Predator

"Yessir," the tech said, looking down at his notes. "That about sums it up."

"Holy Mother of God. So, this Salazar? Any porn on his drives?"

"Stuff's still downstairs in Evidence, not in the lab yet, sir."

"Expedite that. So," The Duke said to the detectives in the room, "why does this one feel important? Why hit Salazar? He's not trafficking porn. Or was he?"

"Well," Acheson replied, "he's trafficking women, now purportedly killing them, too. That makes our suspect an avenging angel, doesn't it? Out doing what we can't, or haven't been able to do."

"Like that movie, Death Wish," one of the detectives added.

"Maybe. Could be as simple as that, but I kinda doubt it. That Bronson character in the movie is motivated by revenge, isn't he? Hoods break into his apartment, rape and kill his wife, beat up his daughter, rape her too, and the cops seem powerless to do anything about it so he goes on a killing spree. Becomes known as a vigilante killer. Public see him as doing the cops' work for them, crime goes down as scrotes get taken out, and in the end he becomes the invisible hero."

"So," The Duke said, "are we missing something big here? Motive? Revenge is the oldest motive in the world, isn't it?"

"My guess is Salazar is the key," Acheson replied. "He seems atypical, as a victim anyway, but something might be on his computer that links him to the first two perps. Say," Acheson said to the tech, "that email list? Is it possible that Feldman was getting images from either Walker or Salazar? Or the other way around? Are they linked somehow?"

"Haven't checked that angle, sir." The tech got on his cell and made a call.

"Well, Salazar was running women and drugs up here," Acheson continued. "He had a working pipeline, a renewable, fresh supply of talent, so who's to say he wasn't running families, and families have little boys in 'em. Maybe he was providing kids to these perps, for them to photograph, or have, uh, sex with. Or...oh sweet Jesus."

"What, Ben? What is it?"

"Or to kill. Snuff vids," Acheson groaned. "What if these guys were making snuff vids, then dumping the bodies. Kill the kids, then kill their moms. Leave no trails..."

"BINGO!" cried the CSU tech. "Multiple IP hits on Feldman's drive with Walker. As soon as we know Salazar's IPs we'll run crosschecks on that one too."

"Cloud storage," Acheson said. "Check to see what kind of Cloud storage facilities Feldman used, see if Walker..."

"Right! Got it!" The tech was back on his phone, relaying instructions.

"Cloud storage?" The Duke asked.

"Places to store huge files off site, video files mainly, encrypted and easy to share with known associates. Be hard to locate because he's got so many...was he using Tor?"

"Yeah," the tech said, "they all do, but it's not as bullet proof as they think. NSAs been inside Tor for years."

"So, we ask NSA to run down these guys, see if they were running a network together. Captain? That might have to go through the Chief, via the FBI."

"Got it, Ben. I'll go have a chat with him. Say, do you think our suspect is leading us to these guys?"

Acheson leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling. "There's not a doubt in my mind now, Captain. That's exactly what she's doing."

"So. Do we really want to run her down?"

Acheson looked at The Duke. "She killed three of our own, sir."

"Yeah. She's gotta pay for that."

"Uh-huh, but my guess is she's always going to be at least two steps ahead of us. So in the end, Captain, when she's got what she wants she'll either turn herself in, or just disappear."

The Duke nodded, left to go see the Chief, grateful this shit hadn't got to much attention in the press.

Yet.

_____________________________________

The Duke, Acheson and a handful of detectives from CID were sitting behind little school-desks eating ribs and brisket at Sonny Bryans' on Inwood Road, and had been talking about the case and where it was leading them – before their food was ready.

"You know, potentially, this shit's going to go international. Those creeps had, have a huge network set up," Acheson was saying, "and there's just no way of knowing where this is going lead."

"God damn, these are good fucking baked beans!" The Duke cried. Acheson took that to mean it was time to stop talking shop.

"Ribs ain't too bad today, neither," Deke Slater, one of the senior detectives added. "Still, too much sauce. Like mine dry, anywho."

"How's that sam'ich, Ben? Got onions and relish over there if it's too dry."

"It's fine, sir."

"Ya know, this is still the best place in town," Duke continued, "Has been since the sixties, when Sonny was still cookin'. Heard he was a dentist! Did y'all know that? Come in and stoke the fires on his way to his office. Course, don't know if that's true or not, but it sounds good. Died of cancer. Shame. He was a good man."

"You knew him, Captain?"

