Love me darkly, p.5
Love Me Darkly, page 5
part #1 of Behind The Veil #1 Series
Donovan leaned down to accept a kiss on the cheek from the woman, whose brown skin was a few shades lighter than his and lined around the eyes and mouth.
“It’s been a while,” Aveline muttered. “You act like you don’t know me since getting promoted.”
Donovan leaned against one of the glass display cases and gave her a charming smile. “Don’t do me like that. You know I come around when I can.”
“Mm-hm,” she murmured, casting Mateo a glance. For the split second their eyes met, Mateo felt as if he’d been turned inside out. One of her eyes was a dark, velvety brown. The other was greenish hazel that burned into him an intensity that made him want to look away. With a flick of her lashes, she dismissed him, but he couldn’t help but feel as if the woman had read everything about him in a single glance. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Garcia, a supervisory agent from D.C. We came across something on a case, and I thought you might be able to help. Are you familiar with these symbols?”
He slipped the coin from his pocket, still in the plastic bag, and laid it on the glass. Aveline produced a pair of glasses from around her neck and slipped them on before picking up the coin and holding it up in the light. Mateo held his breath, despite the intrusion of logic telling him this was a long shot. He had never worked a single case where this demonic bullshit turned out to mean anything. But Donovan had been right; they had nothing to lose.
“Come with me,” Aveline mumbled.
Without waiting for them to respond, she went for the staircase with a whirl of her skirt. Exchanging a look with Mateo, Donovan shrugged but then followed after her. Mateo trailed them up the stairs, which led to an apartment above the shop. The colorful patterns of curtains and throw rugs surrounded them as Aveline guided them past a few closed doorways and into the living room. An open door displayed a kitchen beyond, and the smell of something cooking made Mateo’s mouth water.
Light flooded the space when Aveline flipped a switch, illuminating the bright yellow, red, and orange tones of her décor. In one corner of the room, a setup that could only be called an altar occupied a considerable amount of space. The multi-tiered table was draped in black cloth and adorned with candles covered with images of saints. Between them, he found a hodgepodge of framed photos draped in garlands of flowers and rosaries, small canvases etched with strange chalk markings, a mirror, various charms, and bundles of herbs. On the wall over it all hung a Haitian flag.
Aveline approached them from the bookshelf, a leatherbound volume in her hands.
“It’s an obscure symbol, but one I have encountered before,” she declared, opening the book and flipping through its pages. “If I could just find … ah, here it is. This, Agent, is the Seal of Azrael.”
Mateo’s hands shook as he accepted the book from her. Donovan peered over his shoulder and studied the drawing on the page. Two triangles made up a pentagram, which was nestled in the curve of a half-moon crescent. A circle surrounded it, with straight notches carved through it at geometrically balanced points. It was an exact match for what was etched onto the silver coin. Something within Mateo vibrated, thrumming through his bloodstream and sending his pulse racing.
“Never heard of it,” Donovan murmured.
“Few have,” said Aveline. “The worshippers of Azrael are an obscure group, headed mostly by elites. They call themselves The Veil. The symbol is made up of various elements, all of which are significant. The triangles making up the pentagram represent the trinity of death, sacrifice, and rebirth. The crescent is the arc of judgment. The circle embodies the eternal cycle of life and death, and the notches are geometrical points for ritual orientation.”
She reached out and turned the page, revealing a passage and a printed painting of an angel. A sinister angel wearing a hooded robe and holding the staff of a scythe. He was surrounded by bright, white light, with several pairs of wings stretching out behind him.
Mateo read the description from the opposite page out loud:
“Before flesh, there was Shadow. Before voice, there was Breath. And before Death bore its name, there was Azrael, He Who Stands Upon the Threshold. He is not the end, but the Divider—the Keeper of the Threshold, who severs the thread between falsehood and flame. To walk the Path is to offer the self in fragments. To drink the Silence is to awaken.”
“Sounds like a bunch of bullshit,” Donovan snorted. “What does that even mean?”
Aveline snatched the book and glared at Donovan. “This is no laughing matter. The Veil might be a small order, but they are a dangerous one. In some religions, Azrael is known as the angel of death. He is said to possess a register of all the souls of mankind, and only he knows which of them are blessed or damned.”
Mateo crossed his arms over his chest, his mind racing a mile a minute as he tried to put this information together with what he knew about the crime scenes and the UNSUB. “So, this cult worships the angel of death, but the sigil indicates that life and eternal judgment are factors as well.”
“The judgment part makes sense if we consider our victims,” Donovan offered. “Every one of them was high risk, with past arrests for prostitution. All except one.”
Mateo winced, ignoring the other man’s gaze. He hadn’t had time to discuss the particulars of Mari’s case with Donovan and didn’t relish doing so now. If Donovan had read the case files, then he would have known why the UNSUB had deviated from his victimology for one kill.
“Imperfect sacrifices,” Aveline said. “That is what Azrael requires, according to the doctrine of The Veil. Only through the spilling of blood and sacrifice can the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead be thinned. Only when the veil has been thinned can purification begin—purification of the world and enlightenment. When the veil is thinned, and the eyes of Azrael peer into the realm of the living, the greatest truth of all will be revealed.”
