THE NEW CASE
Darryl Hilton cursed evening traffic as he made his way home. His wife of five months was likely impatiently awaiting him. They were supposed to spend a night out on the town. Remy was looking forward to it. He had been so busy at work lately that they had had little time together. When he thought about the last few weeks, he wondered how he was going to break the news to his wife. She had thought he was nothing more than an honest man. She had told him numerous times about her affair with a shady senator and she had no desire to get involved in another clandestine relationship. Remy was clueless when it came to his business dealings and he normally kept her out of it. However, right now, he was dragging her along for the ride. Three or four days ago [he had honestly lost track], a couple of G-men had entered his office. Almost immediately, Hilton had begun to sweat. He knew why they were there and what they wanted. Thank God Remy no longer worked on the same floor. Thank God she was a housewife. Thank God his stepdaughter was with her father. Yet, their perfect little world was about to come crashing down around their feet. She would surely leave him. What made it worse was the fact that her ex-husband was some type of federal agent himself. Was he one of the men out to destroy everything he held dear? What if he blabbed to Remy? They still had a fairly decent relationship and made idle chitchat when either picking up or dropping off Stasia. It was a horrible thought. He wasn't ready to lose everything, but it was happening. As soon as he began to sing, his deeds would be broadcast to all. Bye bye to his six figure salary, multi-million dollar home, BMW, and pretty little wife. The G-men hadn't promised anything. They said he would likely go to federal prison for a few years. Men like him didn't last long in prison. Although it made him feel like a little boy, his eyes began to fill with tears. He didn't want to go to prison. However, accepting kickbacks and laundering money was frowned upon in his line of work. He was willing to squeal. He was willing to do anything to lighten his sentence. He never gave one thought as to the repercussions of his behavior because he was focused more on what he would lose.
Hilton pulled his Beamer into the long driveway, sighing heavily as the iron security gate opened and then closed shut behind him. Perhaps he could forget what was going on for a few more hours. He would take his wife out on the town for one last hoorah. After that, the FBI would descend upon him, his office, and his home like a swarm of locusts. Maybe he could send Remy out of town. Yeah. He could do that. He could send her to a health resort or something. A lot of his co-workers had wives who did that all of the time. Of course, she was well put together and really didn't need it, but he wanted to spare her as much pain and embarrassment as possible. Actually, he was probably trying to spare himself, but he had to shove that out of his mind.
The moment he pulled his car into the spacious garage, something didn't feel quite right. The house was large and pretentious. It was a showpiece that Hilton enjoyed showing off at every opportunity. He had hired a full staff solely responsible for keeping the grounds neat and tidy. Any time they slacked off, he pounced on their asses and made sure that they got moving. Anyone who couldn't cut it was fired without question. He was like this even now in winter. There was no one on the grounds. No 'good evening, Mr. Hilton,' 'would you like a special fertilizer on the grass, Mr. Hilton,' or 'I have this special blend of grass that might not turn brown when it freezes, Mr. Hilton.' When he stepped up toward the back door, he didn't see any kitchen staff jumping around preparing dinner. Then he remembered that he was taking his wife out tonight. There was no reason for them to be preparing dinner. The cooks and maids were probably in their quarters taking a breather for once. He was home early, of course, and perhaps that explained why nothing was going on. He supposed the groundskeepers were slacking off and he had caught them. I'll take care of you. Pink slips all around. He realized then that he had no right to be so smug. His comfortable existence was about to end. He again wondered how he would tell his wife that they would be broke by the morning. Soon, dear wife, you will probably have to pawn that five-carat engagement ring I gave you to rent a roach infested apartment. The back door was locked just as he liked it and he inserted his door key into the slot. Hilton pushed the door open and stepped into the large, glistening kitchen. Darryl Hilton was quite obsessive-compulsive and everything around him had to be spotless. If one thing was out of line, he would have to straighten it or he would lose his mind.
