Kill Zone: A Lucy Guardino FBI Thriller (6 page)

Lucy could take care of herself. But no way would Jenna jeopardize Megan. Even if Megan's mother had almost gotten Jenna killed.
 

“Maybe.” Morgan’s pout carried through the airwaves loud and clear. “But I get so bored just watching you trying to find me. Really, Jenna, you’re a trained federal agent. Can’t you find one little girl? I think you
have
been drinking too much. And all those men, a different one every night. Did you tell Lucy’s husband about them at any of your sessions? He’s so dreamy. I wish he were
my
doctor.”

Jenna’s stomach clenched. She’d begun seeing Nick Callahan after failing her psych eval as a way to keep tabs on him—and through him, Lucy. He thought he was treating Jenna for Post Traumatic Stress, but really, Jenna was treating herself with booze and sex. Dangerous, spontaneous, anonymous sex. So much better than talking. Especially about her feelings.

Now Morgan was taking that away from her. “You want me to stop going out?”

“I feel so lonely. If you don’t start paying more attention to me, I might need to visit those men you hook up with. Show them my pretty knife collection.”

“Okay.” Jenna hated giving in to Morgan’s manipulations but what choice did she have? “If you promise to stay away from Lucy’s daughter.” For some warped reason, Morgan prided herself on her integrity. She'd once told Jenna her brutal honesty was what separated Morgan from the rest of the world. It was the only weapon Jenna had to use on her. "Promise?"

"Yes. I promise. If you hold up your end of the bargain." Morgan paused and Jenna could sense she was deciding which tactic to torture Jenna with next.
 

"I really need to go." She tried a pre-emptive strike. "Lucy's waiting for me."

"I heard." Morgan didn't sound upset by Jenna's attempt to regain control. Always a bad sign. "Your letter bomber. Think you'll catch him? Finally make your grandfather proud?"

Jenna sucked in her breath, caught off guard. Her grandfather had been dead for fifteen years. And if Morgan had linked him to letter bombs, then she must know the whole story. How an anonymous bomber who was never caught had targeted the Judge. The fact that he hadn't died right away, it had taken over a year for him to finally succumb after being left in a persistent vegetative state.

It was all a matter of public record, Jenna told herself. Didn't mean that Morgan had any real insight. Just a bunch of facts she could wield like scalpels, re-opening old wounds.

Jenna passed the mirror in her foyer, automatically checked her hair and make up. Her eyes looked puffy, her red hair dull, and her cheeks sunken—probably not a bad idea to cut back on the all night partying. Not that she’d get any more sleep playing Morgan’s game, but she’d be one step closer to ending all this.
 

At first she’d been content fantasizing about Morgan behind bars, locked up for life. Lately though, her fantasies had been of the moment when she had Morgan in the sights of her pistol, finger on the trigger, ready to shoot her in the back before she could escape.

In her dreams Lucy didn’t stop her. Jenna pulled the trigger. Over and over and over again, emptying the gun. Morgan’s body jerked like a puppet with its strings cut, arms flailing, crumpling to the ground, a stream of crimson pouring from her. The fantasy was beginning to feel more real than this sleepwalk existence the rest of the world called life.

Jenna slid her hand in front of her face, blocking out her blue eyes and most of her hair in the mirror. She lowered her hand like closing a blind, blanking her expression to a professional neutral. Better. Saint Lucy could see way too much when she read a person’s face. Jenna grabbed her coat and bag.

“I’ve got to go,” she told Morgan, setting boundaries. Or trying to. “We’ll talk later.”

“Of course. I can't wait to hear
all
about your grandfather. Tell Lucy I'm thinking about her.” Morgan hung up before Jenna could manage a retort.
 

Jenna slammed the door behind her, double checking the locks and alarm. Morgan was always thinking about Lucy. But her words held new menace tonight. Plus she’d said she was bored—not a good combination.

