Connor's Gamble (8 page)

Another tall, good-looking man walked through the door moments behind Eli.  Bethany's heartbeat trip-hammered, adrenaline spiraling straight to her head at the site of Connor Scott.

Lady Luck is finally smiling on me
.  For weeks she'd cajoled, begged, and bribed in her attempts to nab an exclusive interview Connor Scott about Trejo's capture and arrest.  Like manna from heaven, here he was, practically dropped in her lap.

“I knew this trip was going to be worthwhile.”  She murmured her comment low, her practiced smile not reaching her eyes.  Eli stopped next to her, settling the rolling case at his feet.

“Do you know who that is, Eli?”  Nodding toward Connor, she faced away from him, deliberately not drawing attention to herself. 
Not yet.  The timing has to be perfect
.

“Looks familiar.  Should I know him?”

Bethany chuckled.  “That, my dear cameraman, is my ticket to the big leagues.  We get an exclusive with him, it goes national.”

Eli looked closer, and Bethany watched the light of recognition flare in his expression.

“Holy . . . is that Connor Scott?”

“The one and only.  Wonder what he's doing in Nowheresville, Alabama? Doesn't matter.  You just watch.  I'm going to get the whole story from Mr. Connor Scott so fast, he'll never know what hit him.”

Chapter Eleven

Friday

R
emy sauntered into the interview holding room of the New Orleans Police Department bright and early—extra early since he'd been unable to sleep after Connor's late night call and the video e-mail he'd watched. 
Who the hell could sleep after that gruesome mess?

Handcuffed and chained at the table sat Michael “Mickey” Trejo, the man they'd arrested for the serial murders of six homeless men throughout the state of Louisiana over the last three years.  Suspected of several more killings in Arkansas and Mississippi.  He'd probably still be at large, Remy mused, if Connor hadn't caught him in the act, torturing and ready to incinerate his most recent victim.

“Morning, Mickey.”

“Kiss my ass, rat bastard.”

Remy chuckled.  “Aw, Mickey, having a bad morning?  Need some coffee?”

“Bite me, pig.”

“No thanks.  You're not my type.”

Remy chuckled.  Well, he guessed, the rocking back and forth calling for his angel jig hadn't worked, so the guy had moved on to the being an obnoxious PITA.  All the better.  Pains in the ass were Remy's specialty.

Laying the brown file folder down atop the table, Remy slid into the chair across from Trejo, and watched the nearly imperceptible stiffening of Trejo's shoulders when he viewed the folder.

Remy gestured toward the video camera mounted on the wall.  He planned for this entire interview, while unconventional and definitely not by-the-book, to hold up in court and wasn't taking any chances.

“We're going to record our little chat, Mickey, so everything is nice and legal, okay?”

Trejo scowled but gave an abrupt nod, and Remy turned on the camera.

“This is Detective Remy Lamoreaux of the New Orleans Police Department conducting an interview with Michael Trejo, also known as Mickey Trejo.  It is Friday, December sixth, two thousand thirteen at 7:25 a.m.”

On the record, Remy proceeded to read Trejo his Miranda rights, leaving no wiggle room for a lawyer to later say he'd been coerced into giving a false statement.

“Mickey, do you understand these rights?”

“Yeah, yeah, get on with it.”

Opening the folder, Remy pulled out an eight and a half by eleven black-and-white photograph and slid it across the tabletop toward Trejo, stopping at the last second with his hand across the top, obscuring most of the picture.  He paid careful attention to Trejo's expression, especially his eyes, when he noted the subject matter.  Remy pulled the picture back, stuffed it inside the folder. 
“No, gimme it.”

“Mickey, before I show you anything . . .”

“Dammit, cop, lemme see it.”

Yes, Remy thought.  Bait the hook with the picture and play the fish.  Give the first gentle tug on the line.

“I forgot I can't show you anything unless your lawyer is present.  Would you like me to call her?”

“No, no, gimme the picture.”  The barest hint of desperation filled Trejo's tone. 
Damn, he's really anxious to look.  Sick, just sick.

“Mickey, look at me.”  Remy waited until Trejo's gaze met his.  “Do you want me to call your attorney before we talk?”

“I don't need that stinking bitch telling me what to do.  Show me the girl.”

