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"There's no rush. We'll find them for you before you go, I promise" he said. "Anyway remember, last night was about excitement and whatever for you...".
It had been about drowning her sorrows and meaningless sex but Arlene wasn't looking to correct him.
"...And Billy let the team down. Well, I figured 'let's make this morning really memorable for her...'."
"You did, it was amazing, thanks so much," Arlene said cutting across him, hoping he wasn't going where she thought he was going.
"...So, I invited my Pops over. He only lives a block away. I figured, Son, Father and now Grandfather. That's got to be 24hrs you'll never forget."
Arlene shook her head, vehemently. She didn't even have a bed sheet this time but God, no, this was too much.
"You sure? Pops went and took a special blue pill and everything," Sam said, wheedling at Arlene.
"Wasted on your mother, hell she only goes down on her knees in church these days" Zeke muttered grumpily.
"Look I don't know what... fantasy I guess, you have cooked up in your minds but I need to go. I'm a deputy Sheriff, I'm due back on duty soon so yeah, keeping me here, that's obstructing an officer of the law in pursuit of their duty. Keeping me from leaving by hiding my clothes, that's false imprisonment. So, games over, fun time over. Give me my clothes." Arlene paused for breath, waiting to see what affect her speech had.
Sam looked at Zeke who nodded thoughtfully before looking at Arlene.
"Well missy," Zeke began, "I was a lawyer and it's only false imprisonment and whatever else you said, if... if you don't want to be here." He glanced over at his son, Arlene's eyes following suit, to see that Sam's foot long black cock was back on display. By the time Arlene had dragged her eyes from it, Zeke had pulled his own cock out. It was having a harder time rising to the occasion than his son's but already Arlene could see the possibility in it that it would match Sam's for length, overtake it in girth.
"Shit," Arlene muttered. If Sam was in his fifties, that meant Zeke was in his seventies. Did she need him having a cardiac arrest while banging her on her conscience?
"Shit!" Arlene repeated, the fact she was even worrying about Zeke's physical capacity meant she was, on some level, already accepting this as a reality.
"Shit, Shit, fucking shit!" she said, watching the smug smiles of Zeke and Sam as they started undressing.
<0>
Erica stood in line, waiting her turn at the soup kitchen. She moved between three different places, not wanting to become a fixture at any one spot. This was to cover some ground along with trying to keep variety in her schedule in case someone took the wrong kind of interest in her.
The smell of chicken soup had her mouth watering and the incessant growling of her stomach acted as an audible reminder that she hadn't managed to get a breakfast that day. She shuffled forward as the line moved, watching as fresh urns of steaming soup replaced the empty ones before the servers. Hopefully she would get served before they ran out of portions. To keep the hunger at bay, Erica let her mind wander, reminiscing how she came to be here.
A month before, Erica, with Trent and Lincoln shadowing her, walked into a Brooklyn bar and grill. It was almost three in the afternoon so the number of free tables reflected the fact that they had arrived in between the lunch and dinner rush.
She had travelled to NYC after Destry's funeral, only leaving when it was clear that Elvin wasn't about to be brought to justice anytime soon. Erica had felt Arlene would have been better suited to this, the fieldwork aspect of the investigation, and was surprised when instead the Deputy sheriff had demurred at the role choosing instead to remain behind to work on the paper trails instead.
Erica had been gone a while and she knew her actions had left her friends shaken and stressed, Arlene had been like an older sister and mentor to her since the early days of this journey and the closeness they had once enjoyed was gone now. Maybe not gone but certainly put on hold, the older woman carrying some strain within her, a burden, one that she was seemingly unwilling to share with Erica right now. This burden was a block on them renewing the open and supportive nature of their relationship and, ironically given Erica's absence, some time and distance might actually help bring them closer again.
So instead of Arlene, it was Erica who would go to New York to follow up on The Hockey Fan serial killer, the man who had arranged Arlene's kidnapping and another strand in the web of serial killers they were facing.
At first, they had hoped old police contacts of Lincoln's would help them put a name to the face and fingerprints they possessed but they hadn't much luck and had been forced to pause their efforts when Destry had died. Now they were back and with a new lead courtesy of Victor.
Erica's childhood friend, college companion and newly minted FBI agent had been even more awkward with her than Arlene had. True enough the last words between them had been bitter and harsh but he was still one of her oldest, if not the oldest, friend she had in the world.
