Girl Undercover 1, 2 & 3: Three-Part Bundle Page 12

  Ian had been in as good a shape as he was lean, never really getting out of breath or complaining that something was too hard as I put him through a fairly demanding workout. I had discovered during his movement screen that he moved well, having no weak parts that needed extra attention, so I could have pushed him even more. It being his first session, however, I didn’t want to challenge him excessively. Doing so could potentially injure him despite him being so agile and fit already.

  I pushed myself up onto my elbow when a male anchor with a beard appeared on the TV screen, announcing that a fourth rape ending in a deadly beating had taken place on the Upper West Side. The victim’s brother had found the woman, a Belinda Jones, dead and tied to a bed in her own apartment at two p.m. today.

  Well, I guess Felix Bose wasn’t the rapist after all. I tsked and shook my head. The frequency with which these rapes were happening was very troubling as was the fact that, apparently, the NYPD still had no suspects. According to the anchor, the mayor had promised a $10,000 reward to anyone who came forth with information that led to an arrest.

  My phone rattled where it lay on the coffee table next to me. I extended my hand to see who had texted me.

  I sighed when I discovered it was the person I least wanted it to be.

  Ian.

  The text read: Another rape was just reported on the news. Still think Bose is behind it?

  Smartass, I thought. I obviously didn’t think Bose was behind it any longer, but I didn’t feel like admitting that to smug Ian. Well, I have to respond something. I stared at my phone. Unfortunately, nothing good came to me.

  As I kept searching my mind, it struck me how curious it was that Ian had texted me right after the newscast. It was almost like he could see me it had arrived so conveniently. I chuckled to myself. No, that was silly thinking. How would he be able to do that? He was probably just lying on his own couch, watching the news on Channel One like I was, and then had decided to tell me about it.

  Finally I thought of something half decent to respond. Maybe he had a collaborator, I texted. As I waited for Ian to reply—I was sure he wouldn’t be able to help himself—my eyes went to the TV again. A detergent commercial was playing.

  Ten seconds later, the phone buzzed in my hand, just like I had expected. I lowered my gaze to see what else Ian had texted me. I prepared myself for another snarky comment.

  I stared at the phone screen and the words displayed there, certain I was misreading them: You’ll be next. And I’m going to enjoy every second I fuck you to death.

  I brought the phone closer to my eyes. I had definitely read the words correctly. Fury surged through me. Is this Ian’s idea of a funny joke?

  But the fury disappeared when I noted that this text had not been sent from Ian’s phone number. It had been sent from a number I didn’t recognize, a number with a 212 area code.

  Before I could press the return call button to try to get the stranger on the line, my phone buzzed with another text, sending a chill up my spine now. Fortunately, this time it was Ian.

  Let’s go on an excursion, his text said. Meet me at the victim’s building and we’ll see what we can find out. The NYPD obviously need our help.

  My gaze was glued to the screen as I reread Ian’s text over and over. He couldn’t be serious. I couldn’t show my face during a police investigation despite that it was at the other end of the country. It was way too risky and even Ian had to understand that.

  As I started texting this back to him, my phone rang. It was Ian. Oh, God. I so didn’t feel like talking to him. It was no point pretending I wasn’t available to take the call, though, so I answered. I would just tell him I was so beat I couldn’t move, another reason I couldn’t go.

  “Hello.”

  “I’m ten blocks from the victim’s apartment building,” he said. “Meet me outside in twenty?”

  “No, I’m way too tired. Besides, did you forget that I’m undercover? I can’t take such a risk.”

  “Yes, you can. You don’t look like you do back home, do you? And if you hide your hair under a baseball cap and wear a pair of fake glasses, no one will ever recognize you. I have a pair you can wear.”

  I sucked in a breath to protest again when my phone shook in my hand. Another text. I removed it from my ear and checked the screen: You’re gonna beg me for mercy…

  The words were from the same number that had texted me that first threatening message.

  “Gabi?” Ian’s voice came out of the phone. “Are you still there? Is everything okay?”

  I put the phone back to my ear. “What’s the victim’s address? I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

  “Yeah?” Ian sounded surprised, but soon recuperated. “Okay, great! It’s at 60th and West End Ave. I’ll bring the glasses.”

  “Don’t bother. I have my own.”

  We disconnected and then I called the phone number that had texted me. After two rings, an automated voice announced that the number was no longer in service.

