Allison Brennan - Silenced

“Wireless,” Lucy said. “It would have been easy to set up. But then, why would she need this room? Why not use her own apartment?”

“We’re going to find out. I wonder if the manager knows? Call her up, Lucy.”

Ten minutes later, Noah showed Betty Dare the hidden room. She stared, a stunned expression on her face. “I had no idea,” she said repeatedly.

“I need to seal off this room, it’s a potential crime scene, and we’ll contact the owners.”

“I-yes-of course.”

Lucy felt bad for the flustered manager. “This isn’t your fault,” she said. “There are over one hundred units in this building? Sixty-seven owned, thirty long-term leases, a dozen executive leases?”

Betty looked surprised. “You have a good memory.”

She shrugged. “That’s a lot of people for one person to manage. Thank you so much for your help.”

“Lucy,” Noah said, “go home. I have to wait for the team to arrive.”

“I can wait with you.”

“Sean still in Sacramento?”

She nodded.

“Weren’t you going to give Ms. James’s cat temporary housing?”

“Yes, but-”

“Go. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

Brian loved his brother, but resented the fact that people called him stupid and Ned smart.

Brian had handled his part of the plan perfectly. Wendy James was dead.

After Ned found out that Wendy was still chummy with her hookers, Ned was supposed to poison them with carbon monoxide and make it look like an accident. But instead, he wanted a bang.

Well, he got it-along with six living problems.

And who did they call to solve problems?

Brian . Because he did exactly what he was supposed to. He took orders. He was a good soldier and all that crap.

Brian watched the news in his basement apartment. Ned wouldn’t be happy that Wendy’s body had been found so soon, but who the fuck cared? Nothing tied her to him, nothing tied him to her murder, and he wore gloves.

“The victim has been identified as Wendy James, the young secretary who admitted to having a longtime affair with Congressman Alan Crowley, the powerful chair of the Judiciary Committee.

“Police have no leads at this time, but our sources report that the FBI has taken over the case, and they have yet to issue a public statement. Sources report that Ms. James had been jogging through Rock Creek Park Monday morning when she was attacked by a possible rapist. In the last three months, seven rapes and thirteen attempted rapes or muggings have been reported from the park. Public safety officials urge joggers to run in pairs or groups and be aware of their surroundings.”

Brian grinned. Attempted rape. Exactly what he’d wanted. All was right, he’d done his job, he should be the one sitting in the mansion, not in this pit of an apartment waiting for his next job.

Ned called him. “Did you see the news?” Brian asked.

“Good job,” Ned said, “except that she was found. The feds are everywhere asking questions. They have no clue, but too many questions make people nervous. Once you take care of the rest of the problems, we’re in the clear.”

“You should have done it right the first time.”

“Fuck off. I have an address for you, to start.” He read off the address of a hotel in the shittiest section of DC Brian could imagine.

“That’s a pit. What about the others?”

“I’m getting there. It takes time when I have to cover my tracks. But I’m close.”

“When this is done, we should go on vacation. Maybe a cruise. That’d be fun, wouldn’t it?”

Ned laughed. “Remember when we went to Miami for spring break? I want some more of those wild girls. I had more girls sucking me off that week than the whole previous year.” He cleared his throat, then said, “You know what to do?”

“Yes.” Brian hated when his brother treated him like a child.

“Wait until nighttime activity settles down, then-”

“Don’t tell me how to do it. I didn’t fuck up my assignment.”

“It’s not a competition, Bri.”

“Good thing for you, ’cause I’d win.” He hung up.

It was already midnight. Late enough.

Brian dressed in dark jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt. He pocketed his favorite knife and left.

The cheap motel was in an all-black neighborhood two miles from his place. He’d stick out if anyone saw him. So he stayed in his car across the street from the motel and watched.

The area was unusually quiet. A gas station on one corner was still open. On the opposite corner were two fast-food joints sharing a wall and small parking lot. A group of gangbangers sat on the tables outside, even though the places were closed. Across from the motel was a section of crummy walk-ups. Half the businesses on the ground floor were boarded up; the other half had bars on their windows and doors. A dive bar next to the motel was open until two, but the parking lot was empty.

Brian had thought that the cooler night would have brought people out of their cramped, stuffy apartments. He breathed in deeply, then grimaced at the thick, dirty air.

Nearly every light in the motel was off. He watched as a street hooker knocked on an upstairs door, almost directly above the room he wanted. A pasty white guy let her in, the door closed, and Brian wrinkled his nose at what filthy diseases they shared. At least Wendy and the others were clean. Condoms and all that. And they didn’t prowl the streets looking to make a quick buck. They were paid a couple hundred dollars for an all-night screw.

Not really fair. All they had to do was lie down and spread their legs and they got two, three, even five hundred dollars? He’d heard some of the horny bastards liked kinky shit, but still, a thousand bucks for two nights’ work? How’d they get so lucky to land such a cushy job?

He laughed, then put his hand to his mouth to keep from being heard. They’d have no job when they were dead. One of those retribution things, he thought. Like the hand of God or some such thing. Be a whore, be dead. Be a whore no more-that sounded better. It rhymed.

After Brian had seen no one else come or go for several minutes, he got out of his car and strode across the street with purpose. By the time he reached room 119, he had his tools in hand. He’d been worried about making too much noise, but the rumbling AC units masked any sound he made picking the flimsy lock. Slowly, he pushed open the door. Security chain was on. He took out a small, handheld bolt cutter and snipped the thin metal in two.

Brian crept into the motel room and grimaced at the stink. Dirt and sweat and sex. The air-conditioning unit in the window ran full power, but only moved the stale air around the room. He doubted it had ever been recharged.

He closed the door quickly, quietly, his eyes already adjusted to the night.

One black girl-Nicole-slept in the queen-sized bed, on sheets he doubted had been washed after the last people slept-or screwed-in this room. The motel was a haven for whores. Maybe the black bitch thought she’d blend in, disappear into the streets. But she was mistaken. Ned knew everyone. Ned found people. No one could hide from his brother.

Though Brian was still mad at Ned for screwing up the fire, he was proud, too. Ned would track all of them down before the end of the week. Then Brian would follow up and bam, bam, bam, take them out one at a time. Maybe two at a time. That would be a challenge. Each one would be different, there were lots of ways to kill. Throw the stupid police off, right?

See, he was as smart as Ned. Maybe smarter.

The bed upstairs creaked and groaned in the rhythm of the whore and her john. Shit, the walls were thin. He’d have to be extra quiet.