, but never the cold precision of this Amazon that had even frightened him for a few moments. Then Lucia – if that was her name – had grabbed the German woman and disappeared with her.
Old Barns understood this world no longer, something that did not happen often. After he had seen his people killed, he had tried to find some peace with whiskey. But even that strong alcohol could not calm his emotions.
Since Adrian no longer lived, the old man felt as if something had died with him.
Why?
That word would not leave him, like a bad dream, Old Barns knew hardly anything about this Lucia. He had to be glad to even remember her name. At first, he had believed she was called Larissa.
No, her name was Lucia. And she was prepared to kill. Not for the first time either. He had an eye, a feeling for such things.
Why had his son engaged this murdering fury as his grandson’s nurse?
Should Lucia have guarded Adrian? Why then had his son and his useless daughter-in-law not taken Lucia with them on that cursed trip to Europe?
And why – for what reason – had Old Barns’ men had to die?
The gangster boss hoped his son Jim would provide the answers. Unfortunately, ever since the news of Adrian’s death, his son had fled into an almost permanent stupor of drunkenness.
For that reason, Old Barns had ordered his men to use every means to at least halfway sober Jim up. Now he waited for the results of these efforts, although waiting was not one of his greatest virtues.
Certainly, at this precise moment he sat motionless like a statue in his wheelchair, wearing a housecoat with a green cloverleaf emblem embroidered on his left breast. But inside him a torrent raged.
He had forgotten time and place. It seemed as if he would sit half an eternity by this window like a spider in its web. At last, he heard a knock on the door.
‘Yes!’
‘Your son is here.’ A man’s voice with a strong Irish accent announced.
‘Send him in!’
Old Barns did not turn when he heard the steps. He knew that Jim had entered, recognized his walk.
Jim was a wimp, had always been one. Old Barns had tried everything to make a real man of his son. But all attempts had failed miserably. Somewhere, at some time he had heard that the sons of powerful men found it difficult to step into their father’s shoes.
Sometimes he felt obliged to admit that the eggheads of some famous university might even be right.
But what else could he have done?
An illegal organization, such as his own, had to be ruled by a strong hand, something he had done by pure instinct all his life.
When Old Barns, not yet nineteen years old, had personally slit the throat of a rival dealer back in the old days, his reputation as a tough nut had been established. That could not be altered, simply because one was suddenly a father.
‘Sit down!’ He ordered his son without glancing at him. ’Don’t stand around like a stuffed dummy!’
He heard the creaking of a chair. A confirmation that Jim had followed the order. Of course, he would never disobey his father. He was too much of a coward for that.
‘Have you got a halfway clear head?’
‘Yes, dad.’