Divine Justice Page 8

  "Yeah, baby!" a woman yelled.

  Even in her half-conscious state, Natassia grinned. When she opened her eyes, she saw Jasi standing beside her, a worried expression on her face.

  "It's been twelve minutes," Jasi said.

  "I'm fine."

  "Your pulse was slowing."

  Natassia shrugged. "That happens sometimes."

  She realized Jasi wasn't going to leave it alone, so she said, "I'm really fine. You got me out. That's all that matters."

  Jasi's expression was dead serious. "I did exactly what you told me."

  Natassia chuckled. "I can't believe you fell for it."

  "For what?"

  Natassia couldn't hold back any longer. Her eyes watered and she burst into laughter. Jasi watched her, confusion filtering across her face.

  "Come on," she said. "I'll explain on the way back to the hotel. Then I'll tell you what I saw. Maybe you can make sense of it." She pushed open the door. "Shit."

  A crowd of five men backed away from the door. When they saw the two women, there was a mix of gasps and snorting laughter.

  "What's their problem?" Jasi whispered.

  "I'll tell you outside."

  Muffling a snicker, Natassia dragged her down the hall, praying that her partner had a sense of humor.

  "So, spill it," Jasi demanded once they reached the car.

  "Yeah, baby?"

  Jasi eyed her suspiciously. "That's not what brings you back. Is it?"

  "Nope."

  "The pinch?"

  "Yup."

  "So the 'yeah, baby' was…"

  "Just for kicks."

  Jasi's cheeks turned red. "Oh God. Those men in the hall. They'll think we…"

  Natassia winked. "Yeah, baby."

  "You aren't…uh…"

  "Gay?" Natassia shook her head. "No, I like men."

  Her partner seemed frazzled.

  "Well, now that we've got that out in the open," Jasi said, "let's focus on the man of the day. What did you see?"

  Natassia gave Jasi the details of her vision, then allowed her thoughts to dwell on another man. Benjamin Roberts. She'd read up on him during the flight from Quebec City. He fascinated her almost as much as Jasi did. But for different reasons.

  With Jasi, she felt a kinship born from their extreme abilities. Ben, on the other hand, was touted as one of the best CFBI profilers. His gift as a Psychometric Empath was understated, mainly due to the fact that his was an unreliable skill. He never knew if he'd get a vision or not. So he saved his energy and his visions for the most important witnesses. Or suspects.

  What would happen if he touched me?

  She pictured him. Tall, dark, serious.

  And very handsome.

  She wondered what he was doing.

  At that very moment, Ben was thinking about a certain CFBI agent. One with dark, messy hair and piercing blue eyes. He sat on the bed, three pillows bunched behind him as he read through Natassia Prushenko's file. Over the past four years, the woman had been credited with breaking sixteen major cases, some with live victims, some with corpses. A Level 1 who could read a victim was invaluable.

  A vision of Natassia's sultry eyes and shapely curves flashed through his mind. Was that what they were churning out in Russia now? Sexy female detectives?

  "Damn," he said softly.

  He was certain about one thing. Someone had slacked off on dress code regulations during her basic training. He'd have to talk to her about that. Lay down the law, show her who was in charge.

  Except he wasn't in charge. Jasi was.

  10

  Wednesday, April 18, 2012

  ~ Ottawa, ON

  While Jasi and their new partner went to interview some of Winkler's associates, Ben perused the files on his laptop. The police hadn't found any usable evidence outside of Winkler's body.

  He blinked a few times to moisten his dry eyes.

  If we don't get a break soon, this case will be shelved.

  His data-com beeped. "Matthew, what's up?"

  "Another politician is missing," Matthew replied grimly.

  "Shit." Switching to speaker mode, Ben clipped the 'com to his jacket pocket and brought up a new folder on his laptop. "Who is it?"

  "Porter Sampson."

  Ben labeled the folder. "The Minister of Finance?"

  "The one and only. His wife just reported him missing."

  "How long's he been gone?"