"Yup. Short man, nice smile. Had this old 60-something Mercedes, silver I think, drove it in every morning, always around four or so, almost always had a police escort, or so the legend goes. When they opened up in the mornin' there'd always be about ten squad cars out back, just waitin'. Shame he didn't sell donuts, ya know? He'd a been a gozillionaire."

Nods around the group, then The Duke's cell phone pinged.

"Dickinson," he said into the thing as he took out a notepad. "Okay, go ahead...yup...yup...you don't say. Well, fuck-a-doodle-do. Alright. We'll see you back at CID in, say," he looked over at the desert menu on the wall, "in about forty five minutes. Right. Bye."

"Anything new?" Acheson asked.

"Probably. That cloud shit? They're all linked. Internet addresses, too. Looks like twelve more here in town, on Feldman's list anyway, and seems they share the same cloud storage thingy, so presumably we got eight or nine more potential targets. FBI's running down the addresses now, they're gonna meet us at the station, go over what they got with us, then maybe we'll go pay some of these boys a little visit this afternoon. Say, Slim, is that peach cobbler worth a shit today?"

___________________________________

The group got back to Central CID just before noon, just before a small contingent of FBI agents arrived, and The Duke took a seat, loosened his belt a notch, then lifted a cheek and cut loose a monster fart.

"Jesus H Christ, Captain, smells like you ate fuckin' road kill for lunch."

"Don't smell half as bad as that after-shave crap you're wearin', Slim," The Duke parried. "By the way. You ever heard of deodorant?"

Then, a knock on the door.

"Y'all come on in."

A handful of federal agents, easily identifiable in their blue suits, white shirts and red ties, walked into the room, but all the detectives' eyes zeroed in on one agent in particular.

About five foot six, trim, navy blue blazer and mid-length skirt, sheer stockings and...

'Navy blue pumps...' Acheson said to himself. 'About a seven, seven and a half.' He stared at her shoes, then up at the woman's eyes. 'And looks exactly like the shoe in the fountain,' he thought as he looked at her legs and shoes again. 'A she's got a runner's legs, too.'

He looked up at her again, only now saw she had stopped in her tracks and was staring at him.

He pursed his lips, turned red and looked away, then the woman came and sat next to him.

"Genie. Genie Delaney. And you are?"

"Ben Acheson."

"Oh, right, the motor-jock." She held out her hand. "Read your reports, good work. Nice to meet you." She then leaned over, almost conspiratorially, and whispered: "Say, you got, like, a shoe fetish thing going on there, Ben?"

Acheson pulled away, turned even redder in the face.

"Not your thing, huh?" Delaney said triumphantly as she leaned back in her chair.

"Guys," The Duke began, "This here's Red Gibbons, SAC Dallas. Red? Why don't you make up a few introductions?"

"Well, let's see, that's John, Paul, George and Ringo," the Special Agent in Charge of the Dallas Bureau said sarcastically as he pointed at four of the sunglass'd agents, "they do computer crime when they're not playing video games. The shady looking pervert over there is, uh, Mick Jagger. Sex Crimes are his thing, when he's not in the bathroom jacking off. The chick with the legs is, what the fuck, she's Twiggy today, and she's our profiler. A psychologist too, so watch what you say around her, boys, or you'll be on the couch."

"So," Acheson said. "We're keeping this on a bogus, first name basis. Cool."

"Yeah, well, these guys are from D.C., but they're not here, if you know what I mean."

"Ah. Quantum teleportation, is that it?" Acheson said.

"Whatever, slick," the SAC said sarcastically. "Anyway, where are you guys on this thing?"

"Ben, this is pretty much your show. Why don't you get these freaks up to speed?"

Acheson jumped a little, looked down, saw Delaney's shoe rubbing against his right ankle, then he looked up, caught a faint smile on her lips. He stood and went to the map on the wall, the new one with the vector drawn on it, then recounted events of the last week.

"So, you're the one that figured out the line linking the kill zones?" Gibbons said when Acheson finished. "How'd you come up with that?"

"I'm not really sure. I think I was looking up at a jet on final, landing at Love. I was over on Maybank, and I could see the tire store, well, some trees by the store is, and everything was lined up just right. From where I was to the tire store, and then there was the aircraft, right up above the store, and on the same line. Anyway, I just started looking along that vector..."

"Vector? You a math freak?"

"BS in Engineering, UT Austin, sir."

"No shit? Not exactly common for a traffic cop?"

"He's a pilot too, Red," The Duke added. "Air Force, American Airlines. Got dropped when the shit hit the fan back in '08."

"Okay," Gibbons nodded. "So, that's how you found the duffel?"

