Marshall Trade

A McKenzie McClendon Thriller
1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-0-9888777-3-3
Verlag: Stairway Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 300 Seiten

Reporter McKenzie McClendon is on the trail of a hot story, tracking The Cradle Robber, a sadistic serial killer. He preys on pregnant women, leaving them to die while he disappears with their babies. Jonas Cleary believes his slain wife was The Cradle Robber's first victim and that his son is still alive, lost in the underground world of the black market baby trade. With a child's future hanging in the balance, the lives of five people careen toward a terrifying collision. It's up to McKenzie to discover which key will unlock the puzzle, and which will get her killed.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Marshall, Colby

Leseproben

CHAPTER 3 As McKenzie pulled out a chair across from Jonas at the Jersey diner, she was already having second thoughts. The liquor on his breath would catch fire from across the table if she lit a match. Never walk away from a possible angle. She sat down. “McKenzie. ’S good to see you. You look exactly like I remember. Same copper eyes, same auburn hair. I guess it’s a little shorter now, though, right? But you’re mostly the way I remember.” She wished she could say the same. Jonas had aged three decades since they’d crossed the stage to receive their diplomas. His dark-as-night hair hadn’t changed much, though it had to have been months since he’d had it cut. His broad shoulders were similar, but he’d gained a few pounds around the middle to even them out. His eyes were sunken and the white sliver of a scar snaked down his right arm. Still, she wasn’t here for a high school reunion. “Thanks, Jonas. So, you said on the phone you wanted to talk about your wife.” Jonas grunted and plunked his coffee mug back down on the table. “You don’t mess around, huh?” “Time isn’t your friend when you report for one of the biggest papers in the country.” Jonas shifted in his chair, his right hand twisting the thin gold band on his left. “Noelle would probably tell you that if time isn’t your friend, you should make some new ones. She was like that. Even if it took an extra thirty minutes, she’d walk rather than take the bus.” His laugh sprinkled McKenzie’s arms with goosebumps. “In fact, she used to tell me cabs would shorten my life span. She’d say one day when I was watching her run around from my wheelchair, I could blame the lack of exercise and air.” “What happened?” McKenzie whispered. “The freaking air got her killed is what happened. She was taking one of those mommy and me yoga classes. Walked to and from it every day. Found her in an alleyway not too far from the gym.” McKenzie swallowed the lump in her throat. Even as she said, “I’m sorry,” the words felt wrong. None would feel right. Jonas’ fists clenched the napkin in his lap. “You’re sorry. You’re sorry, and I’m still here with a dead wife and no one to listen to me.” “Whoa, now,” McKenzie said, “You called me, remember? You wanted to talk to me.” The guy who’d pinned a corsage on her awful, magenta prom dress now hung his head and blew out a deep breath. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’m frustrated out of my mind, okay? That’s why I called you. You’ve got clout. Maybe if you did a piece on it, they’d look into it harder.” “Why do you think the Cradle Robber has anything to do with your wife? I made a few calls on my way here, Jonas. I know this isn’t your first theory.” Jonas’ dilated pupils met hers. His nostrils flared. “Look, I know everyone thinks I’d rather have a fifth of gin than go to therapy. They’re probably right. And yes, I’ve been down to the police station one or two times when a woman’s been murdered. But damn it, this time it isn’t the Jack talking. I know it’s him.” Jonas banged his fist on the table with the last words. McKenzie flinched. Other patrons shot glares at them. McKenzie lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m listening to you now, so stop raving. Tell me what you know. How did they find her?” His chest rose and fell with another slow breath. The tension in his shoulders eased marginally. “They didn’t find her anywhere. I did. Went looking for her when she didn’t come home. Gibb was nowhere to be found.” “Gibb?” “Our son.” McKenzie nodded, a knot forming in her stomach at the mention of the little boy who’d been kidnapped. Still, she couldn’t help but notice this case already had an obvious difference from the Cradle Robber murders: the child had already been born. No need to harp on that yet. “How did she die?” The