Chapter 35

35

Chief Cox

Cox sat in his office, his finger hovering over the mouse, before reluctantly opening the email that’d been sent to his personal account. The sender’s name stuck out from all the other shit mail he still had to weed through, written in bold caps, encrypted.

From: ANONYMOUS

Subject: EX

I’d like to discuss a transaction, as I have information you may find useful.

One week ago, a girl was rescued from traffickers at the Pantheon Motel. I’d like to know her name. Should you choose to provide that information to me, I’ve been made privy to E4E’s next victim.

Perhaps you might decide that a surprise is in order.

Not a single identifying clue existed anywhere in the email. Odd that the mysterious sender would inquire about the girl, whose name had been withheld by the media, as a victim of a sex crime, but what did Cox care? He himself had been the one to make the drop at the eastside Palms Motel, when he’d picked up the runaway from the streets a couple weeks back. In fact, he’d been her first customer, broke her in right on the spot, before threatening that if she ever told anyone, he’d kill her family. When she surfaced in the media, Cox just about had a goddamn heart attack.

Fortunately for him, she’d suffered some traumatic amnesia bullshit tied to her torment, leaving her unable to recall how she’d been picked up, let alone most of her abuses thereafter. If some bastard was ambitious enough to kill her off, so be it. Cox had alibis and connections. Her ‘stage name’ was all that most of the involved parties had, anyway.

Cox hit ‘reply’ and typed a single response: Sapphire. Dragging the mouse to the top of the screen, he prepared to exit the account, when a completely new email bounced back.

He clicked on the second ANONYMOUS in bold and frowned.

From: ANONYMOUS

Subject: EX

The Palms Motel.

Room 313

You’ll find the next victim.

A sharp pain struck Cox’s chest like a vice grip closing in on his ribcage. He slapped a hand to his heart and attempted deep breaths through the short pants. Fucking angina. Knocking papers to the floor, he rifled through the drawer beside him and grabbed his Nitro tabs, popping two pills beneath his tongue.

The pressure gradually dissolved with the tabs, and Cox sucked in deep breaths through his nose.

Room 313 had been rented out by Jonathan and his girlfriend, Theresa, as a second location to sell the girls.

With trembling hands, Cox replied.

Who are you?

An eternity passed before it became clear that the sender had no intentions of identifying himself. Cox slammed his fist against the desk before grabbing his jacket.

* * *

With cautious steps, Cox approached the room of the old, rundown shithole he’d frequented a few times. His hand instinctively rested on his gun holster, and as the door with the faded numbers came into view, he slipped the weapon out, trigger finger at the ready.

After a quick glance at the surrounding shuttered rooms, Cox placed an ear to the door, jumping back when it clicked open. He lifted his gun and pushed it in farther, giving way to darkness inside, as if the room stood empty.

Every nerve in his body flared like a livewire. He took long, easy breaths, having already popped his pills, and flipped on the lights.

Eyes wide, he fell back on a chair behind him with a gasp. Strung around the walls and ceilings like ghosts were large photographs—black and whites that showed him talking to the girl, her getting into his vehicle, him walking her to the room of the motel, the subtle stroke of his hand against her hair as he ushered her into the room.

She’d been scared at first, but he’d assured her he was leaving her with a good friend who’d help her find some odd jobs and make some cash, rather than send her back home. Theresa had convinced her to stay by promising to look out for her. After a few drinks laced with roofies, she’d passed out and woke up a prisoner.

Cox thought he’d seen the last of her.

Gun held level, he swung around the empty room. Rubbing the tightness in his chest, he headed for the bathroom, kicked in the door, and flipped on the lights.

A message screamed from the mirror, red like it’d been written in lipstick:

Her name is Danielle.

You’re Next.

Cox clutched his chest and exited the bathroom, ripping down pictures from the ceiling and walls. With images spilling over in his arms, he darted back down the staircase to his car. He’d burn them. Every single one of them. And the fucking bastard who’d pulled the stunt would die a slow, merciless death, he promised.

A shudder ran down his spine as he wiped the sweat from his brow and ignored the tightening behind his ribs. He pulled his cellphone and scrolled through the names, shaking his head when he stopped at the last cocksucker he wanted to talk to in his current state. Unfortunately, the asshole was the only one he knew who could answer the burning question inside his head.

At the greeting on the other end, Cox cleared his throat. “Riley, this is, uh … Cox.”

“Something come up?” No doubt, a polite version of what the fuck are you calling me for?

“Nah, I got a question. Encrypted emails.” He raised a trembling hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Any way to find out who sent them?”

“Depends on the sender. For the most part, they’re not easy, no.” A pregnant pause followed his comment. “Is this related to our Eye for Eye dude?”

“No. This … this is a completely different case.” Back up. Abort mission. He needed to get off the phone before the guy asked questions that’d have him slipping up. “I thought you might say that. Thanks. I gotta go. Have a good night.”

“Yep.”

Cox clicked the phone off, kicking himself for what he could’ve gathered on his own. He’d been stupid to loop Riley into his mess, but, hopefully, the bastard’d been so fucking stoned, he’d forget they’d had the conversation.