"Yessir. And that's when I started thinking more and more about the line. Anyway, that's what took me to Love Field, and that confirmed the theory."

"Interesting. And the shoe? You figured out the compass thing from that?"

"Yessir, and the shoe at the Theatre Center, that it pointed to Salazar, in the bushes."

"How long had Salazar's body been in there, Duke?"

"About two hours, plus or minus."

"So she knew you were out of town, when you'd get back to the station, and about how long it would take you to figure out the next kill zone."

"Yessir, and I'd say her note mentioning Denver proves that."

"Why didn't you guys set a trap for her there?" Delaney asked.

"I fucked up," Acheson said.

"We fucked up," The Duke added. "My fault. Shoulda seen that one coming."

"She wouldn't have shown if you had," Delaney said.

"I know," The Duke said, "and Acheson told me that too, at the time."

"Solid work, Acheson," Gibbon said. "Why don't you take a seat. We'll fill y'all in with what we found, then we'd better hit the street, see if we can round up a few of these fuckers."

Acheson returned to his seat, Delaney leaned over again and whispered in his ear: "You have a cute ass, too."

He turned beet red. Again.

Her shoe was on his ankle a second later, and she poured it on now: "I wore these today, just for you."

He sat back, pushed his chair away from her, then she winked at him.

"Hey, Ben," Gibbons said, smiling, "don't let her fuck with your head too much, okay? She's a pro, but I think she's having way too much fun today."

Delaney sat back in her chair, a mock pout on her face, her lower lip leading the way. "You're no fun, Red, you know that?"

"Yeah, well, deal with it, Delaney," Gibbons smirked as he began handing out papers, "Anyway, these are the addresses associated with the IPs and links you gave us this morning. Most are known sex offenders, a few are registered, all have been confirmed as using the cloud storage box Feldman was using, and it show activity from these guys, and all within the past 48 hours. I say we break up into two man teams and hit them right now."

"Warrants?" Acheson asked.

"No time, exigent circumstances."

The Duke nodded. "Agree." He looked at the printout in his hand, then around the room, and called out assignments. "Ben, why don't you take Miss Twiggy there and hit the guy at 4408 McKinney."

'Swell,' Acheson groaned as he looked over at her – again.

"Oh, this is gonna be fun," Delaney said – before she rubbed his ankle again.

They left the station and were making their way over to Central Expressway when she started in on him.

"So, you a leg freak?"

"Excuse me?"

"You were practically drooling over my legs when..."

"I was looking at your shoes. They look like a match..."

"But the color's off, don't you think, Darling?" Delaney said in a patently sultry voice.

"Are you for real?"

"Oh, alright. I'll be good. So, you have a girlfriend?"

"Jesus H Christ! Would you like me to pull over right here? Fuck you now, so we can get it over with?"

She laughed. "Not a bad idea, Ace, worth thinking about anyway, but maybe we ought to check out the place on McKinney first?"

"And yes, I have a girlfriend."

"Really?"

"Well, sort of."

"Uh huh."

"But your legs aren't bad," he said, smiling.

"You oughta smell these things..."

"What?"

"The shoes! The leather! Spanish...and, well, it's just kinky as Hell."

"So, are we kinky?"

"Play your cards right Ace, and you might find out."

"Uh-huh, So, I take it, you just got them?"

"The shoes? FedEx, this morning. Hit the web, called the owner, ordered 'em after I read your report. You know, for follow up, evidence, that kinda thing."

"Wow."

"So? You think they're sexy?"

"If you want to get there in one piece, you'll knock it off, right now."

She laughed again. "Never had anything quite like 'em. Ever since I put 'em on this morning it's been nonstop stares. Kinda cool."

"If you dig giving men woodies, yeah, I guess that's kinda cool."

"Oh? You feeling a little stiff?" she said as she started to go for his ankle again.

"Stop it!" Acheson said as he pulled onto Central.

"Traffic's not too bad," she said, suddenly all business. "Better take Henderson."

"I know..."

"Of course you do, darling. I'm so sorry."

"You just don't let up, do you?" he said as he rolled his eyes. He exited on Henderson, turned across the highway, then south on the frontage road.

"Looks like Oliver is the best cross street – and park just after you make the turn."

He turned, pulled to a stop and parked the car, then checked out on the radio.

"Is it an apartment?" he asked.

"Yeah, back right corner, looks like," she said, glancing at her iPhone. She looked up, then around the area, before pointing – "Right over there."

"Okay, let's do it," he said.

"Glad you're not in uniform," she said. "What are you carrying?"

"Sig, 226."

