A Commitment to Love, Book 3 (17 page)

I’m not thinking we’ll be inviting any of our family for the holidays. Not mine or Jasmine’s. What am I saying? Will she even come back to me, when I go to her? What other choice does she have? No, I’ll have to handle Benny first. Kill him. Finish this shit so I can show Jasmine that her mother was wrong. There are happy endings.

We exited onto the eleventh floor. No one hung around on that level, and unlike the other floors a fresh coat of gray paint decorated the hallways.

“Benny has rented every apartment on this floor. He does different things in each one.” She gestured to the cameras above each door and waved. “He has some computer nerds watching the place. The few smart kids in the building. They monitor and report to his main man, if there’s a problem.”

“So they’ll be saying something to him now?”

“No. They’ll wait until we leave.” She waved at the cameras and took us to apartment G. “The one thing Benny never understood about the Chops is that no white man that isn’t born here can ever truly run the place. It doesn’t matter how much money or power he has. These buildings are cold, but there’s family in here. Any informants Benny thinks he has here, comes to me first.”

“And why’s that?”

She pulled out her key and slipped it into the door. “Because I’m a boss, Chase. That’s why.”

I’d given her the key downstairs, when the landlord handed them to me as the new owner.

She’s a boss?

Things didn’t make sense. From Jasmine’s view, her mother remained this hardened woman who took care of her grandchildren and expected support from Jasmine. Yet, my dealings with Sophia showed a woman that would make gold-diggers frown and wag their head. Today, a new version appeared, the boss.

Boss of what? And how will that get Jasmine back to me? I won’t go another day without her. I had to at least see her, if only from a far. Where are you, Jasmine?

“Brace yourself.” Sophia opened the door and stepped through. “It’s not too bad if you don’t ask a lot of questions, just get in and get out.”

A bleachy fragrance swam in the air. Buzzing floated off in the distance as if an old fridge or stove was connected and would soon be shutting off forever.

I stepped inside. Sophia continued forward on her own mission.

“Hold up,” I said.

“We don’t have time to hold up.” She headed off. “I have things to do. You have things to do.”

“What will you be doing?”

“Being a boss.” She rushed off.

“Apparently.”

The place was empty of furniture, but filled with huge blue barrels that outlined all of the walls. Ice clung to the tops. A haunting chill ran in the space. The walls and ceiling held the same gray paint that was in the hallways. Sophia’s heels clicked against the polished floor in front of me. She wasted no time, passing by the small blue barrel-filled rooms that could have been a living area and dining place.

Pulling my jacket closer to me, I turned to my guards. “Two of you stay out here. Two come with me.”

I spent no time figuring out what they decided, walked in after Sophia, and touched one of the barrels. A cold shock hit me. I shook my hand to get the chill away. “Sophia.”

She poked her head out of a door farther down the hallway. “What?”

“What are these blue barrels?”

“I thought I said that this place would be less scary if you didn’t have any questions.”

“Only stupid people don’t ask what’s going on.” I moved closer to where she ducked out her head.

“What are these blue barrels?”

“They’re not barrels. They’re 57 gallon refrigerated drums.”

“Refrigerated drums? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’ve had to buy them for him over the years. Are we done?”

“What does he have in them?”

“Bodies, Chase. What else would Benny have in refrigerated drums?”

Gritting my teeth, I stopped right there. “What?”

The door closed behind me. I wasn’t ashamed to say that I jumped and checked for the sound. The two tallest guards came inside with me.

Sophia clapped her hands. “Chase?”

“Yes.” I scanned the drums. A cold shiver ran through me.

“Chase?”

“Yes.”

“His office is the last room down the hall. That’s where you’re going to get his names for all of his passports and credit cards. Some of the ones he’s not using will be in there to narrow it down.”

I signaled for one of the guards to go to the room and returned to a drum that was labeled sad faces.

Why would he label it that?

“Chase?”

I shook my head and turned her way. “What?”

“Focus.”

“Why did he call this sad faces?”

“Did you hear me earlier? The drums are full of cut-up human bodies. Heads. Torsos. All feet go in one drum. All hands go in another. I’ve helped him catalogue. He has some for genitals, others for knee caps. One year he had a thing about knee caps. None of this is important. Let’s get what we came to get and then jet.”

“But—”

“Now I told you that his people are my people. That doesn’t mean we have that much time. It just means that we have a head start. His informants still have to tell him we were in here. He’ll know why, and when he does, it’ll be time to run. If we hurry we won’t be racing away. We’ll be luring him into a trap. You got me?”

“Yes.”

Sophia’s head disappeared.

If his office is at the end of the hall, then why is she in the other room?

I grabbed the last guard’s arm and whispered, “Go in there with her. See what she gets. Let me know.”

“Yes, sir.” He hurried away and stood in the doorway.

Her voice sounded from the hallway. “I got this, Soldier Boy. Keep it moving down the hallway. Chase, keep your men away from me.”

He turned to me. I waved him away. The guard left her alone and went to the office.

Scanning the drums and not even able to walk to close to them, I headed to Benny’s office myself, but not before checking the room that Sophia explored, while I traveled by. She held a large garbage bag in her hand and piled stacks of twenty dollar bills into the close to full bag.

Money. Of course.

I stopped right there. “Really?”

“He’ll be dead by the time he returns.”

“Will he?”

“I believe in you.”

“Or you needed me to get access into his apartment.”

“How I wish it was just that simple.” Laughter fled from her lips as she piled in some more.