The stumbling, halting apology he tried to deliver on seeing her back safely had been cut off quickly. She knew that he had a big enough heart to feel shame for the way he'd doubted her and the fact that he had come to help look for her and was staying to help see the nest of killers they had uncovered be brought to justice... well what more could she ask for? She'd simply leant in to kiss him on the cheek, ruffled fingers across his tight haircut before grinning at him. 'Late as usual G-Man' Erica had simply said and that was it, everything put to rights, at least for her.
For Victor it apparently would take some time as well to adjust. When he'd met her last, she'd been a young woman seeking a break into journalism. Now she was still every bit the investigative reporter but that was complemented by her role as vigilante and seeker of justice. It was a lot for the young man to assimilate.
All that said, he had come up with a contact in New York city that might be of help. One of his instructors at Quantico was also based out of the New York office and Victor felt he might be amenable to helping them unofficially, with Victor's introduction to break the ice. Apparently before joining the bureau, this agent had spent ten years working as a cop in Boston and he wasn't as enamoured with the bureaucracy of the Federal agency as some of his comrades.
That's what had brought Erica, Trent and Lincoln to this eatery, to meet up with Victor's contact.
"I sent Smurf all the information you guys put together," Victor had explained. "If he wants to meet, he has to have a good lead. He wouldn't drag you there for a dead end."
"Smurf?" Erica had asked.
"Term of endearment," Victor had answered cryptically.
Now Erica found herself scanning the occupied tables in the dining area of the Bar and Grill trying to figure out which patron was this 'Smurf'. She didn't think he'd be a half foot tall and blue skinned so really the name didn't offer her any clue at all. Her eyes slid over the first few tables before a motion from the back of the room, an arm beckoning to her, drew her attention. With the two black men in tow, Erica threaded her way through the tables till she reached a booth at the back. There was just one occupant, a man in his late forties, who rose to his feet at their approach and extended his hand to greet them all with an open and friendly handshake.
"Sam Murphy, and it's Erica, Trent and Lincoln... I get that right?"
Lincoln nodded, he and Trent sliding into one side of the booth, Erica moving in to the other alongside Sam.
"Sam Murphy. S.Murphy... Smurph... Smurf. Okay, I get it now," Erica laughed at the cross expression that flitted across the mans face. Sam Murphy had what could only be described as a weathered, open and honest face. The kind of face that people trusted on sight and women fell in love with if they had an ounce of sense. When he'd uncurled himself from the booth to greet them, that same face had floated nearly a foot above Erica's own head, the FBI agent easily 6 feet four. The grip he'd used as he'd shook their hands was firm and Erica knew that this was a man who preferred life as a street cop, not one that sat behind a desk.
"Yeah, I never get tired of that one," he said with a wry twist to his lips. "One smart ass in the academy last year tried changing it to Papa Smurf. Some hands-on demonstrations in the ring regarding self-defence knocked that idea out of the kid's head."
The three of them chuckled appreciatively, before all four then turned to regard the waitress who had appeared at their side. Drinks ordered and delivered and some banal conversation regarding each of their backgrounds as a way of breaking the ice was how the next ten minutes passed.
Eventually Sam reached under the table and produced an inch thick manilla folder, the contents of which he began distributing for them all to see.
"This is your handy work I believe," he said passing out a copy of the photograph that Trent had managed to get of the illusive killer that Arlene had dubbed 'The Hockey Fan'. Trent nodded, spinning the picture back across the table to Sam.
"Fingerprints were a match to some low-level burglaries about twenty years ago, nothing on the system aside from that," Sam continued, the others nodding, this was old news that they were very familiar with.
"I took the picture down to some bars I happen to visit from time to time. Owned by retired cops and mostly frequented by the same ilk. I figured if no one you guys had reached out to knew this guy, it might be he hadn't been active in a while. Anyway, a retired detective gave me a lead which panned out."
Sam pushed a number of photos across, all black and white, the subjects blurred and grainy in some of the images. Surveillance pictures if Erica had to guess. In all of them they could see a younger version of The Hockey Fan, a diminutive figure beside a hulking African American male.
