Part 2
### Chapter 1: Chapter 1
“Was our tousle at the cafe this afternoon not enough for you, Agent? Or have you managed to find the nonexistent evidence that I’m a murderer?” When FBI agent Vance Deveraux comes across a novel dauntingly close to a case he's working, he stumbles into the extravagantly odd life of Lucy Hamilton, a closeted writer with a past she's unwilling to share, even when she's suspect number one in a string of murders. Her innocence? More than half of the crimes took place before she was born and in states she'd never been. Her guilt? Every novel she's ever written perfectly lined to an unsolved murder in real time.
So, what's the verdict?
Complete Chapters 17
Rating 4.7 ( 24 reviews ) Age Rating mature
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Chapter 1
Six caskets of mahogany dressed with the American flag sat patiently in a remote warehouse outside of Quantico, Virginia, the silence deafening as Special Agent Vance Deveraux stood with his eyes closed and pain in every feature.
“Don’t you get it, Vance?” Director Jones darkly asked, his suit as firmly pressed as his tone. “Seven men go in, six come out in body bags. A threat to national security, and you to the opposite of your single job. We gave your team everything you needed to stop that bomb from going off in D.C. with plenty of time to cover your bases and get the hell out of there.”
“No, you don’t get to speak,” Jones interrupted. “You get to listen. You get to listen to their families and their loved ones. You get that guilt, forever. In life, people make mistakes, but not in the way you did. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you did it on purpose. That bomb didn’t need to blow. You weren’t ambushed, you weren’t set back. In fact, your team was ahead of schedule. Yet you still lost the mission and they lost their lives.”
Vance felt like he could barely breath, his face grim as his green eyes held back tears.
Director Malcolm Jones, as aged as his view on life, walked a distance from Vance, resting a hand on the coffin containing what was known to be left of his own son. His shallow grey eyes soon found the lone survivor once more, rage burrowing deep inside his heart. “You’re lucky we’re not pending further investigation. I could have you out of the FBI in seconds for this, I hope you know that.”
“I know, sir, and I’m very thankful to keep my job.” Vance kept his facade as best as he could, trying not to let his self hate show too boldly through the ensemble of chiseled features that composed his face.
“A job within the FBI, yes, but you’re no longer with counter-terrorism unit.” The Director dismissed eye contact with the dark haired agent, looking along the caskets that were waiting to be buried. “You’ll be transferred to the Los Angeles Field Office with criminal investigation, working cold cases. You’ll keep your special agent status, but hopefully you won’t be able to do any harm from behind a desk. I’ve already set everything with Dorian, the office head there, and you’ll be under strict watch.”
Vance’s lips parted, surprise taking over his expression. “But, sir-”
“You are in no place to argue,” Jones quickly retorted. “You have a flight booked to LAX in two hours, all of your belongings have been packed and sent on their way.” Removing a boarding pass from his gray suit jacket, he held it out to the agent he once treated like a son. “Take it and get out of my sight.”
The agent hesitantly took the slip from Director Jones’ grasp, eyes wary as he searched for any way to make amends. “Is there anything I can say, sir?”
“Yes,” he replied. “You can say goodbye.”
Briefly closing his eyes, Vance did just that.
Jones’ face held no expression, his own thoughts lost to any who looked upon him. “Not to me. To them.”
The Director’s fingers lightly touched his forehead, blessing the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit before leaving the side of his son’s coffin and walking past Deveraux without a word. His phone buzzed idly, Malcolm immediately putting the device to his ear. “Jo, are the two of you here?”
Vance jumped as the warehouse door slammed behind him, left alone with those he’d killed. His heart throbbed with sorrow, still gripping to ticket to California as his eyes flickered across the caskets that held only pieces of great men. His men, his brothers.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered before turning towards the door and only stopping to look one last time before he’d leave Virginia, shunned by the head of the FBI.
The stuffy aroma of the Reagan National Airport swelled around Vance Deveraux as he made his way through the extensive terminals, less than twenty minutes until he had to board his flight across the country. He carried only his briefcase, all that was left for him to take after everything else had been cleared out and shipped to California.