Jenna sighed, shoulders hunched as she ran down the stairs to her car. At least she’d be with Lucy tonight where she could keep an eye out for Morgan.

Then maybe this would all be over. Morgan caught—
or killed
, a quiet voice whispered in Jenna’s head—Lucy safe thanks to Jenna, Jenna a hero.

Was that too much to ask?

Chapter 5

Lucy walked across the street and down the block to the patrol car holding Rashid Raziq. Curtains rustled in windows of houses as she passed—homeowners wondering how violence had come to choose their street. Worried if their families were safe. Or maybe it was just plain morbid curiosity, that primal instinct to turn and stare at danger even as you ran from it.

She introduced herself to the patrolman watching over Raziq. Burroughs must have cleared her because he nodded as soon as she said her name. Or it could be that her reputation preceded her—she’d been a bit unlucky these past few months, receiving a lot of unwanted media attention. “Has he said anything?”
 

“No. Wanted to make some calls but Burroughs had me take his phone before he could. After that, he just kinda sat, rolling those prayer beads between his fingers, mumbling in Arabic or something.”

He opened the car door and gestured for Raziq to get out. Raziq looked up, eyes sharp, jaw set, as if expecting an attack. But then he focused on Lucy and his expression softened.

He was in his forties, dressed in an expensive suit, black or navy blue, she couldn’t tell in the limited light, with a white shirt and conservative dark tie pulled tight to hide the missing top button. Dark hair, neatly trimmed beard, dark eyes that wouldn’t meet hers at first. When he stood he was only a few inches taller than her own five-five, yet his posture was one of a man accustomed to intimidating others, being obeyed.

No sign of the distraught out of control man Burroughs had described. Except for the tearstains, wet against the collar of his otherwise impeccable shirt. His hand was fisted tight around a set of ebony prayer beads.

Contradictions. Just like inside his home. Not a man easily understood.

Lucy offered her credentials, hoping to build some trust. “Mr. Raziq, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Guardino from the FBI. I’m very sorry for your loss. What did Detective Burroughs tell you?”

He nodded. Not to her but to the official seal on her ID, as if satisfied she was high enough rank to be worthy of his attention. She stood so he had his back to his house and he never once tried to turn to look at it. Instead he faced her, square on.

“The police told me nothing. Other than my daughters were dead.”

Interesting. Already using the past tense. “Yes sir. I’m afraid both Badria and Mina are dead.”

“Who did this to my family? Have you caught the man yet?”

“No, sir. Do you have any ideas? Is there anyone who might want to harm your daughters?”

“Only that boy she took up with.” He spat out the words, looking away and down at the ground as if he might physically spit as well. Lucy noticed he didn’t use Mina’s name.

“We’re looking into that. I understand you’ve been receiving some threats lately?” Funny how Raziq immediately blamed the boyfriend instead of whoever was behind the threats and mail bomb. Guilt? Or deflection?

“Yes. They’re nothing.”

“I was told one of them was a letter bomb?”

He glared at her. “In my country, if we send you a bomb you are not alive to discuss it afterwards. This man, he is a coward, a fool. He had nothing to do with this, this attack on my family.”

“Do you have any idea who this man sending the threats could be?”

His elaborate shrug took a beat too long. “Who knows. Isn’t that your job? To find him?”

She tried changing tactics. “Sir, who else had the code to your security system?”

“Just my wife and I. And our daughter. She was always turning it off when that boy came over—” His jaw clenched and his face grew red. “Was it that boy? He dishonored my daughter, my family.”

“No, Mr. Raziq. We do not have any evidence at this time that it was Mina’s boyfriend.”

“He wasn’t her boyfriend. That mongrel, that—” He changed to a language she couldn’t understand, harsh syllables that didn’t need translating. “This is all his fault. She wouldn’t have turned off the security for anyone else. Deceitful girl. She thought she could hide him from me.”