As he moved through the kitchen toward the massive hallway, he heard soft classical music wafting from upstairs. Apparently Remy wasn't ready yet. If he heard music playing, it was indicative of her taking a bath. He was only slightly annoyed. If it was yesterday before the feds, he might have yelled at her. It was today, and again, he thought he had no right or room to be smug. He began to ascend the marble staircase, the soles of his expensive shoes clacking on the surface. As he neared the master bath, the music grew louder. Remy was definitely in the bathtub. He saw the bathroom door cracked open and could just make out the back of her head. It appeared that she had fallen asleep in the tub. He almost turned around to leave her, but decided against it at the last moment. Hilton opened the door a little wider and then stepped toward the tub. He turned off the CD player and the room was suddenly filled with a deafening silence. He expected her to turn toward him with an annoyed look on her face. She didn't move. He knew he should have turned around to run, but he didn't. He was much too curious at this point. The one noise that broke the silence was an audible plink. When he focused his eyes in the direction of the noise, he saw that a drop of blood had made the sound as it fell to the floor. Even more curious now, he stepped closer. He laid his hand on her shoulder and it was ice cold to the touch. Something should have told him to back away, to focus his eyes elsewhere, but it didn't happen. As if awaking from a deep coma, he finally noticed that her eyes were wide open and glassy. Her throat was slit from ear to ear, her head nearly decapitated. The blood from her wound had poured out over her breasts, trickled down her abdomen, and rolled into the bath water. It seemed as if she were submerged in some type of scarlet perfumed water. His heart pounded hard in his chest and the skin on his testicles began to crawl. Hilton didn't know whether to scream insanely or run like a girl. He turned on his heel and was face-to-face with a man he both loathed and feared. He was the man who had likely murdered his wife. Before Hilton could take a single breath, he felt the cold steel of a gun shoved against the underside of his chin. His assailant's eyes seemed to ask him if he wanted to dance. Hilton opened his mouth to plead for his life. While he was thinking about how to proceed, the other man pulled the trigger. A bullet raced up and ripped into his brain, exiting out toward the back of his head, taking a good portion of his brain with it.
When the deed was done, the killer smiled a little and blew at the barrel of his gun as if he were Clint Eastwood. Without a word, he turned away and strolled casually down the stairs. He made his way into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and began to rummage around for some food. Before he finished off the wife, he had made her get rid of every last one of the house staff. She had been standing in the kitchen when he made his appearance. As much as he was doing right now, she was digging around in the fridge. He had then eyed a nice cut of roast beef that was likely left over from the previous night. He promised himself that as soon as he finished the job, he would reward himself with a slab of that meat between two slices of wheat bread slathered with mustard. He dug out the makings and set about preparing his sandwich. There was no need to hurry. By the time the bodies were found, he would be long gone. As he bit into his treat, he ripped at the meat with his teeth as if he were a lion. He hated fucking squealers. The wife was simply a fluke. If she had been out shopping or some shit like other over privileged wives, he wouldn't have given her a second thought.
* * *
Lieutenant Detective Alayna Norwood stood in the center of a gigantic dining room. Earlier, she had assessed the scene, grimacing at the carnage. Any other time, it wouldn't have bothered her. However, the victims in question were related to her. Remy was [had been] her third or fourth cousin. Three or so years ago, she had been a Brides Maid when Remy married some wiseass federal agent named Frank something. She had also been at Remy's wedding five months ago. Frank something was there with his new squeeze and his and Remy's kid. She recalled that her chief told her he could take her off the case, but she insisted she could do it. She blew it off as if her cousin didn't mean anything to her. Well…actually…that wasn't far from the truth. It was a rare occasion when Alayna saw Remy. It was mostly during family functions here and there. She was as stunned as everything when Remy asked her to be a Brides Maid. She was inclined to believe that Remy had had an extra dress with no one else to fill it. She shrugged it off. Remy could be a pain in the ass sometimes, but she was family. Whatever the case, she could handle it and remain objective. Or so she thought.