Remy smiled, knowing each denial of his attorney would show up in vivid detail on the video recording.  Opening the folder, he again pulled out the photo he'd tempted Trejo with minutes earlier.

“Beautiful.”  Trejo's words came out in an awe-filled whisper that turned Remy's stomach.  But he needed answers, and right now Trejo was his only lead.

“Recognize anything special about the picture, Mickey?”

Mickey looked down at the picture, then back up to meet Remy's steely-eyed gaze before bursting into peals of laughter.

“Dream on, cop.  Not my handiwork.  Check the date and time on the bottom.  I was a guest in your lovely holding cell at the time the picture was taken.”

“Not good enough.  Time stamps can be changed or faked.  The workmanship, the method, everything points directly to you, my friend.”

Go ahead; poke the snake with a stick.  Might get a rise out of him.  It's worth a shot.

“Naw, man, I do better work than this.  Although whoever did this was a true professional, an
artiste
.  Just look at the tape work.  See how it completely covers the lower half of her face, leaving just enough space for her to breathe, but not scream.  Exquisite.”

The photo was a snapshot from Connor's video e-mail of the naked woman being tortured, bound and gagged.  Tracks of tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks, make-up smeared, mascara black and smudged beneath her eyes.  Stark terror reflected in her gaze.  One of the tamer photos from the video, it still turned his stomach that a woman endured the agony this victim sustained before being killed.

“Exquisite?  Really, Mickey, that's all you've got to say?  It's duct tape across her mouth.  How is that different from what any street punk would do?”

“Listen, you simple-minded pig, it's so much more than tape work.  Look at the position of her shoulders.  See the angle she's holding her body?  They've been restrained at the wrists and elbows, bound together with no give or movement.  It's perfect.  If she moves more than an inch in any direction, pop, shoulder dislocation.”  Trejo smiled.  “It's a very special oriental technique few have perfected to this extent.”  He paused for effect.  “Of course, I'm one of those few.”

Trejo pulled the photo closer with his cuffed hands, gliding a fingertip along the woman's jawline, the touch almost a caress.  His breath became quicker, shallow puffs of air showing his obvious excitement at the woman's captivity and frozen expression of terror.

“Do you have more, cop?”

“Yes.”  Remy's answer was abrupt though he made no move to pull any other photos from the folder.

“Can I see them?”  Eagerness filled Trejo's voice, the twisted hopeful anticipation evident in his words made Remy want to hurl. 
He is such a sick twisted bastard
.

“Unless you've got something you can tell me about her or about who did this, we're done here.”  Remy stood, plucked the picture from Trejo's eager hands, and stuffed it back into the file.  He turned toward the door, praying Trejo's twisted desire to see more pictures would override his unwillingness to talk.

“No, wait.”

A barely there smile curled Remy's lips before he composed his expression, and turned back around to confront Trejo.

“Mickey, if you want to see the other pictures, give me something in return.”

Trejo balked at Remy's statement, slapped his cuffed hands against the tabletop.

“Gotta see the pictures,” he whined.

“Then talk to me.  You should see the others, Mickey.  The one you saw, that was nothing—nothing compared to the rest.”

Trejo moaned, the sound a combination of anguish and wild animal.  He scrubbed his hands against his face before finally nodding.

“I didn't do this . . . but it's definitely somebody I've worked with in the past.  They've used my signature style, my techniques.”

“Your partner?”  This was big news.  They'd never connected anybody else with Trejo's killing spree.

“Show me another picture, or you're getting squat.”

Remy pulled the second photo from the file folder, reclaiming his seat across from Trejo.  He glanced to his right, making sure the camera still recorded the entire interview.

“Oh, yeah, this one's even better.”  Trejo's smile broadened as he studied the new photo.  Similar to the first and taken from the same video clip, it showed blood trickling from the woman's nose onto the duct tape, and one eye swollen nearly shut.

“Better how?”

“Look.”  He pointed to something Remy hadn't noticed before.  “See the darker shadows?”  His finger tapped a spot just to the right of the bound woman's shoulder.  “Whoever did this set the mood first.  The flicker of candlelight and lanterns casts such a pretty glow, don't you think?”

Candles, lanterns?  What the hell?