"Lady and Gentlemen, I give you Adin Hodzic. Bosnian parents, moved here back in the eighties. The charming guy beside him is Lawrence Jackson. Larry was what you might call an entrepreneur in the early noughties. Drugs, guns, fencing, money lending. Naughty boy. Arrested a number of times but never charged."
"Well if this guy was so well known to the cops, how come Adin... whatever his name is, how come he didn't flag?" Trent was peering intently at the images. Erica had heard from Lincoln that Trent had regretted not putting a bullet in The Hockey Fan when he'd had a chance, that regret only growing as their investigation had stalled.
Sam leaned back and steepled his fingers. Erica noted how large his hands were and she had to force her gaze back onto the surveillance pictures to stop herself staring at the impressive older man. He had an uncomplicated air about him, attractive given the complications she had been through lately. Plus, the craggy features, ice blue eyes and dark hair peppered with grey stirred feelings within her. 'Down girl,' she chided herself, waiting to hear what Sam had to say.
"Good question. Lawrence was the boss and seems that Adin here was his right-hand man. Bit of a fixer, brains not brawn. Smart enough to keep Lawrence out of jail and himself out of the limelight. Still according to my source and what I pulled up on Mr Jackson, the NYPD were building a decent case against Jackson and his organisation when everything went to shit."
"How do you mean?" Lincoln leaned forward; the bounty hunter peeved yet impressed that Sam had put a name to the serial killer when everyone else had failed to.
"Went to shit with a bang," Sam replied, sipping at his drink before elaborating. "Car bomb, three dead. Jackson, Adin Hodzic and a driver named..." he paused as he checked a note in the file. "Driver was called Caesar Martinez. Enough of him survived for a facial identification. The other two bodies were identified by dental records."
"Wait, wait. When did this happen? Adin, this guy," Erica stabbed at the image of The Hockey Fan, "he was alive a few months ago."
"Car blew up eleven years gone," Sam said, sipping once more as he let his words sink in.
"So, they faked it." Lincoln said leaning back in the seat of the booth, his voice clear and confident.
"That would be my reading of it," Sam agreed. "Can't see Adin doing this alone. The department was closing in, Jackson wanted to get clear of the investigation. Nobody looks for a dead man. Adin handled it. Yeah, I'd say they were both in on it."
"Okay, so we have a name. But if he faked his death over a decade ago, there is no way this Adin guy is using his real name now. So how does any of this help us?" Erica had been buoyed up by Sam's findings but she felt her hopes wilting now at the prospect of another dead end.
"He helps us," Sam said tapping Lawrence Jackson's scowling image.
Chapter Three: "Illusion is the first of all pleasures - Voltaire"
"How? He's not likely to be using his real name either," Erica was in no way enlightened by Sam's response however his confidence was giving her some flicker of hope.
"Here's something I learned about people from this city. They tend not to stray far. They might move a bit upstate or out to the suburbs but for all intents and purposes, New Yorkers remain New Yorkers their whole lives." The FBI agent turned his smile to each of them in turn, only Erica responding to it.
"Come on man, get to the point," Lincoln said, Sam's grandstanding wearing thin on him.
"Point is, if Adin is alive then so is Jackson. If Jackson is alive, he is probably in or near this city. If he is, well this particular piece of lowlife scum had a few habits that might help you track him down. Good enough?"
"What habits?" Erica asked quickly, seeing Lincoln bristle at Sam's words.
"Oh, right. Yeah. Aside from peddling drugs, guns and general misery, Jackson here saw himself as a bit of an artist. Specifically porn flicks. He made a lot of amateur, low budget ones. Seems he liked to find his 'stars' from among the less fortunate in the city, the homeless, poor, junkies... you get the picture. He would make the 'movies' to order." Sam rolled his eyes as he said 'movies', "Lets say a guy contacts him, says he wants a certain looking girl doing a certain something with a certain someone, well Jackson lines it up, shoots it and delivers. It wasn't the most lucrative of his enterprises but from what I'm told it was the one he enjoyed the most. If he's around, that's the game he'll still be playing."
"I got you, you're thinking, reach out to the source of his stars as you say it, see what whispers come back?" Lincoln ventured.
"Essentially... yeah," Sam said putting the material back into the folder. Trent exchanged a look with Lincoln before speaking, "That's not gonna be easy. I know a few people in that situation. Aside from mindin' their own business, they either aint talkative or they aint reliable, 'specially to outsiders."