As she made her way through the kitchen again, she thought about Remy's ex-husband. How long had it been since they had divorced? She couldn't remember, but it was information she could easily obtain. Alayna had ways of getting shit that no one else could. It wasn't that she was crooked, she just didn't take 'no' for an answer. Already she was considering Frank something a suspect. He was an agent, knew interesting ways to murder, and could likely get out without being seen. Whoever the murderer was [Frank something], he was brazen and had literally walked away from the scene as if he were visiting the family to discuss life insurance. There was no evidence surrounding the crime scene and she hoped that CSI found prints that didn't belong in the house. At the same time, she had several rookies questioning various maids and other staff. They had seen the mistress of the house speaking to a man after she sent them all home. They described him as tall, olive-skinned, with black hair. He sounded like Frank something to her. Yet, what was his motivation to kill Remy? They had divorced, shared joint custody of their kid, and he already had another girlfriend. Then again, even the most rational man could lose it once in a while. She wondered how difficult it would be to get into his personnel files. Alayna had friends in the Bureau, had contemplated joining at one time, and it wouldn't be hard finding the information. Oh yeah. Frank something was definitely at the top of her mental list unless CSI yielded some other viable suspect. Although it wasn't her thing, she would volunteer to give Mr. Something a call to let him know his ex-wife was dead.
* * *
Donovan stood near his team as Cody and Monica were briefing them regarding their new case. Patrick Draper was the subject. He was the leader of a new generation of mob bosses and he had ties to hundreds of businesses in the Chicago area. It was up to the team to break the ring. Draper was a particularly vicious killer who had 'issues' with betrayal. Then again, what mob boss didn't? It was time to decide how Jake and Alex could infiltrate the gang. However, it was difficult for Donovan to think. His mind was focused on Pax. It had been a full five months since they had aired their fears, but Pax was still a little distant. He tried not to push, but it was difficult. He grew to love her more every day, but he didn't want to alienate her. If he didn't back off, it was exactly where they were headed.
It was hotter than hell that night. Donovan and Pax had had a major falling out over their current mission. She had wanted to go one way with it and he the other. It was always that way with them. Nothing new. However, Donovan quickly pulled rank on her. He was the lead agent, damn it, and Jonella Paxton would respect him as such. It didn't work. Nothing ever did. Not with her. They had actually gotten into a full-fledged fistfight. Before he knew what was going on, he had broken her nose. He had felt and heard the sickening crunching sound. He was immediately remorseful, but Pax was pissed to high heaven. She began swinging at him, catching him with upper cuts, right hooks, left hooks, the works. He figured that by the time they were finished, they would both be in the hospital. Donovan had quickly taken control of the situation. Regardless of how strong Pax was, he outweighed her and he used that to his advantage. He tripped her and threw her down to the ground. She cursed at him, blood pouring from her nose the entire time.
For days thereafter, he apologized profusely. She was a vicious oily bitch, but she hadn't deserved a broken nose. She received treatment, but would never acknowledge his apologies. After a week or so, he stopped trying to apologize and thought that all was well. He was wrong. He was oh so wrong. After a particularly quiet day, Donovan retired early. Calm nights were few and far between. He hit the sleeping bag and immediately fell asleep. He began to dream and it was a nice dream. He saw an image of his current girl. He was lying naked beneath her and her wicked little hand was slowly caressing him up and down the length of his thigh. It was nice and very shortly, he would beg her to let him come inside. The dream progressed and became nicer and nicer still. He was almost to the point of begging her to stop. His hand reached down and grasped her finger. Oddly, it felt a bit cold and scaly to the touch.
Pax laughed loud and heartily when she heard Donovan roaring: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! In his haste to get rid of the snake, he stood straight up, causing his tent to implode around him. His body tangled into the drab olive material and he continued to curse and yell. She nearly had an embolism as she watched the little snake crawl out from under the tent nonchalantly while Donovan continued to fight against his tent. It took perhaps fifteen minutes for him to realize the snake was gone. It took quite a bit longer for him to free himself. She was tempted to help him out, but the moment she thought of her broken nose, she stopped. The fucker could get himself out of this mess just fine. Witless fuck. Served his prissy ass right.
Pax went back to sleep, forgetting all about Spankie. He wouldn't immediately connect her to the snake incident, because after all, this was the fucking jungle. She was still smiling when she closed her eyes. She had no idea that Donovan was staring down at her tent, murder in his eyes. A string of curses erupted from her throat the moment she felt his large hands clamping down on her ankles. He began dragging her out of the tent inch by inch. The moment her body was exposed to the humid night air, she tried to sit up, but he held fast.