Vance checked the watch face on the inside of his wrist, looking like a secret agent whether he meant to or not. He turned his head, catching a glimpse of a well stocked bookstore. “Thank God,” he lowly expressed as he moved his way through a thicket of travelers, desperate for literature beyond taxi ad pamphlets. When they packed everything, it included his books.
Although blocking only a slight trace of the bustling airport terminal, inside the plethora of books, it was mildly calmer. Various passengers paced through, the coffee scented premise hoping to drown their extensive layovers in words.
“Can I help you find anything, sir?” A petite woman in red at the counter noticed Vance’s arrival, curious to why he looked so unprepared to be flying.
“No, no thank you. Just looking for something to read,” Vance quickly dismissed with a wave of his hand, his hamartia to push people away to avoid as many questions as possible.
Carol, however, took books quite seriously.
Stepping from around her post at the tell, she joined Vance with a warm smile. “You never want to get stuck with a bad book when you’re 14,000 feet up, now do you?”
Vance offered a fairly faked laugh, scratching his brow as he spoke. “I guess not, no.”
“What kind of novels interest you, handsome?” Carol instead gave him no time to answer, “Oh I bet I can guess! Murder mysteries?”
Although hesitating, he assumed it was the world making fun of him for his new position in criminal investigation instead of his well loved counter-terrorism unit. “Right on the nose,” he lied. “You got me.” He had always been more of a Fitzgerald man himself.
“More like who done it,” she joked with a little wiggle of her shoulders, one every aunt in the world did on impulse. “Follow me, we just received a new shipment of her latest.”
“Whose latest?” Vance’s eyebrows knitted together momentarily, following the small figure of Carol over to a colorful display.
“If you like murder mysteries, then you have to know who Stella St. Laurens is.”
Vance softly shook his head with a light lift of his shoulder, “I guess I’m not as invested.”
“Trust me, you’ll love her.” Carol picked up a copy of Where The Willow Waits before glancing back to Vance. “How long is your flight, dear?”
“About six hours,” the special agent replied coolly, it the most civilian interaction he’d come across in nearly five months. “Maybe less if I’m lucky.”
“Perfect, then you can treat yourself to two of her novels.” Carol snagged Mummy Dearest of the shelf next to the St. Laurens display, “This one’s my favorite. You’ll be captured by every word, I promise.”
Vance couldn’t argue, tight on time and going out on a whim to trust her. “Alright, sounds good to me.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with, gorgeous?” Carol brightly asked as they wandered back to the register, not even bothering to hand the chosen books to Vance before ringing them up.
Fishing for his wallet from the pocket of his dark slacks, he began to shake his head before sliding a bag of gummy worms onto the counter.
Carol laughed, agreeing with the choice as she scanned them. “Do you need a bag?”
Vance declined as he held out his credit card to her, “I can put them in my briefcase, I’m fine.”
“Enjoy your flight,” she warmly said, finalizing the sale and returning his card. “And more importantly, enjoy those books.”
Thanking her on his way out of the bookstore, Vance merged back into the crowd once he’d secured the books and candy in his brown leather briefcase. He didn’t blend with the loosely dressed travelers, his suit sticking out like a sore thumb and the click of his designer oxfords louder than those of worn out sneakers.
“Now boarding flight 2365 to Los Angeles, all groups welcome to board.”
Vance picked up his pace slightly, only a few gates down as the message came over the terminal speakers. Sliding into the massive line of people, he soon found himself admitted into the business cabin of the jumbo jet. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been on a commercial plane. His life had been choppers and private jets under fire since he stepped out of the Academy.
The special agent shimmied out of his jacket, making an effort to look as least disheveled as possible as he loosened his tie enough just to relax. He ran a hand through dark hair that laid as it wanted to, reaching for the brand new print of Where The Willow Waits before settling back into his seat. Sighing to himself as he tried to ignore the guilt in his heart, he flipped the paperback over in his hands to read the simple synopsis that Carol had failed to share with him before pressuring him to buy it.
