Lady Killer (Dead Girls Club #2)

41. Locke

Chapter forty-one

Locke

Manhattan

Lucian: You’re needed.

Lucian: Michael Schultz, 28 Years Old, Doctoral Student—East Asian Languages, Instructor—Introduction to Japanese.

Interesting.

I’ll be back late tonight , I replied.

He wouldn’t like the delay. Too fucking bad.

I was in the city, and while the chopper could have me in Shady Harbor in less than an hour, I had business to attend to first.

Business that did not involve my cousin.

Reading over the name I’d been sent, I searched my memory for information but could come up with nothing. Knowing nothing about the man, it was impossible to say if he was the Virgin Sacrifice Killer or simply another sheep sent after Luz.

It was always easier when no one important cared if he went missing.

My phone vibrated, and I flipped it over to find another message from Lucian.

I ignored it.

They could wait. It wasn’t as if the man was going anywhere.

Horns blared around me. We’d barely moved since I’d been picked up from the helicopter pad. Pressing on the intercom, I directed my driver to attempt a different route. I was comfortable enough in the family’s chauffeured car, but I had a meeting with a man who I knew for a fact would not wait.

Luckily, we made it to the private, members-only club in the Upper East Side with time to spare .

“Be back in an hour unless you hear otherwise from me,” I ordered.

Rolling my shoulders back, I adjusted my suit cuffs and smoothed out my pants.

Established in 1827, the Liberty Club was one of the oldest private clubs in America. Frequented by the Van Dorens and the Kennedys, it was a place where my family was very much at home.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Blackwell,” said a straightlaced-looking concierge at the same time as a young attendant scurried over to remove my coat and spirit it away.

“A late dinner, or will you be using the facilities today?”

“I’m meeting someone in the upper lounge,” I said, waving off any further questions as I strode to the elevators to make my way up.

When the doors opened, I was greeted by oak-paneled walls and marble floors covered in runners that cost more than a single-family dwelling. Low-lit chandeliers gave the windowless hallway an ambient glow that carried through to the smoking lounge, where another attendant stood in front of two massive double doors.

“Enjoy, sir.”

I didn’t bother to respond.

The thick smoke of cigars hung in the air. Part of the reason the doors were monitored carefully was to avoid too much smoke escaping into the hall and blemishing the rest of the club. Somewhat inevitable in the old days, but with today’s air filtration systems, you could barely scent it in the hall, never mind the rest of the massive building.

Regardless, I would change before flying home. I didn’t need Lucian asking questions about where I had been.

Finding the man I was looking for was easy. When he was in the city, he was here, in a small private corner of the lounge that only a fool would commandeer in his absence.

Weaving my way to the back, I nodded at the occasional member I passed, memorizing everyone’s names and faces.

Finally, I came to the small door tucked away behind a bookshelf.

I knocked on the opaque glass window and waited.

“Come in.”

Opening the door, I stepped in to find the room free of smoke, although the scent carried through.

The room was small but meticulously done. Four wingback chairs sat in a semicircle in front of a fireplace, which was currently empty.

Seated with his back to me was the man I was meeting.

“Locke, come take a seat,” he said without turning to look at me.

I made my way to the chair directly across from him.

Victor Blackwell was an imposing man .

Tall and broad, he looked like a mix of Lucian and me, although there was a severity to him that neither of us had ever fully been able to replicate. Even in his early 70s, his silvery-white hair was still thick.

“Drink?”

“Please.”

He poured me a glass of Macallan 78-Year-Old Single Malt from the crystal decanter sitting on the table next to him.

Passing it over, he inspected me with a critical eye. Whether he found me wanting or acceptable, I would never know. His expression betrayed nothing. Perhaps that was where Alister got it from.

Although my youngest cousin had lost his head over a woman.

My grandfather would never do something so foolish.

“I understand Lucian is having problems in Shady Harbor.”

Direct and to the point, as always.

“You’ll have to be more specific, Victor.”

“Yes, because there is more than one, isn’t there.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes hooded.

With my grandfather, anything was possible.

If he believed Lucian had the situation under control, this could be a test of my loyalty to my cousin .

However, if he believed Lucian was failing, there was an equal chance that this was a test of my loyalty to the Blackwell name.

Being the inquisitor wasn’t just about the information I could extract under torture. It was also about what I was able to discern just by being in the same room as a man and observing him.

What did the patriarch of the Blackwell family want?

“The drugs, the killer . . . or the girl?”

Something uncomfortable shifted inside me as I added the last bit, especially knowing Victor’s preferred solution to problems. But I had no doubt that he knew everything going on in Shady Harbor.

