Chris Carter - The Crucifix Killer

D-King stepped out of the swimming pool, grabbed a clean white bathrobe with the word ‘King’ in big golden letters on the back and sat down at the table by the side of the pool, where breakfast was waiting for him.

‘That ain’t what I want to hear, Jerome. I don’t wanna start my day with bad news.’ He poured himself a glass of orange juice. ‘Go on, nigga, spill it out.’ His voice was as calm as it’d always been. D-King was not the type of person to lose his coolness easily.

‘Well, you told me to go and check on Jenny, see why she’d disappeared for a few days.’

‘Yeah?’

‘OK, it looks like she didn’t only disappear from the club, boss, she simply disappeared.’

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

‘It doesn’t look like she’s been home at all in the past few days. The building concierge hasn’t seen her either.’

D-King put down his glass of orange juice and studied his bodyguard for a few seconds. ‘How about her things? Were they still in the apartment?’

‘Everything – dresses, shoes, handbags, even her make-up. Her suitcases were all stacked up in the wardrobe too. If she split, it was in a fucking hurry, boss.’

‘She has nothing to be running away from,’ D-King said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

‘Does she have a boyfriend?’

‘Does she what?’ he asked, making an ‘I don’t believe you’ face. ‘You know better than that, nigga. None of my girls have relationships, it’s bad for business.’

‘Maybe she met someone that night at the Vanguard.’

‘And what?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe went back to his place.’

‘Hell no, Jenny doesn’t do freebies.’

‘Maybe she liked the guy.’

‘She’s a hooker, Jerome. She’d just come out of a five-night working week. The last thing she would’ve wanted was to go to bed with someone else.’

‘Private clients?’

‘Say what? All my girls know what would happen if I found out they were trying to run a little parallel business. Jenny ain’t the type, she ain’t stupid.’

‘Maybe she’s just staying with a friend,’ Jerome offered one more option.

‘Again, not like her. She’s been one of my girls for what, almost three years? She’s never given me any trouble. She’s always on time for her appointments. No, Jerome, this is messed up, something’s wrong.’

‘Do you think she might be in trouble, financially I mean, gambling or something like that?’

‘If she is she would’ve come to me, I know that. She wouldn’t just run away.’

‘What do you want me to do, boss?’

D-King had a sip of his coffee, thinking about his options. ‘First check the hospitals,’ he finally said. ‘We’ve gotta find out if something’s happened to her.’

‘Do you think someone might’ve hurt her?’

‘If someone did… that motherfucker is dead.’

Jerome wondered who’d be stupid enough to hurt any of D-King’s girls.

‘If the hospitals come up blank we’ll need to check with the police.’

‘Shall I call Culhane?’

Detective Mark Culhane worked for the Narcotics division of the LAPD. He was also in D-King’s dirty-cop pay list.

‘He ain’t the sharpest of minds, but I guess we’ll have to. Warn him not to go snooping around like a lost dog though. I wanna keep this on the “low low” for now.’

‘I’ve got you, boss.’

‘Check the hospitals first, if you come up empty – call him.’

Jerome nodded, leaving his boss to finish his breakfast.

D-King had a bite of his egg-white omelet, but his appetite had gone. After over ten years as a dealer he’d developed a nose for trouble and something didn’t smell right. He wasn’t only well known in Los Angeles, he was also well feared. Once someone had made the mistake of slapping one of his girls across the face. That someone was found three days later inside a suitcase – his body separated into six parts, head, torso, arms and legs.

Carlos Garcia was a young detective who’d worked his way up through the police ranks almost as quickly as Hunter. The son of a Brazilian federal agent and an American history teacher, he and his mother moved to Los Angeles when Garcia was only ten years old, after his parents’ marriage collapsed. Even though he’d lived in America most of his life, Garcia could speak Portuguese like a true Brazilian. His father was a very attractive man with smooth dark hair, brown eyes and olive skin. His mother was a natural blond with light-blue eyes and European-looking fair skin. Garcia had inherited his father’s olive-tone skin and darkish brown hair, which he let grow slightly longer than his mother would’ve liked it. His eyes weren’t as light blue as his mother’s, but they had definitely come from her side of the family. Despite being thirty-one years old, Garcia still had a boyish look. He had a slim frame, thanks to years of track and field, but his build was deceptive and he was stronger than anyone would’ve guessed.

Jennet Liams, Garcia’s mother, did everything in her power to persuade him not to pursue a career as a police officer. Her marriage to a federal agent had taught her plenty. It’s a dangerous life. Few human beings can endure the kind of mental pressure that comes with it. Her family and marriage suffered because of her husband’s profession. She didn’t what her son and his future family to have the same fate. But by the age of ten, Garcia had made up his mind. He wanted to be just like his hero – his father.

He’d dated the same girl since high school and marriage came almost immediately after their graduation. Anna was a sweet girl. One year younger than Garcia with magnificent dark hazel eyes and short black hair, her beauty was unconventional but mesmerizing nevertheless. They had no children, a decision they’d made together – at least for the time being.

Garcia spent two years as a LAPD detective in north Los Angeles before being given a choice: a position with the Narcotics department or one with the Homicide division. He decided to take the Homicide job.

On the morning of his first day with the RHD Garcia had woken up a lot earlier than usual. He’d tried to be as quiet as possible, but that didn’t keep him from waking Anna. He needed to report to Captain Bolter’s office at eight-thirty, but by six-thirty he was already dressed in his best suit and found himself killing time in their small apartment on the north side of LA.

‘How do I look?’ he asked after his second cup of coffee.

‘It’s the third time you’ve asked me the same question,’ Anna laughed. ‘You look fine, babe. They are lucky. They are getting the finest detective in LA,’ she said as she softly kissed his lips. ‘Are you nervous?’

Garcia nodded and bit his bottom lip. ‘A little bit.’

‘There’s no need. You’ll be great.’

Anna was an optimist; finding the positive side to just about anything. She was happy for Garcia; he was finally achieving what he’d always wanted, but deep inside she felt scared. Garcia had experienced some close encounters in the past. He’d spent a week in hospital after a.44 caliber bullet shattered his collar bone and she’d spent a week in tears. She knew the perils that came with his job and she knew he would never shy away from danger, and that petrified her.

At exactly eight-thirty Garcia was standing in front of Captain Bolter’s office in the RHD building. He found it funny that the name on the door said ‘KONG.’ He knocked three times.

‘Come in.’

Garcia opened the door and stepped inside.

Captain William Bolter was now in his mid-sixties but he looked at least ten years younger. Tall, strong as an ox and sporting a full head of silvery hair together with a thick mustache, the man was a menacing figure. If the stories were true, he’d taken over twelve bullets in his time, and he was still standing.