"Great, me too. Got extra clips in my coat pocket if you need 'em."

"Yup, got three in mine."

"Cool."

They walked to the alley behind the building, stopped at the tall iron fence that surrounded the parking area in the rear; Acheson hopped over, then drew his pistol and went into a low combat stance. When he heard Delaney behind him he moved toward the building, a maroon brick two story affair that looked vaguely like Frank Lloyd Wright had inspired the design.

"Which unit?" he whispered.

"That one," she pointed, then they ran for the door.

"Fuck!" they whispered – in unison. The door was ajar, there was blood on the sill and on the floor just inside the door, and Delaney bent down, touched it, rubbed it between her fingers.

"Still warm," she whispered.

Acheson kicked the door gently, stuck the Sig, then his head inside the doorway.

"Stairs right here, covered in blood, looks like someone was just pulled down."

"You lead," Delaney said, and Acheson slipped inside, began heading up the stairs – with his 9mm in the lead. There was a living room at the top of the stairs, a dining room to his left in the far corner. The kitchen was to his left, and he guessed the bedroom and bath would be behind and to his left. He led off to the kitchen and walked through it, then headed back toward the bedroom...

"Oh, shit," Acheson said as Delaney came up behind him.

"Oh, bloody fucking..." She bent over, retched once, then vomited.

The little bedroom was almost completely bathed in blood, there were splatters on the ceiling, huge sprays on the walls, but worst of all was the bed. There was a kid tied to the bedposts, spread-eagled, obviously dead and floating in a pool of blood, and what appeared to have been a fairly sophisticated video recorder on a tripod lay by the foot of the bed. Acheson looked at the rig, guessed it had been set-up at the foot of the bed, but now lay in pieces on the carpet. The CF card was gone, the battery too, so everything on it was wiped.

"You better call Gibbons; I'll go get the car, get dispatch on..."

"Okay..." Delaney groaned.

"You alright?" Acheson looked at Delaney. She seemed pale, more than upset.

"No. No, I'm not."

"I know. Sometimes it helps if you barf, sometimes it doesn't."

"So I've heard."

They laughed.

"Yeah, I must be famous by now. Well, I'll be right back."

"I'm going with you," she said.

He turned, looked at her. "What is it?"

"Something, I don't know, monstrous. Evil. It's everywhere, and it's close, too," she said, shivering, then she looked at the bed again. "Poor fucking kid. Never had a chance in this world, did he?"

"Don't think about that right now. Think about the evidence, the scene."

"You're right. Sorry."

"Okay, let's get downstairs. You stand outside the front door; we have to secure the scene."

She nodded her head, seemed unsteady. "Yeah."

"Give me your hand," he said when he got her to the top of the stairs. "You look kind of shaky."

He led her down the stairs, noticed she was still shivering when he got her out under the mid-summer sun. "Can you call Gibbons?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, I'll be right back." Acheson ran to the iron fence and jumped it, then ran over to the car and got on the radio.

"741 to 700," he called, using his temporary and The Duke's call numbers.

"Go ahead, 41."

"We have multiple Signal 1s at this location."

"You aren't the only one, 41. Does it look fresh?"

"10/4, sir, maybe an hour, maybe less."

"700, get back-up headed to 741s location, Code 3!"

"700, at 1418 hours."

Acheson grabbed his hand unit, cursed himself for forgetting it, then jumped out of the car and drew his weapon just in time to hear Delaney scream, followed by rapid bursts of gunfire.

Then... silence.

"741, shots fired this location!"

"741 at 1419 hours."

He ran for the fence, jumped it, sprinted across the parking lot and found Delaney breathing heavily, blood all over her blouse and jacket and a defensive knife wound on her left forearm.

"That way," she said, pointing towards McKinney Avenue. "Black one piece suit, hood, about a fifteen inch blade," she said, gasping. "Black hair maybe," she said airily as she slumped to the ground.

"741, Signal 33, officer down behind 4408, am in foot pursuit of suspect at this time!" he yelled into the hand unit.

"741 at 1420 hours."

He heard sirens everywhere as he ran between buildings and out onto the grassy lawn in front of the apartment building. He shuddered to a stop, turned and looked both ways down McKinney.

Nothing.

"What the Fuck!"

He heard a car peeling out behind 4408 and ran back between the buildings for the alley, ran right past Delaney and hopped the iron fence again, then stopped in the alley.

Nothing.

"741, lost contact, heard a car leaving the area at high speed, going back to down officer."

"741 at 1421 hours, paramedics advise ETA less than two minutes."