“What truth is that?”
Aveline shook her head. “That, I cannot tell you. The Book of Azrael is a fiercely guarded relic. There are only a limited number of prints in existence. As extensive as my collection is, I don’t have a copy of that particular text. From what I can gather, The Veil thinks their rituals will eventually result in the manifestation of Azrael in some way.”
“In the end, it doesn’t matter why,” Donovan said. “All we need to know is that this UNSUB is clearly involved with The Veil somehow. He could be an acolyte or even a leader.”
“Maybe he’s just a weirdo who stumbled on this Azrael shit online,” Mateo countered. Still, even if the UNSUB had picked this Azrael shit up by accident, it revealed something critical about him. He drew a sense of comfort—or, at the very least, a sense of purpose—from the ritual. It likely tied into a belief system centered around purification or divine judgment. Anyone compelled to kill under the influence of religious fanaticism would be far more dangerous than a killer without such convictions; they believed their actions to be righteous, which made them relentless and unrepentant.
A frown split Donovan’s brow. “That doesn’t make him any less dangerous. It only means he’s working alone. But, if the opposite is true…”
“Then this case is about more than just a single UNSUB. We need to get back to the office so we can discuss these developments with the team. I’m going to put Darcy to work finding information on The Veil. Until we can uncover surveillance footage from outside Solstice or identify our latest victim, there isn’t much else we can do.”
“Tread carefully,” Aveline warned. “The Veil is small but powerful. Their connections to elite circles ensure that they are protected from scrutiny. They will do what is necessary to guard their secrets.”
“We will,” Donovan assured her. “Thanks, Aveline. You might be responsible for helping us putting this case to bed.”
“In that case, I’ll expect a check in the mail from the FBI,” Aveline quipped, guiding them back to the staircase. “If I uncover anything else that might be useful, I’ll call you.”
“So, let me get this straight,” said Smith that afternoon over lunch. “Not only is this ritual killing shit for real, but the symbol on that coin might tie the UNSUB to some kind of cult?”
“Williams totally called it,” Jones reminded them, using a set of chopsticks to bite into an egg roll.
On the table in front of them three monitors displayed footage from a convenience store, a boutique, and a pizza place. All three sat in close proximity to Solstice and had cameras facing its exterior. They’d spent the afternoon going over the videos Jones and Smith had recovered from the few businesses that had been willing to surrender them without a court order. The footage went by on the monitors at twice the normal speed, each of them glued to the one in front of them. So far, they had found nothing out of the ordinary—just hours of deliveries and maintenance workers coming and going during the day and clubbers filing in and out at night. Still, Mateo wasn’t ready to give up. There was still a stack of tapes on the table between them.
“Yes, a gold star for Williams,” Mateo grumbled around a mouthful of fried rice.
“Thank you, sir,” Williams said with a half smile.
“So, what now?” Jones pressed. “Even if we find any useful information on the cult, we still have no way of knowing who the UNSUB might be. There’s no hard evidence tying anyone to the scenes.”
“We have the profile,” Mateo argued. “And we have Solstice. Williams, any word from Little Rock on the identity of their victim?”
“Nothing useful, sir. Twenty-one years old, lived in the area, and had a record for possession and solicitation. Same as the others.”
Donovan called for Mateo from the doorway to Darcy’s office. The urgency in his eyes had Mateo across the room in seconds.
“What happened?”
“Darcy got a hit on our New Orleans victim. The profile seemed typical at first, but then she found something.”
Mateo shouldered past him and into the dark room, glancing over Darcy’s shoulder at the monitors. Taking off her headphones, she swiveled one of the screens so he could see it better.
“Our victim is one, Kacey Mills. Twenty-four years old, three stints in court-ordered rehab, and four arrests for prostitution. But here’s where it gets interesting.”
She clicked her mouse a few times and pulled up a copy of a police report filed six months ago.
“On her last arrest, Kacey told the cops that she was being pimped out by some prick who calls himself Suede. Well, I did a little digging and turned this up.”
A few more mouse clicks, and Mateo was staring at a mugshot of a Black male who looked to be in his thirties. He glared into the camera, brows furrowed. A dark tattoo was etched across his throat—words Mateo couldn’t read.
“Meet Tariq Lavon Hayes, born in 1993. New Orleans native and resident troublemaker. Done a few stints for assault and battery, promoting prostitution, and—oh my God, ew—exposing himself to a minor. But get this … in her statement, Kacey claims to have been bought and sold out of a back room at guess what swanky nightclub?”
Mateo fought to remain stoic as the possibilities of what this all meant swirled through his mind. “Solstice. Any information yet on ownership?”
Darcy spun back to her screens, fingers moving over the keys. “Still working on that one, Boss. So far, all I can tell you is that Solstice is owned by an asset management firm called Valemont Holdings, LLC. Along with Solstice, the company owns multiple luxury real estate properties across the country. There’s also some money tied up in art and antiquities imports and a nonprofit organization—but the financials indicate that the monies raised are used to line the pockets of various political campaigns and city officials.”