"All true," Sam spread his hands. "Look, I did what I could, as a favour. I don't know exactly what's going on and nobody seems to be in a hurry to tell me. What can I say, it's thin, but it's the best lead you're likely to get. The only lead."
"Wait. You said to outsiders," Erica said to Trent, "They don't talk to outsiders. What about someone who isn't an outsider, someone living the same life they are?"
<O>
Drinks gave way to dinner, the four of them discussing their options over steaks and fries.
"I don't like it," Lincoln said, pushing his now empty plate to one side. "Look, I get why you want this guy so bad, we all do." As he spoke, he stared unflinchingly at Erica who didn't meet his gaze, instead she chased the last few peas on her plate, spearing them one by one onto the prongs of her fork.
"I can't stick around much longer and definitely not for the weeks it's gonna take for you to build a rapport that will let you get any useful information. Even if I could stick about, this shit's dangerous and I don't like the fact that you aint acting even a little bit afraid." Lincoln finished off by rapping his knuckles on the table top. Erica stopped playing with her food for a moment to meet his gaze.
"I'm too angry to be afraid," she answered simply before continuing her decimation of her remaining greens.
"My two cents, I have to agree with Lincoln here" Sam spoke. He leaned back in the booth, angling into the corner so that he could look at all three of them without moving his head. "I've been undercover, I've run undercover op's and let me say, it isn't something you do on a whim. You will be alone, limited back up, no training and, please don't take this the wrong way, you are way too good looking and soft in appearance. On the streets, living among people with no hope and limited choices, you are likely gonna end up hurt." Sam watched Erica's hand that held the fork, his eyebrow twitched upwards in surprise as he detected no visible tremble in it, no outer sign of fear. "No offence but are you honestly sure you want to do this?"
Erica turned in her seat to face the tall FBI agent. Her journey had begun when she had sat down in a café to talk with another agent, her friend Victor, but she had come a long way since then. She was stronger in mind and body than the naïve journalist wannabee who had first stumbled on this nest of killers.
"My father used to say that life is a series of choices, the most common one being 'am I able to live with something'? I can't live with this man walking free. I need to find him and this is looking like our best bet. So yes, I'm sure."
"Fine, then let me break it down for you, as a professional. You gotta live it 24-7. No sneaking off to motels for a hot shower and a good night's sleep."
"I know," Erica replied.
"You will need a drop point, several actually, a rotation agreed in advance so as not to arouse suspicion. Somewhere you can drop off messages, collect the same, get supplies as needed. I'd suggest public restrooms, tape what's needed behind the back of the toilet."
"Makes sense," she commented, clearly listening now as she had stopped playing with what remained of her food.
Sam rubbed at his eyes and checked his watch. "I can't stay, already missed an appointment. Most important thing, you need back up, someone to keep you supplied, someone to be able to come running if the shit hits the fan."
"She's got that," Trent spoke for the first time in a while, he looked directly at Erica then. "Ain't goin' nowhere till you are safe."
This seemed all he was willing to say on the subject, all he needed to say. The ex-soldier fished a toothpick out from the small jar of them on the table and turned his head away fractionally as he began shucking a piece of steak out from between his teeth.
"I'll circle back as and when I can" Lincoln added.
"Great. Here's my card, if you need help or advice, call me. You find yourself in a shitty situation, get to the nearest police precinct or cop on the street and have them call me." Sam got to his feet; Erica rose to let him out of the booth. He paused and squeezed her shoulder as he passed her by. "I get that this is important to you, maybe sometime you'll get around to explaining to me exactly why that is. Good luck, good hunting. I'll leave the three of you to your plans."
<O>
The line at the soup kitchen shuffled forward dragging Erica out of her reverie. She held out the plastic food tray for her portion, watching as the food slopped from ladle to tray. It smelt amazing to her famished senses.
And that was it, three days later Erica had gone undercover posing as a young woman from a broken home. Down on her luck, desperate and homeless. She had slowly, carefully developed a presence. The first ten days openly avoiding conversations and contact with others in her adopted situation. Then gradually allowing the ice to melt over another week. She acted the part of someone nervous and distrustful in their new surroundings, cautiously offering snippets of her fake life story, as one would, as she became a 'face' in the community.