  There was a brief pause.

  "Since Monday night," Matthew said.

  Ben opened a document file and made some notes.

  "You think the two cases are connected, Matthew?"

  "It's too much of a coincidence not to think that."

  "Give me a quick overview."

  There was a rustle of paper before Matthew answered.

  "Lorraine Sampson said she went to bed Monday night, shortly after eleven. Porter was in his study going over some documents. That's the last time she saw him."

  "Anyone try calling him?"

  "Lorraine's been calling him nearly every hour. So have some of his associates on Parliament Hill. We've tried too, but he's not answering."

  "News has already leaked out about Winkler," Ben said. "Why did she wait so long?"

  "She called it in yesterday afternoon when she couldn't reach Porter at work or on his cell. Someone at OPS dropped the ball and told her she had to wait twenty-four hours. They didn't make the connection."

  "Jesus, you've gotta be kidding. He's the Minister of Finance, for crying out loud."

  "I know," Matthew said tiredly. "We put a trace on his cell phone, but it's probably been dismantled and disposed of already."

  "What about phone records?"

  "I have them in my hands as we speak. There are no unusual phone calls on his cell, nothing we could trace back or triangulate."

  "What about at home?"

  "That's where it gets interesting. There were numerous late night calls, all originating from the same phone number. One of the calls came in the night Sampson disappeared. But we won't get too far with that."

  "Let me guess. They came from a payphone."

  "You got it. The same payphone where Winkler's calls had originated from."

  "Did you get the phone records from his office there?"

  "We're still waiting for those."

  "So Monty Winkler gets a series of calls from a payphone, then disappears and ends up dead. Then Porter Sampson, the Minister of Finance, gets phone calls from the same payphone, then mysteriously disappears without a word to anyone, not even his wife."

  "I know you're thinking what I'm thinking, Ben."

  There's a serial killer loose in Ottawa.

  That's what Ben was thinking.

  "I hope we're both wrong, Matthew."

  He strode to the window, parted the hotel's plush drapes and stared down at the busy street below before glancing across to the mammoth Parliament buildings.

  Ben paced the room for a moment.

  "What the hell is going on, Matthew?"

  "Hell if I know. But one thing's for certain, we'd better find out soon. God knows what'll happen to Porter Sampson if we don't."

  "Someone has a hate-on for our esteemed lawmakers, and we don't have one solid lead."

  "Speaking of leads, that photograph Jasmine sent to Ops might help. The speedboat near the crime scene came back registered to someone high up on the political food chain."

  Ben perked up. "Really?"

  "Victor Cahill, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. See if he's connected to the case."

  "I suspect that if he is, this case won't remain quiet."

  "Not in the least," came Matthew's reply. "To change the subject, I take it Jasmine and your new partner are out following leads on the Winkler case."

  "Yeah. I'll fill them in when they get back."

  "How's Prushenko working out?"

  Ben straightened, his eyes wandering across the room. Should he tell Matthew about his misgivings, or just
suck it up?

  "Ben, you still there?"

  "Yeah. Prushenko will be fine. It's only temporary, right?"

  "Far as I know, she's here for this case only. She'll be sent back to Quebec when it's over."

  Ben let out a slow breath. The thought of Natassia Prushenko leaving once the case was closed made him feel relieved. She made him nervous.

  "I'll send you the files on Sampson," Matthew said.

  "After I visit his wife, I'll head over to Winkler's house. Did the X-Disc pick up anything at Winkler's scene?"

  "Not a thing. Makes me think that area wasn't the primary crime scene."

  Ben let that sink in for a moment.

  "Anything else?"

  "Let's just hope you get a vision."

  Matthew wasn't chastising him. But still…

  "I'll start cross-researching when I get back," Ben said, knowing that his psychometric skill wasn't nearly as developed or reliable as Jasi's gift. "There has to be a connection to these men outside of the phone calls."

  Matthew grunted. "Politics is an incestuous world."