“Mr. Stone,” one of the guards called out to me.

I gave up on her and dragged myself to the sick bastard’s office. “What?”

A large wooden desk sat in the center of what would’ve been used as a bedroom. Here there was no freshly-done gray walls, just cracking blueish-green paint. Carvings had been made into the wood. They resembled biology test exams—figures of body parts with the names labeled, faces marked out, slashed out diagrams of bugs eating on cut off legs.

This is how a psycho doodles. He carves dumb shit into wood.

“These journals have your name on them, sir.” The guard handed me five heavy notebooks. Each one held a picture of me, one cut out from a magazine. “He’s a fan.”

The other guard laughed. “Funny, sir.”

I glared at him. “This isn’t a
Law and Order
episode. When people die, they die, not open their eyes, get up off the floor, and then go for a coffee break. This is real life. This man will kill you. He’s already cut off ten of my best hired men’s heads. Do your job and you’ll be safe. See this situation as a joke, and you’ll just be another head that I have removed from my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

I snatched the books from them and flipped through the pages. Every sheet held clear handwriting in blue ink. Benny took his time with his words. Each sentence had a rhythm to it. The sick bastard could actually write.

Too bad it’s all about killing me. Five notebooks and all you can do is describe how you would do it.

I gave them back to the guard. “Keep these. Have them all read tonight. Maybe, we’ll learn something.”

A bookshelf stood in the far end. I headed over to it as they rummaged through his desk some more.

What does a pyscho like to read in his garden of decomposed bodies?

The first shelf was typical, almost a big stereotype. I rolled my eyes.

The Catcher in the Rye. Really? Don’t be the stereotype, Benny. Aim higher.

Some of the most famous shootings had been connected to Salinger’s novel. After Mark Chapman killed John Lennon, the cops arrested him and found a copy of the
Catcher in the Rye
on him. He’d bought it that day.

I scanned the rest of the shelf. Benny had biographies on all the master sickos—Gacy to Dahmer, Bundy to the Son of Sam. In the second shelf, religious books sat there—the Bible to the Quran, Torah to the Buddhist Sutras, and more and more.

Never saw you as a spiritual man.

More notebooks stood at the top of the shelf. I extended my hand and grabbed the first one. The cover read,
Volume One.

I opened the page and read,

1986—How it all began.

“Perverts.” I gulped my glass of scotch, swallowed it whole, and crunched on the ice until they were tiny bits of shards against my tongue. “Perverts. The whole lot.”

Scar grunted. He never had much to say, and when he did usually a person was getting their flesh opened by his fingers. People respected Scar’s silence, most scattering away from him instantly when he entered the area. When he hung with me, many calmed. As if I could ever control a monster, like I had some sort of chain to a seething dragon bursting with violence and fighting to get out. Things like that were funny to me …

I stopped and stared at Benny’s writing. “Are you writing your life story?”

“Huh?” one of the guards asked.

“Nothing.”

I read some more.

… If they only knew, the only thing that stopped Scar from killing was money. He took life for funds and would kill anybody. I watched him choke his older sister until there was no breath left to escape those pretty nostrils. She’d slept with one of the bosses and then broke his heart. There’s never been a man in history that didn’t kill over pure embarrassment. She had to go, and what better way to truly get the bitch back, but to order her own brother to murder her. That was the type of people I worked for.

Men without souls.

“Perverts.” I gestured to Chase Stone and his incestuous entourage. Corporate coke heads that took from the poor to make them rich. They were everything people who weren’t in the know hoped didn’t really exist.

Monsters don’t just wear gold chains and listen to rap music. There’s monsters in designer suits stomping and clawing all over the world.

I closed the book, kept it in my hand, and glanced over at the guards. “Make sure you grab all of these on the shelf.”

“Should I read these, too?” one asked.

“No.” I shook my head. “I’ll read these. Just don’t forget them.”

“What are you going to read?” Sophia appeared in the doorway, dragging the huge garbage bag.

“Nothing.”

“His journals?” She eyed the shelf. “There’s nothing in there.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re taking his money. I can grab his life.”

“He always thought he would write a book about his life. Thought somebody would want to print that one day.” She snapped her fingers at one of my men. “Take this down to the car, please.”

The poor guy turned to me. I nodded.

“Did you find the names?” she asked.

“No.”

“Men have to be the most simple-minded animals in the world.” She stomped over to the desk, bent over, pulled out the last drawer, and picked up a huge binder. “There we go. All of his aliases. There should actually be some passports, social security, and credit cards in there.”

She flipped it open and displayed the front to me. Sure enough, tons of plastic pockets held everything she’d listed. Ten folded pages were in the front, all with names.

“Good find.” I signaled for the other guard to grab the binder. “Get anything else. Let’s get out of here in ten minutes.”

“Let’s make it five,” she suggested. “And don’t forget this bag, sweetie.”

Sophia left.

I turned back to Benny’s novel. The fact that he’d mentioned my father had me intrigued. I read more of Benny’s notebook, hoping that it would get me closer to finding Jasmine.

“Perverts.” I signaled for the waitress to get me another scotch.

Scar grunted and leaned in his chair. The big man took up the whole side of the table. He was built with muscle, my height, but wider in the arms and chest. I often wondered if it was me and him going at it, who would win. Many guys I guessed on with ease. Most didn’t have my finesse when it came to death. It was an art, just like food, music, and writing. When one took on things, there needed to be a certain passion in the task.