In an attempt to make a name for herself in Hollywood, Bridget Wilson comes across a job that might do her more harm than good. Backed by an agent who pushes for any acting gigs at all, young Wilson steps on set that’s more sinister than it seems…
Vance’s eyes traced down below the synopsis, momentarily questioning why there was no image of the author to join the vague description of Stella St. Laurens.
If Bridget was so intent on seeking fame, then why wasn’t Stella?
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### Chapter 2: Chapter 2
A metal garbage can chimed as another crumpled paper joined the heap, Vance Deveraux’s arm retracting from its curved position as one of the desk agents wheeled in a new load of files to his pathetic excuse for an office.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me, Allison,” Vance said as he sat up in his chair. “I’ve already got a million cases to digitize.”
The older blonde gave a light shrug, leaving the three boxes next to his messy desk among the thirteen others strewn about the room. “Sorry, Vance. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
Deveraux closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Did Dorian at least say why?”
Allison only gave Vance a look, her eyebrows slightly raised. “You know why.” She lightly tapped the top box, evident sympathy in her eyes. “Have fun,” she offered as she headed out of the cramped, barely air conditioned office.
“All fun all the time,” Vance mumbled as he ran a hand through his hair. He sighed, not touching the newest boxes and instead returning his eyes to his computer.
But there was nothing new. They were cold cases for a reason.
A knock sounded on the open door, a woman with arched eyebrows and a neat chignon leaning in.
Vance practically jumped up from his relaxed position, “SSA Phillips.”
“Relax, Deveraux,” Phillips said as she walked into the messy office space. Her sharp pant suit lines only grew sharper in the distress of the room, humble superiority radiating off of her. “There’s only so much you can do with a shit stack of cold cases.”
Subsiding from his minor alarm, Vance adjusted his tie before motioning to the head of the LA Criminal Investigation Unit. “What can I help you with, ma’am?”
“I actually need to see one of the files you’ve been given.”
Vance only smiled without much emotion before taking a sip of coffee, pushing the assistant director for the only amusement he could get out of his situation. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”
Marina Phillips lightly shook her head, her tamed, chestnut hair not moving an inch. “Should’ve passed through about a month ago. Missing persons case, filed 12 years back. Name should be Emily Morrison.”
“Sure thing,” Vance replied as he set down his coffee mug, pulling his keyboard closer to jump back into the database.
SSA Phillips held no reservations against the special agent that had been assigned to her floor three months prior, rather thankful for the help in filing but concerned that his skills could be used best outside of the building and actually in the field. She, however, had no say in the length or terms of the agent’s punishment. Dorian told her what to do with Deveraux and Jones no less controlled Dorian.
“I’ve got it,” Vance announced, causing Marina to go around his desk to see the screen. “Emily Morrison, missing at age 12 when she went out to play with a friend but never made it to the park. No suspects, barely speculation.” Glancing up the senior agent, he grew curious. “Why do you need this if there’s nothing we can do? They claimed it cold six years ago and it’s spent another six sitting in a box.”
“Because,” Phillips produced her tablet from her suit, it thinner than the material of her blazer, “we might have something.” Angling the technology towards Deveraux, Marina bubbled with the chance of justice. “A girl ran through the woods and into a police station claiming that she’d been kidnapped five years prior by a man named Neil Hunter. He’d been keeping her in his basement the entire time. Hunter didn’t even think to leave, but LAPD found him and got stuffed into County, no bail. Thing is, right now he’s only on one count. When the girl, Eliza, was questioned about the basement itself, she said she could tell there was another if not multiple girls that had been held there before her. He even told her about one - Emily - and that Hunter killed her. Apparently, he told her about it to scare her out of trying to escape, like she did.”
Vance watched the images of the suspect slide by, revealing a photograph of a red hair collected from the floorboard. “Emily had red hair,” he mildly said as he looked back to the photo on his computer of the 12 year old girl. “Do you think they can match this?”