  Should’ve figured it wouldn’t be that easy…

  I called George back in L.A. He should be able to figure out who the person behind those texts was. But of course George wasn’t picking up, so I had to leave a message instead. I told him to call me back ASAP, it was important.

  Well, since Ian had been on the line with me as I’d received that second text, it was unlikely he was behind them.

  As out there as my new client was, I couldn’t completely discount the fact that he might be the rapist and therefore the person texting me. Yeah, the two victims had claimed the perp was dark-haired, but for all I knew Ian had worn a wig.

  I didn’t want to believe Ian had something to do with the rapes, but it was very odd the rapist had my number. How had he gotten it? It had to be the rapist texting me. Why else was I getting such disturbing texts? Very few people had my phone number.

  Just to be safe, I’d be sure not to end up with Ian behind me tonight if the two of us were alone somewhere dark.

  I pushed myself up from my couch and threw on a pair of jeans and a nondescript sweater. After putting on a pair of comfortable sneakers, I bunched up my red hair at the nape of my neck and stuck a navy blue baseball cap on my head. Finally, I got my fake red glasses out from the medicine cabinet where I kept them and left to meet up with Ian.

  He was already standing beneath a streetlamp at the corner of 60th and West End Avenue when I arrived a couple of minutes before nine, right on time for once. He was just outside the modern high-rise building the victim had been found dead in. The moment before the traffic light turned red, I jogged over the quiet street to where Ian was waiting.

  “Hey,” I said as I stopped in front of him. Unlike me, he was wearing a suit, tie and dress shoes. “What’s up with the formal attire? Going on a hot date later?”

  He shot me a quick grin and his eye glittered with humor. “I thought that was what this was. Are you telling me it isn’t?”

  I wasn’t about to dignify that silly come-back with a reply.

  He peered closer at me. “Wow, you really do look different with those glasses.”

  “I can’t say the same for you. You don’t care if someone recognizes you?”

  He shrugged and his face went serious suddenly. “Not really. Let’s go.”

  “Wait. How are we getting by the doorman? I doubt they’ll let us in the building after what has happened there.”

  Ian pulled out his wallet and flipped it open for me. Under the light of the streetlamp, I could easily see his FBI ID and badge inside the wallet. I leaned closer to get a better view. The photo was indeed of Ian. I noted that he had told me the truth about his age—34—if that was in fact a real ID. I was very familiar with fake IDs and just because this one looked authentic, it didn’t mean it was. I asked Ian if it was real.

  He chuckled. “Um, yeah. I wasn’t lying when I told you I used to be an FBI Special Agent. I haven’t lied to you about anything.”


  This was not the time to start questioning that statement, so I just said, “I’m surprised the Bureau let you keep it.”

  “They didn’t. I claimed to have lost both my ID and badge when I was fired. There wasn’t much they could do about that, so now I can use both during occasions like this one. And if I dress like an agent, I’m much more likely to be taken seriously.”

  “Makes sense. What about me? I don’t exactly look like a federal agent wearing this.” I pointed with both hands at the casual outfit I wore.

  Ian patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. As long as you stay behind me, we should be fine. If worse comes to worst, I’ll just tell them you’re new and don’t quite know how to dress properly yet.”

  I smirked at him.

  “Come on,” he urged. “I highly doubt anyone will ask, so let’s go.”

  We went up to the building entrance together. There was a doorman behind a podium immediately to our left when we entered. Ian flashed his open wallet to the chunky man there with the red cheeks.

  “FBI,” he stated in a stern voice. “We’re here to investigate the murder of Belinda Jones. What apartment was she in?”

  “Twenty-two C,” the doorman quickly responded, standing up straighter. Indicating a bank of elevators at the other end of the spacious entrance hall, he added, “You can take one of those elevators.”

  “Thank you,” Ian said and strode toward the elevators. I was one step behind him and soon the two of us were in an elevator together, riding up to the twenty-second floor.

  “Impressive,” I said as the elevator quickly climbed several floors. “You almost had me fooled. Now let’s see if the NYPD will be as easy to get out of the way. Since the body was discovered only a few hours ago, I’m sure there might be detectives investigating the crime scene still.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Ian said. “It’s more than a few hours ago. My guess is they’ve left for the day, but even if they haven’t, I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ll be very interested to see how you’ll do that.”