napkin Jonas had been tying into a knot was now ripped cleanly down the middle. “Not how you’d think, considering how she was cut.” “She was stabbed?” “No, she was cut. Everywhere. Gashes all over her body. She didn’t bleed to death, though. The coroner’s report said cardiac arrest. That fucker scared my wife to death.” McKenzie winced but shook the mental image. Stay in the game. “Excuse my wording, but there wasn’t anything weird about the death? The killer didn’t leave her in a way that killed her later? That sort of thing is this guy’s signature.” “No, James Bond, he didn’t tie her to the conveyor belt at the rock quarry. But I do have a reason for being sure it’s the same guy.” “And…?” Jonas slashed invisible marks over his left thigh. “They said on the news all the women have been found with some type of symbol carved in their arms. The M.E. reported a gash on Noelle’s leg that was shallower and less haphazard than the others.” McKenzie frowned. “The symbol thing is a rumor.” “Some rumors are true.” It was a stretch at best, desperation at most. “Listen, Jonas, I’m not sure I can help you. I’m sorry about Noelle, but if the FBI had any reason to believe her murder was connected to the new ones, they’d be all over it by now. They run violent crimes through their systems to determine if they’re similar. If their cross-referencing database hasn’t connected Noelle to the Cradle Robber’s victims, then chances are she’s not.” Jonas shoved back from the table, which sent the coffee mug crashing on its side. Hot liquid scalded McKenzie’s lap. She shrieked, jumping up and grabbing the napkins on the table to mop at the mess.He threw his hands in the air. “Right. Because the Feds know everything, don’t they McKenzie? They solve all the crimes in the world, right? You should know better than anybody—to be the one to die, that’s one thing. But to be the one left behind, to be the one who can’t follow, that’s another. And to know my son could still be out there somewhere…” Jonas’ voice boomed louder until it echoed off the diner walls. He leaned forward toward McKenzie, a vein pulsing in his throat, his face purple with fury. The diner owner ambled out from behind the bar as others in the restaurant stared, transfixed. “I don’t really give a damn what the Feds are doing,” Jonas shouted, “but the least anyone can do is listen. You don’t know what it’s like to find your wife in an alley, slashed almost beyond recognition. I know exactly what I look like to everyone, McKenzie. I even know what I look like to you. But you don’t know what it’s like to lower your mouth to your wife’s to give her mouth to mouth and smell on her lips the garlic from the lunch you had together at the corner bistro. To feel how cold they were. It ripped my heart out, McKenzie. Ended my life!” The owner had reached their table. “Maybe it’s a good idea for me to walk you outside for a bit of fresh air, sir,” the guy said. He placed a firm hand on Jonas’ elbow. Jonas jerked away, straightened his jacket, and threw a five dollar bill onto the table. “Never mind. I’m leaving.” He stormed away, kicking the wall before he reached the exit. As he pushed the swinging door, he turned back to the diner owner. “By the way, fresh air can get you killed.” “Where in the name of all things sacred have you been?” Morton Gaines asked. He waddled behind McKenzie through the Herald office. “Visiting an old friend.” “You’re kidding me.” “Morton, I was tracking down an angle for the story. It turned out to be a wash. A guy I dated in high school thinks the serial killer offed his wife a couple years ago. But apparently that’s been his take on every murder suspect brought in since his wife died.” McKenzie paused for a second at the water cooler and poured herself a drink. “Are alcoholics more obsessive than sober people?” “I don’t know. Probably. Forget that for now, McKenzie. We have other things to talk about, like how they released the name of the girl found in the subway.” “It’s sad how he’s still hoping—expecting—the cops to find his wife’s killer. The file is probably collecting dust somewhere—” McKenzie stopped. “Wait. She was found in the subway?” Morton nodded. “Finally, you listen to me. Yes. What was left of her after the L Train, that is. We’ll have to wait for the autopsy report to be sure, but the impact of the train is probably what killed her.” “Jesus Christ.” “Yeah, I’m almost positive Jesus wasn’t around for this.” “And the fetus?” “Taken out, but gone like the others,” Morton supplied. “I’m telling you, one day they’re going to find this guy’s house with a bunch of dead babies in the freezer. Pleasant...