“I already spoke with Mrs. Morrison on the phone,” said Marina, “and after a long conversation she’s agreed to bringing in a of hairbrush of Emily’s that still has strands in it.”
“Ma’am, if I may, I’d like to ask to be put on the case,” Vance almost immediately requested. “Officially, I mean. Not just inside the office. If there’s a chance we can figure out what happened to this girl, I want to help.”
Senior Agent Phillips gave a half smile, “You’re on the team, Deveraux. I’ll pull you later for our interrogation down at LA County Jail. They’re letting us talk to Hunter to see if we can get him to admit to killing Emily Morrison.”
The sleek FBI regulated sedan slid through traffic with ease, Vance tucked in the back with a to-go coffee in hand as Phillips and Agent Colton Ramos resided in the front. LA’s August weather remained warm, tourists still roaming for their last hit of summer and clothing seeming rather optional.
Ramos, a field agent based out of LA since his first assignment twelve years prior, drove with ease towards the jail currently holding Neil Hunter. His dark eyes stayed on the road while his ears focused in on Phillips giving what information she had on the case.
“Apparently, he isn’t talking,” the SSA announced as she set down her work phone in her lap, a folder open in her hands.
“Would you?” questioned Vance as he lowered his coffee cup from his lips. “The guy’s just been caught for kidnapping girls and keeping them in his basement. I wouldn’t talk either.”
Phillips lightly shook her head, still trying to understand the situation in its entirety. “It’s not like he can deny it. We’ve got enough evidence to put him away for years.”
“But not to death,” interjected Agent Ramos. “That would come with admitting to killing all of those other girls.”
“We only have insight on one potential.” Agent Deveraux’s eyebrows knitted together slightly, leaned back on the vinyl seating.
“Our witness said there looked like there could be one or more, likely it’s more. Dude’s psycho. There’s got to be more, and if he talks,” Ramos made a noise in the back of his throat, representing none other than death itself.
“He doesn’t have any infractions with the police,” Phillips said as she leafed through Hunter’s file. “He grew up in Anaheim, went to UCLA in the 80s, and there’s never been a complaint to his house. He even paid his taxes on time, every year. Neighbors say he’s quiet, but the block that he lives on isn’t a very big community type. Most people keep to themselves anyways.”
“Clearly a real standup guy,” commented Ramos sarcastically. “Look, everyone can keep a secret. Some do it better. Just because they seem normal enough doesn’t mean they aren’t keep young women hostage in their basement for some unbeknownst, perverted reason.”
“Does he have any family?” Vance questioned underneath Ramos, looking towards Phillips.
“None living,” she replied with a light sigh in her voice. “Both parents deceased within the past ten years. No wife, no kids. No siblings, either.”
Deveraux hesitated a moment, doing what he could to read the paper man with a mere paper history. “Hire his own lawyer?”
“County appointed, D.A. Finstock, I think. We’ve worked with him before.” SSA Phillips turned her head, looking to Vance over her shoulder. “What’s going on up there in that brain of yours, Deveraux?”
Seemingly as perplexed as the other special agents, “I’m not sure yet.”
“That’s helpful,” Ramos mockingly said under his breath as he flashed his badge at the front gate to the county jail, ignoring the camera crews vigorously trying to get a clip. “What’s our play?” he questioned as he took a parking spot close to the main building, it surrounded by barbed wire.
“I’ll go in with Deveraux to talk.” SA Phillips shut the file in hand, sliding it into her briefcase as she exited to FBI vehicle. “Ramos, you’ll get anything you can from guards about Hunter. First impressions, whether he’s talked or not. You know the drill.”
Ramos locked the car as the trio headed towards the building entrance, nodding without hesitation. “Yes, ma’am.”
Brought through the LA County Jail and into its depths with ease, a thin yet intimidating man named Officer Hudson stopped the special agents in front of the questioning room currently holding Neil Hunter.
Marina looked from her agents to Officer Hudson, hiding her mild confusion with a flat expression. “Is there a problem, officer?”
