Blood Money

Chapter Twenty-One

He called himself Merselus. It was the surname of his best friend in high school back in Paterson, New Jersey. Ironically, it was his math teacher-recognizing his tenacity, pegging him as a rare Eastside High success story-who had dubbed the two of them Merselus and Merciless. If she only knew.

Three weeks before the start of the Sydney Bennett trial, he’d used another name entirely to lease a one-bedroom apartment on the Miami River, just minutes away from the courthouse. William Teague was a week-to-week tenant in his third month of occupancy, which practically made him the mayor of a decaying village of drug addicts and prostitutes who came and went from the riverfront like water rats.

Merselus entered with a turn of the key and locked the door-lower deadbolt, upper deadbolt, and then the chain. The venetian blinds were drawn, though it was superfluous; the lone window in the apartment was boarded over from the inside, iron bars on the outside. The only light in the room was the glow from a laptop computer, which he’d left open and running on the desk. The Google satellite image was still on the screen, displaying the result of his last search: Little Havana/Tamiami Trail. His eyes narrowed as he studied it again. The slope from the highway to the brown canal. The knee-high brush along the shoreline. The perfect place to drop a warm body that Merselus wanted the police to find quickly, before his handwritten message fell to decomposition. All of it, as captured in the satellite image, was virtually identical to the actual place he’d visited a little later in the day. He gave a thin smile of appreciation to the technocrats in Silicon Valley who had made it so easy to plan.

He wondered if any of them even remembered him, ever wondered what he was up to these days.

Merselus sat on the edge of the bed, dropped his backpack between his feet on the floor, and opened it. First, he removed the essential tools of his mission-latex gloves, which left no fingerprints; a nylon cord, in case he met with resistance; the serrated diving knife, in case he met with even greater resistance. He laid each of them neatly on the bed, side by side. Deeper inside the pack, in a separate pouch, was his latest acquisition. He unzipped the pouch and carefully, almost lovingly, collected his prize. A “trophy” was what one of those self-proclaimed geniuses in criminal profiling would have called it, like the panties, jewelry, and other keepsakes that serial killers took from their victims in order to relive their fantasy, over and over. Collecting such objects was part of the sociopath’s compulsive personality. So said the experts, whom Merselus had watched repeatedly on BNN and the Faith Corso Show, all of whom uniformly overlooked one crucial fact: Their profiles were based on the assholes who got caught. Merselus didn’t consider himself a serial killer, though his work could be measured in more than one victim. He didn’t think of himself as a sociopath, either, though that term was thrown around pretty loosely these days. And he was definitely no trophy hunter.

He just thought Rene Fenning’s necklace was cool.

It was made of polished copper, the kind of necklace that kept its shape and didn’t collapse like a chain when taken off. He put his hand through the necklace, which made the opening seem small. Like Rene’s gentle neck. It almost fit his wrist like a bracelet, a testimony to the size and strength of his hands. He reached over and switched on the lamp to get a better look.

The glass bead on the front of the necklace was most intriguing. It opened with a tiny latch. Inside were three pebbles, each about the size of a BB. It was unlike anything Merselus had ever seen. He laid it on the white bedsheet and took a photograph. He took several more until he got the right lighting, a pristine image. Then he went to his computer and uploaded the image. He wasn’t certain that his image-recognition software would find a match on the Internet, and it wasn’t at all crucial. But he was curious-not just to check out the trinket, but more to test the limits of the software. This kind of search tool wasn’t something the average person on the street could have walked into the Apple Store and purchased. In the private sector, only the most elite security firms could get their hands on it. It was a trade secret still in development. A stolen trade secret.

Merselus hit SEARCH.

It took a couple of minutes to populate the results, another minute for him to eliminate the extraneous hits. Then he found a match, though the one pictured on the computer screen appeared to be larger than the one fastened to Rene’s necklace.

“A gris-gris,” he read aloud. “An amulet originating in Africa which is believed to protect the wearer from evil or brings luck.”

That brought a smirk to his face. Not very lucky for the good doctor.

He closed the software program, impressed by its performance-and pleased, as always, to be one step ahead of the good guys on the technology curve.

With great care, Merselus carried the necklace across the room and opened the closet. Taped to the back of the door, right below a coat hook, was an eight-by-ten photograph. It was the image of Sydney Bennett that the prosecution had shown the jury at trial-the one of Sydney laughing off the effects of tequila, the hands of at least three different men pawing her tight body, her clingy white halter unable to hide her protruding nipples.

Of all his Sydney photographs, this one was Merselus’ favorite.

“For luck,” he said as he hung the necklace on the coat hook above the photograph. “See what good care I take of you?”

He closed the closet door and lay on the bed. Not nearly enough rest last night, with all the preparation. He could have nodded off in a moment and slept through till the next morning, but he forced himself to set an alarm: six thirty P.M. Barely time for a catnap.

There was more work to do. Tonight.