If
it was Mina who'd turned off the cameras and alarms. “And when did you get to work, Mr. Raziq?”

“Eight o’clock. My usual hour. Of course.” He turned a scornful gaze on her. “You aren’t suggesting—”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I'm just trying to see where everyone was so we can better determine who this crime was aimed at.” That sobered him. “You were at your office all day?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Until when?”

“Until I left.” She waited. “Four o’clock. I came directly home only to find—” He spread his arms, palms up. “To find, this, you people, this, this…” His shoulders slumped as words failed him.

For the first time his gaze focused on her face. Gauging her reaction? Or was it another cultural difference she couldn’t translate?

“My wife, my son. When can I see them? We should be together.”

“We sent a car to pick them up.” Strange, he never asked about the girls. Most parents would have endless questions, wanting to know the details of their deaths, what would happen to their bodies. She decided to push a little. “The medical examiner will need to examine your daughters’ bodies.” He flinched and looked away. Lucy waited, expecting him to request special treatment or religious observations in preparing the dead.

He shook his head, looked at his hands then sat down heavily onto the cruiser’s rear seat. “Please. Please. I need my wife. My son. I can’t—”

He buried his face in his hands, the prayer beads dangling between his fingers. His body shook with silent sobs.

Lucy left him with the patrolman and walked back to the house, more uncertain than ever. Was Raziq acting? Or was he a father in mourning? How much of what she saw was personality, cultural differences, the truth, or lies?

He wasn’t telling the whole truth, that much she knew. But in her experience everyone lied, even grieving loved ones of murder victims.
 

The question wasn’t: Was he lying? It was: What was he lying about?

Chapter 6

After a few minutes Andre and the Doc settled into a nice, comfortable pace, running up the hill past Holy Trinity. Nowhere near Andre’s old six-minute miles, but fast enough to leave him focused on his breathing rather than the world around him.

“Tell me what you see,” Callahan said.
 

“What’s to see?” Andre fought to keep his voice steady. He really didn’t want to look past his feet pounding the cracked sidewalk. Too afraid he might see someone… or someone might see him.
 

The Doc, as usual, out-waited him.
 

“It’s Ruby Avenue. Busted up sidewalks, busted up street. Boarded up businesses and houses. Vacant lots. Damned Terraces down at the bottom.” Andre hated the squat garish yellow brick public housing units clustered together like they were RVs at a campground. They reminded him of the cargo containers Dog Company squatted in before they were sent to build the outpost at Hajji Baba. Or worse, of Hescos, the hollow rectangles they’d shovel load after load of sand and gravel into to create defensible perimeters. “A couple of places still in business if they let the Rippers gouge them for protection money. A few nice old homes with that curly wood trim—”

“Gingerbread.”

“Yeah, gingerbread. Like once upon a time this was a fairy tale place to live.” To hear Grams tell it, that wasn’t far from the truth. His great-grandad had bought their row house way back when, between the world wars, when Homewood had been a nice “Colored” neighborhood. He’d chosen the house because it was on the same street as Holy Trinity church and he’d liked the idea of nuns and priests watching over them. What could go wrong on a street with a house of God on it?

Poor old man would have a stroke if he saw the hood now. Every block with its own set of gangsters dealing. All run by the Ruby Avenue Rippers. Constant turf wars to protect their territory from outside gangs. Got so bad, the school buses wouldn’t even come down here; parents had to drive their kids down to Penn Avenue, meet the bus there. And Holy Trinity? The priest and nuns remained hidden behind their thick wooden doors and stone walls, too damn stubborn to leave a lost cause, too damn weak to do anything about it.

“Any people on the street?” Callahan’s voice interrupted Andre’s thoughts.

“A few cars. I dunno.” He really didn’t want to know. He was perfectly content to stay inside his little bubble of anonymity—just a black man in a mask and hoodie out for a run. Any other neighborhood in the city and he’d be the center of unwanted attention. But not here, not on Ruby Avenue.