Running his fingers along his dark mustache, Officer Hudson hesitated to reply. “Just try not to look at his eye, he’s sensitive,” he simply said before sliding his key card along the authorization panel.
Ramos remained outside as Phillips and Deveraux went in, nodding almost cockily to the escort guards incase Hunter made a break for it. A chrome burner phone was hidden behind his back, Ramos’ eyes scouring the guards with no sign he was doing anything out of the ordinary. “Hunter given you any trouble?”
Officer Price, young blood not yet broken by the system, gave a light shrug. “He doesn’t talk much. Or ever, really.”
Hudson stepped forward, moving the attention of the hall to him. “Look, Suit, Hunter’s just a quiet guy. He’s not done anything to wrong us.”
An eyebrow of Ramos’ raised, his thumb hesitating to send the message on the hidden mobile. “Does the kidnapping a young girl and holding her in his basement for three years not a reason to be bothered by him?”
“Lots of people have done a lot worse, sir, you’re in a prison. Ask one out of ten of these guys and they’ve got blood on their hands-”
“Do you have any kids, Officer Hudson?” Ramos interrupted, his voice blunt. He could tell from the look in the officer’s eyes that he did, an instant guilt rippling across his worn face. “How would you treat a man who took your child? Kept them away from you for year - possibly forever. Would you just shrug it off?
Officer Hudson didn’t speak, averting his eyes from the FBI agent.
“Exactly.” Ramos slid his phone discreetly into his slack pocket, folding his arms over his chest as intimidating eyes crossed the line of security guards. “So, tell me. What’s Hunter been like?”
“When he talks, if ever,” began the blonde officer behind Hudson, moving out past her boss, “it’s always a name.” Fowler did her best not to look at the glare Hudson was giving her. “We looked into it, but it doesn’t make sense.”
Ramos’ eyes narrowed inquisitively, “Go on.”
“He says, ‘Karen,’ over and over again,” said Fowler.
And the only thing more confusing than Hunter’s choice of word was the lack of surprise on Agent Ramos’ face.
Neil Hunter was a man of many things, few which people knew, even less which they understood.
The box of a room held limited furniture, a single guilty body sitting in a chair, dressed in tan scrubs with his head bent low.
His short hair was graying, slowly fading out from what was once the fullest head of auburn hair in his family. Neither tattoos nor piercings graced his body, a clean slate of age and misfortune. His lowly pigmented hands were folded together, eyes searching for anything but the special agents taking their places across from him like the typical TV crime case it had become.
Marina stood with folded arms at the end of the metal table, voice calm and collected beyond belief. “Mr. Hunter, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Marina Phillips, this is my associate Special Agent Vance Deveraux. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Neil remained quiet, eyes on the handcuffs that bound him to the table. The ones that bound him to his grief.
“We can’t help you if you won’t let us,” Vance said, an arm resting on the metal surface as he studied Hunter.
Phillips pulled a school photo of a redhead little girl from her file, sliding it across the table to Hunter. She stayed silent for a moment, watching his body language for any indication of familiarity. “Do you recognize this girl?”
“Emily Morrison, missing at age 12.” Marina removed a second photo, a close up shot of red hair found in Hunter’s basement. “Emily Morrison’s hair, found in your basement, matched it.”
Vance kept quiet, aware that the call hadn’t come in yet confirming that the hair was Emily’s or not. He knew Phillips’ tactics, ones he’d seen used countless times.
Phillips tried again, her tone unwavering. “Eliza said you told her a story about the girl before her, a girl named Emily, who tried to run away from you. She told us that you killed her. Is the Emily you used against Eliza the same girl in this photograph?”
Neil Hunter’s brown eyes slowly rose to Marina, leaving the glassy ones of Emily’s photograph. A bruise seemed to be painted across his left eye, swollen and puffing with showing signs of large knuckles from none other than an inmate.
“Well?” Phillips questioned with an undertone that could scare a grown man.
Hunter simply held up his hand, fingers spread. He pled the 5th, and that was it.
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