Hiding her would do no good.

“Are the drugs not resolved, or is someone besides Aaron Croft and Melody Thomson involved in selling them on campus?”

Taking a deep breath in, I attempted to settle deeper into my seat. “There haven’t been any more reports of unsanctioned sales on campus.” I placed my drink down and steepled my fingers. “But I would argue that Aaron Croft’s likely involvement in the numerous unsanctioned deaths on Blackwell land, including that of one of our long-standing clients, means that he and his little gambit at selling drugs at Hollow Oak are still far from resolved. ”

My grandfather inclined his head.

“The serial killer is the bigger issue. Until whoever is killing on Blackwell land is put down, our reputation is under threat. What happens when the next Glory Van Holt goes missing?”

“Ah, yes, the so-called Virgin Sacrifice Killer.” He took a slow slip of his drink. “What can you tell me?”

Probably nothing the shrewd bastard didn’t know already.

“The killer or killers have been abducting girls only for them to turn up dead months later, their hearts ripped out of their chests. Postmortems revealed that five out of the six girls whose bodies have been recovered died from what appears to be some form of suffocation, while Glory died from blunt force trauma.” I paused to consider my next words.

My grandfather pounced on the opportunity. “I see, and Aaron Croft? His heart was also removed, correct?”

Alarm spiked in me, but I didn’t react. “Yes.”

“And how did he die?”

“Blood loss . . . The coroner believes he was still alive when his heart was cut out.” I didn’t need to add the last detail, but if this was the test I thought it was, then he already knew that .

We sat in silence as Victor took another long sip of his drink before speaking again. “Who do you think killed Aaron Croft?”

There was no point in holding anything back.

“A freshman by the name of Luz Torres killed him after he assaulted her.” The words felt clunky leaving my mouth.

“She is the one who cut out his heart?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And she’s fucking your cousins and the help?”

He’d never been Everest’s biggest fan.

Likely the lunatic’s willingness to kill near indiscriminately saved him from being eliminated from Lucian’s life. That and the old man knew nothing of the true nature of their relationship.

Not even I was cruel enough to betray that confidence.

“I believe she’s only fucking Alister and Everest.”

“I see. And did Lucian instruct this, Luz, to kill the Croft man?”

I ignored the dryness in my mouth. “He did not.”

“Is she fucking my grandson in exchange for her life?”

“Ah, no, sir.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed marginally.

“They are quite enamored with her,” I said .

“And how would that factor into the decision to let her live?”

I was walking a dangerous line here. “Lucian is indulging them, and she’s helping to identify the killer.”

He arched a brow at me. “What possible expertise could a freshman scholarship student bring?”

“We believe there is a connection to her past.” One that Lucian had declined to share with me in detail. It was pointless to ask the rest of them. Even Nixon was increasingly in her thrall.

“If she’s who this Virgin Sacrifice Killer wants, why haven’t we just given her to him?”

“The killer communicates exclusively with her, using a new burner phone each time. They cannot be connected directly.”

“Locke,” he said, his voice sounding weary, which made me all the more nervous. “Why is this girl still alive?”

“Lucian gave her his word that if she identified the killer by the end of the semester, he would let her live.”

My grandfather closed his eyes, and when he opened them to look at me from under his hooded brow, I steeled myself against whatever came next.

“If you were head of the Blackwells, Locke, would the girl still be alive? ”

My tongue felt foreign, but I couldn’t back down now. “No.”

Something flickered in his expression, and the energy between us shifted. “I’m concerned that your cousin is losing his head when it comes to the family business.”

There it was.

“I’d like you to take a more active role, reporting directly back to me.”

Technically, the family business had been handed over to Lucian. Victor was retired. But then, one never stopped being a Blackwell.

“Of course, sir.”

“The girl is a problem.”

“Would you like me to get rid of her?”

Victor stared me down with eyes so dark they were nearly black.

I couldn’t admit to what answer I was hoping for.

“Use her to find the killer by any means necessary.”

“Understood.”

He sat back in his chair, relaxed now. “That settles it then. You’ll begin reporting to me directly on the situation at home, including your cousins’ behavior.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, ducking my head in acknowledgment .

“Do a good job, and I’ll consider moving you into your proper position in the family.”

He raised his glass. “To blood and power.”

“To blood and power,” I echoed.

We both drained our glasses.

The Scotch burned more harshly than I had anticipated.

“Is that all, sir?” I asked, more than ready to return to Shady Harbor.

“Actually, Locke, there is one more thing,” my grandfather said, something twisted flickering in his gaze.

“What can you tell me about Maria Burgos? I believe she goes by the name Sofia Torres these days.”