“What about the owner of Valemont? Any info?”
Darcy snorted and tossed her pink and purple stained hair over one shoulder. “Yeah, the listed owner of the company and its assets are so obviously fake. The name on the paperwork is Jonathan Blake, but my inquiries into him turn up almost no digital footprint. It’s fishy as fuck. I’ll dig deeper to find the real owner, but that will take some time.”
Mateo dragged a hand through his hair. There were more pieces to this puzzle now than he’d had upon his arrival in New Orleans. He couldn’t quite see how they fit together, the space between them uneven and blurred.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Donovan said, bracing a hand on Darcy’s chair and peering at the screens over her shoulder. “How do the UNSUB, the cult, and the club connect? Or … do they connect at all?”
Mateo was already turning the question over in his mind. “If nothing else, the murdered women could be connected to the club. If Suede was using back rooms to sell girls, and the owner of the club is a shell corporation, we could be looking at organized crime here. Specifically, human trafficking.”
“Maybe the UNSUB’s connection to all of this is just a coincidence,” Darcy argued. “The guy has been all over the country. He happens to come to New Orleans and finds Kacey, and makes her his next kill. That she happened to be a victim of a trafficking ring running out of Solstice could be a coincidence.”
“It can only be a coincidence if the other victims turn out to have no connection to the trafficking ring.”
He strode back through the doorway and approached his team, who were finishing off their lunch while continuing to monitor the video feeds.
“Put a pin in this for now,” he said, lifting the box of their case files from another table and offering it to Smith. “I need the three of you to go back over everything we have on the victims except Mari. I specifically want information on their previous arrests and any statements given to law enforcement. Anything that might indicate that these women weren’t just streetwalkers. The finances and business structure of Solstice may indicate an involvement in human trafficking.”
Williams wrinkled her brow in disbelief. “The UNSUB is a trafficker? That doesn’t fit with the profile.”
Mateo wanted to be irritated with her for pointing that out, but as always, Williams was right. A criminal peddling human flesh was altogether a different animal than one who raped, mutilated, and murdered. The little insight from the crime scenes painted the picture of a narcissist too drunk on his own power and cleverness to work with others. Human trafficking took coordination and cooperation. The coordination, this UNSUB was surely good at. How else could he manage to kill in so many states without leaving a trace of concrete evidence? But, the cooperation bit. Had Mateo misjudged this UNSUB? Had he been too confident in his profile?
“You’re right, it doesn’t fit,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t follow this lead. If it reveals anything new about the victims or the UNSUB, it’s something. If nothing else, we have a fresh case for the organized crime division. If it turns out to be a dead end, we’ll hand it over.”
“What about the cult stuff?” Smith asked while passing out case files.
“Darcy is still gathering intel on that. Our source was right … The Veil is obscure. So obscure that almost nothing exists about it online. But, if there’s a connection, we’ll find it. Keep going through those case files and have Darcy dig into anything that requires closer inspection. Keep me updated.”
Mateo turned to leave, finding that the room had grown too stifling. The air inside was stale, pungent with the odors of old coffee, ink and paper, and leftover Chinese food. It wasn’t until he had stepped out into the sweltering humidity of the outdoors that he realized Donovan had followed him.
The man stood beside him on the front steps of the field office, having removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He slipped a pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on, the lenses reflecting the image of the cloudy sky.
“You good?” he asked.
Despite the sunglasses, Mateo could feel Donovan’s eyes on him. Their close scrutiny was even more unnerving behind the shades, with Mateo unable to determine what he might be thinking.
“Fine. Why?”
“You’ve been on this case a hell of a long time. From what I gathered from the files, the investigation had been at a standstill since…”
Mateo’s nostrils flared as Donovan winced, seeming to realize what he’d been about to say. “Since that motherfucker murdered my wife.”
“I was sorry to have to read her file. No one deserves to die that way.”
He wondered if Donovan had grown sick to his stomach at the sight of the pentagram carved into Mari’s belly—so deep that the fascia protecting her organs had been exposed. He wondered if the man had counted the fractures and breaks of Mariana’s bones—her wrists, her ribs, her fingers. Had he shed tears like Mateo had at the evidence that she had literally been broken to pieces while fighting for her life? Had he retched into the toilet until he felt as if he would heave up his spleen at the images of the bruises on her inner thighs, the violence of rape painted across her skin in a mingling of purple and black?
He still felt Donovan’s gaze burning into him but refused to acknowledge it. He respected Donovan, felt he might even come to like the man. He had spent some time reading the other agent’s personnel file and found himself highly impressed. A West Point graduate who had spent the first years of his career in military intelligence, Donovan had joined the bureau only four years ago. To date, he was the youngest agent to ever receive the FBI director’s Citation for Exceptional Service. He had proven to be so good at his job that he’d been hurtled to his position as a Special Agent years ahead of the typical timeline. His jacket was full of reports on extraordinary capabilities that made it difficult to forget the guy’s young age. A career like his was practically unheard of.