  "Yeah, that's enough of a connection right there. But you're right. Someone has an obvious distaste for the lawmakers in this country. We'd better find Sampson before he ends up on a slab like Winkler."

  "There is one piece of good news, Ben. The RCMP found Monty Winkler's Mercedes."

  "Where?"

  "In the river, east of the city."

  "You think he was dumped in it?"

  "No. All the doors were closed and the trunk was locked. It's quarantined in the police impound lot. A trace team is on their way."

  Ben heaved a frustrated sigh. "I bet they won't find much. This perp has been too careful. Any trace would be washed away or contaminated, just like with Winkler. Which reminds me…has the pathologist released Winkler's body yet?"

  "She signed off on it this morning," Matthew replied. "Marilyn has arranged a funeral service the day after tomorrow. I want you all there. And be alert. They're expecting quite a crowd."

  "I take it you haven't found Porter Sampson's car?"

  "The RCMP is searching the river, near where we found Monty's car."

  Would Winkler's killer be stupid enough to use the same dumping grounds?

  "We've got this under wraps for now," Matthew said. "Try to keep it that way, Ben. The last thing we need is the media to get their claws into these cases. They'll make mincemeat out of the CFBI for not protecting these MPs."

  "I won't say a word."

  As Ben approached the driveway of 501 Linden Terrace, he let out a muffled curse.

  Someone's let the cat out of the bag.

  Porter Sampson's driveway was buzzing with activity. The paparazzi had caught the scent of a story, and like a pack of mangy wolves, they weren't about to let go of their prey.

  "Shit, shit, shit," he muttered.

  He lowered the window and flashed his badge at a couple of burly police detectives. They quickly pushed back the crowd, allowing him through. Stepping out of the SUV, he gritted his teeth in frustration.

  "Okay, people! There's nothing to see here!"

  That didn't stop the rapid flashing of cameras in the slimy palms of trigger-happy photographers. A dozen questions were fired at him, shot from the mouths of news-hungry reporters.

  "What exactly is the nature of your business here?"

  "Are you a friend of the deceased?"

  "Do you know Mrs. Sampson intimately?"

  Ben smoothed his Armani jacket, suddenly wishing he'd changed into something less ostentatious. He set his mouth in a firm line and moved with purpose toward the front porch.

  An Ebonic woman opened the door before he had time to knock. She resembled a slightly older, rounder version of Oprah Winfrey. Not that he ever watched the TV icon's show or anything.

  "Are you the CFBI agent?" she asked timidly.

  "Yes, I am, ma'am. Agent Benjamin Roberts. You're Lorraine Sampson, I presume?"

  "Come inside, please" she said. "Before those vultures have you on the front page of the Ottawa Sun."

  He stepped inside the L-shaped bungalow. The sweet scent of baking wafted toward him. His stomach grumbled as Lorraine led him into the living room.

  "I bake when I'm stressed," she said in a quiet voice.

  He didn't even try to smile. "I eat."

  Lorraine's eyes watered and her hands shook as she motioned for him to sit. "Are you here to give me bad news?"

  "We have no news yet."

  "No news is good news, I guess."

  A soft ding came from the kitchen.

  "Cookies are ready," she said, standing slowly. "I'll be right back."

  A moment later he heard quiet sobs coming from the kitchen. This was always the hardest part of his job. Dealing with secondary victims of crime, the survivors. The ones who had to somehow learn to cope with their grief and move on with their lives.

  Padded footsteps announced Lorraine Sampson's return.

  "Here we go." She gave him a brave smile, but her swollen eyes betrayed her. She placed a plate of warm brownies―their edges slightly burnt―on the table. Then she handed him a mug of coffee. "I added some cream," she said apologetically. "I'm sorry I forgot to ask you. That's how Porter takes it. I could get you a fresh cup if―"

  He took a sip. "It's just the way I like it."

  The little white lie wouldn't hurt anyone.

  "Don't you want to take your gloves off?" she asked.

  "Cold hands," he replied.

  Lorraine nodded. "Warm heart."