  As the elevator reached the twenty-second floor, it pinged and the door spread open. Ian turned to me before we exited.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered and nodded for us to get going. “It’ll be okay.”

  The long, softly lit hallway we entered was empty and quiet. In either direction, there were light gray apartment doors as far as one could see. A metallic plaque on the wall immediately outside the elevator showed us which way apartment twenty-two C was. We hurried in that direction and soon spotted the front door, which was ajar.

  As we approached it, no sounds came from inside the apartment, suggesting that maybe the NYPD had already left for the day.

  Could we really be so lucky?

  Ian went up to the door and pushed it open all the way. The inside of the apartment was bathing in light and a man dressed in a suit and tie stood at a doorway farther down the foyer. He was short and stocky with shiny black hair. He looked like he was of Hispanic or maybe Filipino descent.

  He turned toward us and frowned while adjusting his tie at the same time.

  “This is a crime scene. No civilians are allowed here. Please leave immediately.”

  He must be a detective, I thought.

  Ian pulled out his wallet and brandished his ID and badge again. “We’re not civilians. We’re from the FBI. I’m Special Agent Ian Armory. We’re taking over this case. There have been similar rape murders taking place all across the East Coast. You can go now.”

  The scowling cop came toward us and did not look pleased as he glanced at Ian’s ID. He didn’t attempt to challenge what Ian had just stated, however. I wasn’t surprised. What Ian had said—and the way he’d said it, with the authority of someone who knew what he was talking about—was a great lie. If in fact there were similar rape murder cases going on across several states, the FBI would know about it before the NYPD.

  There really wasn’t much this detective could say except openly accuse Ian of lying.

  He wouldn’t find out the truth until at the very earliest the following morning as it would take a while before someone at the Bureau could confirm no agent had been dispatched on such a case. But the detective didn’t appear confident enough to confront Ian. All he did was open and close his mouth like a fish a couple of times before finally shutting it and then he marched past Ian and me.

  I heard him leave the apartment and even shut the door after himself. As soon as the door clicked shut, I threw a glance over my shoulder to make sure he was really gone. The bright foyer was empty.

  “Wow, now that was truly impressive,” I whispered to Ian just in case there were other cops still in the apartment. I doubted it since they must have heard our interaction and would have joined their colleague in that case.

  “Thanks. Of course, this bloke must have just gotten his promotion to detective, so it wasn’t very hard.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I nodded. “Let’s hope he won’t be fired for falling so easily for your hoax.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Ian walked up to the doorway that was crisscrossed with yellow crime scene tape and climbed over it with his long legs, disappearing into the room.

  I went to the other end of the apartment to make sure there truly were no more people in the rest of it. I entered a big living room furnished sparsely but expensively in soft jewel colors and then into the adjacent kitchen. Both areas were empty and so was the bathroom and walk-in closet I checked next. Every square foot of the apartment looked tidy, suggesting there had been no fights of any kind. I left the bathroom and crossed the hallway back toward the room Ian had disappeared into. The bedroom.

  Being shorter than Ian, it was more of a struggle for me to get over the crime scene tape, but finally I managed to climb over it without actually having to remove some of it.

  The spacious bedroom was dominated by a white four-poster, king-sized bed placed in the middle of it. The light sheets and covers were stained with blood and all jumbled up, but other than that, the room looked in order and the crème-colored carpet covering the floor was pristine. The open window at the other end of the room provided a mild breeze that made the tip of a sheet flutter a little.

  Ian was by the window, gazing out into the night.

  I walked around the space, scanning the area while being careful not to touch anything as that might leave fingerprints or mess up those of others. I stopped at the bed and noted that thin, white rope had been tied to the four posts and that it looked like it had been severed. I remembered then that the newscaster had mentioned that this woman, too, had been found tied to the bed. Presumably, she had also been violated in this state. Unlike the popular book Fifty Shades of Grey that contained such bondage scenes, I doubted this woman had been enjoying herself.

  I shuddered as I saw just how much blood was splattered all over the bed. One could only hope the rapist was a necrophiliac, preferring his victims dead before violating them.

  I noted that the rope seemed… expensive. Like it was made of rare silk. Other than this observation, I didn’t see anything else that seemed important.

  It struck me what a waste of time it was for us to be here. How would we be able to solve this case without having access to specific crime scene information? We didn’t know how the victim had been found. Surely there were lots of crucial details not yet released to the public regarding the other rapes as well; without them, we were fumbling in the dark.