“Another one.  Gimme another.”  The anticipation in Trejo's voice disgusted Remy, but he showed nothing, keeping his face impassive. 
What kind of sick freak gets off on pictures of a woman tortured and bleeding?
  Though he'd transferred from homicide to vice, he'd never in a million years understand what drove men to this kind of extreme.

“What about this one?”  Remy slid a third picture out of the folder to lay it alongside the previous two.

“Oh, yes.”  Trejo practically moaned, getting off on the newest picture.  “Exquisite work.”  This photo showed more of the helpless bound woman, as if the person taking the picture moved the camera farther away, so more of her body was visible.

“Remember I told you about the bindings of the wrists and arms?  She's moved, I can tell.  Her right shoulder is dislocated.  Look.”  Trejo pointed to the woman's shoulder, and Remy saw he was right.  It looked like the shoulder was out of its socket.

“She's not my usual type.”

Those words had Remy straightening in his chair.  Really?  “Why not?  What's different?”  Remy couched the question in a casual way, reaching for the photos.  Trejo held them down on the tabletop and stared at him.

“Look at her.  She's too everything—too clean, too polished, too young.  Perfect hair, perfect skin.  Definitely not homeless.”  The chuckle he gave sounded like pure evil.  “I prefer playing with the homeless, they're so . . . needy.”

Remy studied Trejo.  He was telling the truth.  Damn it, he had hoped.  She didn't fit the whole profile the FBI had come up with for the serial killer.  Victims tended to be Caucasian, ages forty to sixty, thin to emaciated build, and homeless.  This girl didn't fit the type.  But . . . Dammit!

“You said you worked with somebody.  Could they have done this?”

Trejo looked at the three photos, taking his time to peruse them thoughtfully.

“I'm not sure.  Are there any more?”

Remy hated showing this sick bastard the last picture. If the others had excited him to this point, he'd be orgasmic over the final photo.

“There's one more, but I'm not sure you've told me everything.  At least not enough to see the final picture.”

“I've told you a hell of a lot more than you had when you walked in the door, you filthy pig cop.  Either show me the last one or I'm done.”  Trejo smirked—he actually smirked—and Remy balled his fingers into a fist by his side to keep from punching the son of a bitch dead in his face.

Hold it together, man, don't let him rattle you.  Time to reel him in now.

“You're partner, Trejo.  Give me a name or all these pictures go bye-bye and you never get to see the best one.”

Trejo pouted.  That was honest-to-god the only way to describe it.  Hands pulled back to his chest, at least as close as he could with the chain and cuffs prohibiting much movement.  Lower lip thrust out like a little kid.  Who did he think he was kidding anyway?  Multiple murders, torturing his victims in the most horrifically gruesome fashion and here he was, pouting like a little kid with his candy taken away.  Hell no.

Trejo brooded for about a half minute, and Remy read each expression as it flitted across his weasley face.  Finally Trejo shoved the three pictures back toward Remy with an evil little grin.

“My partner.  Which one?”

Which one?  How many sick sociopaths had Trejo dragged into his perverted fantasy of rape, torture and death?  There'd been more than one?

Remy picked up the three pictures, stacked and put them back into the folder.  He removed the lone photo left in the folder, and laid it face down before sliding it halfway across the table.  Trejo reached for it, practically squirming in his chair like a puppy needing to pee.

“A name, Mickey.  Give me the name of your latest partner and I'll give you a look-see at the last pic.”

The name Trejo rattled out curdled Remy's blood.  Son of a bitch!  His partner was a woman?  A woman inflicted this kind of destruction on another woman?  He didn't recognize the name but he'd damn sure get cops working on it the second he walked out the door.

“Got what you wanted, bastard.  Now give me that picture!”

“Yep, a deal's a deal, Mickey.  Here you go.”  Remy stood and pushed the picture the rest of the way across the table, and strode out the door with Trejo's string of obscenities following him.  Instead of a picture of the tortured, mutilated victim Trejo'd been expecting, Remy gave him a copy of his own mug shot.

Once outside the door, Remy drew up short at the two men standing in the hallway waiting for him.

Aw, hell.  Busted.

Captain Reynolds, his former chief from homicide and currently in charge of the Trejo case stood in front of him, arms folded across his chest.  Beside him stood his current boss, Captain Hilliard of vice.