"I should fucking kill you, Pax," he spat through gritted teeth.
"Bite me, Spankie," she screamed petulantly. Her voice still had a nasally, foghorn quality. "Serves your fucking ass right for breaking my goddamn nose! Look at me you witless fuck! My face will never be the same."
"I can only hope that it gives you more character," he said. "You surely have none now."
Once she was sufficiently out of the way, he climbed into her tent. Oh hell no. What did he think he was doing? The tents were big enough for two people so she climbed in after him. "What the fuck do you think you're doing," she demanded. "If you haven't noticed, this tent belongs to me. Now get the fuck out. Don't make me shoot you, Frankie."
He dug his teeth into his lip to keep from screaming at her again. She was trying his patience, likely doing it on purpose. "Fine, Agent Paxton. Shoot me. Shut the hell up and go to sleep. This will be the last time you ever sleep with me."
"I'm so broken hearted," she said sarcastically. "If you touch me, I'll bring you an anaconda next time," she promised.
This will be the last time you ever sleep with me. Indeed. He had eaten those words, had eaten them every day after the first time they had seriously slept together, making love instead of screwing around. Pax had never brought that up. He knew she remembered, because it had never left him. He listened to Cody and Monica going on and on about the new case. Part of his brain began calculating the next steps they needed to take. The other part was back in the jungle. He was lucky as hell that the snake hadn't sunk its teeth into his nether regions.
* * *
Pax collapsed atop Donovan, her body still quaking from their lovemaking. He had swallowed her last cry within a deep kiss. They were trying to be a bit quieter because Stasia was asleep several feet from where they lay panting. Her ears were quite sensitive as her room at Remy's new place was three times as large as this and a good distance from her mother. Besides, Pax sometimes tended to get a little…vocal. "I love you," he whispered against her lips.
"You should," she said with a laugh.
He was about to kiss her again, but the phone rang suddenly, startling them both. Donovan glanced at the clock. Who the hell would be calling them at this hour? He was inclined to ignore it, but before he could kiss his lover again, she moved off him. This was routine stuff for her now. It wasn't the first or last time that they had been interrupted by phone calls from the team and/or Donovan's superiors. She reached for the phone and handed it to him without blinking twice.
"Is this Frank Donovan?"
It was a female's voice. Oddly enough, he thought he should know who this was, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "Yes, it is. Who are you and why are you calling at two in the morning?"
"Hello Agent Donovan," she said. "This is Lieutenant Norwood from the Chicago Police Department."
Norwood? The name prickled him again. "Why are you calling," he asked again.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Agent Donovan, but I'm calling about your ex-wife. She and her husband were found dead in their home earlier today. It's an apparent homicide."
At first, he had no idea what he was going to say. Remy and Darryl? Murdered? It had to be a mistake. The words wouldn't immediately come to him. He was completely too shocked to speak.
"You're still there, aren't you? I would like to make an appointment to speak to you if you don't mind," Alayna said.
He couldn't think clearly enough to ask her why she wanted to see him. "Of course," he sputtered. He rattled off his work number and then hung up.
Behind him, Pax was gazing at him curiously, worriedly. Her hand came out to touch his arm. "Frank?"
He turned and looked at her. "That was…that was the Chicago police. Remy and her husband were murdered today."
Immediately, Pax thought of Stasia. "Oh Jesus." There was no love lost between her and Remy, but she had never wished the woman dead. "I'm sorry," she said, not knowing exactly what else to say. Normally at a time like this, Pax would feel extremely awkward and uncomfortable. It wasn't like that this time. For once in her selfish life, she was concerned about someone else's feelings. "Frank? Are you okay?"
He shook his head. "I'm not exactly sure what I am right now," he said.
Like Pax, his first thought was his daughter. How the hell would his little girl understand all this? She still didn't understand why her parents weren't together anymore and now, he was faced with a more heartbreaking situation. How would she understand the finality of death? How would he help her understand the fact that she would never see her mother again? He absolutely hated hurting her. Pax placed her hand on top of his and the moment he felt it, he grasped her fingers tightly in his. Stasia. His sweet little angel. Again, he wondered how the hell he could make her understand.
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To be continued…