  She settled into a colonial style armchair and slid her hands down the carved oak armrests, as if it were her only connection to the real world.

  "Porter carved this chair himself," she murmured, staring off into space. "It was his gift to me on our last anniversary. We've been married forty-five years."

  "You must have been kids when you married."

  "We were high school sweethearts, Porter and I. He was on the track team, a long distance runner. I was just clumsy. The first time I met him I tripped and he caught me." She chuckled. "He always says I fell for him, literally."

  Ben leaned forward. "I have some questions for you, Mrs. Sampson. I know the police probably asked you the same things, but people often remember more when some time has passed."

  Lorraine clasped her plump hands in her lap and waited expectantly while he activated the voice recorder on his data-com. He set the device in the center of the coffee table.

  "Interview with Lorraine Sampson, wife of Porter Sampson, politician. Mrs. Sampson, can you tell me when you last saw your husband?"

  "Two nights ago."

  "And where was he?"

  "Porter was in his study, like he usually is after supper."

  "What was he doing?"

  "Going over the federal government's budget. He's always bringing work home with him."

  "Do you have any idea what was in those files?"

  Lorraine shook her head. "I'm not much into politics, to be truthful. Never did understand it all. Porter usually keeps to himself about these things. All I can say is that I always see him with files in his hands. Beige ones, blue ones, red ones. Sometimes he gets real riled up reading them."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, the other night I heard him muttering and cursing away. When I walked in, he was cramming a folder into the wall safe."

  "Was this the same night? The last time you saw him?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you show me his study?"

  The woman stood reluctantly. "It's at the far end of the house. Porter likes his privacy. I'm not sure I should―"

  "I need to see it, Mrs. Sampson." he said gently. "I might notice something that'll help us find your husband."

  Lorraine sighed heavily. "Of course. It's right this way."

  The bungalow was an older style, brick fireplace, two bedrooms. Someone, probably Sampson, had added on an attachment that stretched into the backyard. It made up the lower part of the L-
shape. Two French doors led into a spacious study.

  When Ben stepped inside, the first thing he thought was that the room screamed expensive and powerful. The walls were painted forest green. Every piece of furniture was mahogany, polished to a gleaming shine.

  He inhaled deeply. The room even smelled rich.

  "Obsession," Lorraine said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "What you're smelling. Obsession Cologne for men. You could say Porter is a bit obsessed with it." A small smile struggled to the surface. "I always tease him, tell him he smells like he bathed in it. He spends most of his time in this office."

  "It speaks a lot to his personality, this room. Organized, proud of his success and of his family." He indicated the family photographs on the wall. They'd been taken in various locations, mostly holidays from their carefree, relaxed expressions.

  When Lorraine spoke, her voice was tinged with something primal. Fear. "It's hard not to wonder if I'll never see him in here again." She choked back a sob. "I can't imagine where he is, Agent Roberts. He's never disappeared like this before. Do you think he's been kidnapped?"

  "Let's not borrow trouble," he said. "There could be a logical explanation for his disappearance." Although I don't know what that could be.

  Lorraine tried to smile. "You're right. I should be patient."

  He wandered into the middle of Porter Sampson's office and carefully surveyed the room. A mammoth executive desk was paired with a high-backed leather chair. Items on the desk were carefully lined up, everything in its place.

  A CD player sat on a shelf behind the chair, the remote control centered in front of it and a handful of assorted CDs stacked to the left. Ben glanced at the top CD. Looked like one of those new age albums―probably his wife's.

  To the left of the shelf were a small office fridge and a humidor. He was tempted to explore the latter. It had been years since he'd savored an expensive cigar. Or even smelled one.

  Solid mahogany bookshelves lined two walls. On one shelf was a collection of framed photographs. One in particular caught Ben's eye. A photo of Porter Sampson and two younger men in their twenties dressed in army fatigues.

  "Denzel and Terrence," Lorraine said proudly. "Our sons. They're on tour in Afghanistan."

  "Twins?" Ben asked.