The Mackenrowe Murders: The Fool & The Faultless by Mo’Dayvia La’Beija

Mo'Dayvia La'Beija
By Mo'Dayvia La'Beija January 14, 2013 01:34

The Mackenrowe Murders: The Fool & The Faultless by Mo’Dayvia La’Beija

Summary:

Trust No One! Is the number one rule of the Montgomery Forensic Agency. The MFA consist of the best profilers that once worked for the FBI. Handpicked by Dr. Mark Mackenrowe, these agents will assist him in hunting the most deadly serial killers in the world: The Slasher – an avenger who made the enitre United States his personal dumping ground. He finally crosses path with his unknown and unwarranted protege – The Red Mask, one of the craftiest serial killers of all time. Join the chase as he leaves a trail of corpses from the French Rivera, London and Paris then finally onto the United States. Only one elite team has the potential to stop not one, but three high profiled serial killers. These hunters murdered freely for the last three decades without capture, and now the hunters becomes the hunted. Woven into this tapestry of murder and mayhem are secrets and scandals. Inside of it all, sensuous romances and a twisted love triangle that threatens to unravel the solid foundation of the Mackenrowes.

According to the author, this book contains domestic violence, descriptive writing about sexual acts between consenting adults and sexual violence against women/children/men.

The author has rated this book PG-13 (questionable content for children under 13).

Excerpt:

MEYERS stepped into One Hogan Place, he jotted up the stairs with a new plan in his head. He kissed the large yellow envelope before exiting the elevator. The building was nearly vacant. Only a few selective employees went about their business. Meyers seemed invisible as no one paid his presence any attention. He knew what he held in his possession was his ticket up the ladder. Special Agent here I come.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Come in,” an angry voice shouted from the other side.

Meyers pushed the door open and leaning against the doorway, he didn’t utter a word. He just stared into the darkness knowing the eyes in the dark were watching him.

“Have you got it?” a frustrated voice snarled from behind desk.

“Of course,” Meyers said, his solid frame blocked the corridor light that tried seeping into the room.

“Then get in here and close that door!” De Luca’s annoyance was a warning that he wasn’t in the best of moods. Pitch black permeated the office with the exception of the soft light that climbed in from the outside streetlamps. A brief pause of silence lingered between the two. Only dancing raindrops could be heard as the reflections of dim shadows crawled across the office windows.

“Time is money, I don’t have all day,” he barked.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Meyers snapped back. He reached over the desk and yanked the linked chain to a small desk lamp.

“Well, hand it to me.” De Luca’s hand stretched slowly under the soft light; it barely shined over the top of his cluttered desk. A bunch of files covered the surface with only a corner of his keyboard peeking from underneath the mountain of open cases.

“Before I hand this to you I wanted to notify you personally the price just went up . . . I can smell the desperation oozing off of you. I just found out how important this information really is . . . The media would have a field day. They would eat you alive . . . When they finish with you—you would have no choice but to resign and go down in public shame . . . something you dread. Never will you get to taste the true power. You can kiss becoming mayor good-bye. It will be just another empty dream.”

“Don’t be foolish.” De Luca lit up his cigar without any worries. His eyes were blank and everything Meyers blabbed he ignored.

“Foolish? I think not meeting my demands is foolish.” Meyers’ green eyes locked onto De Luca.

“I don’t do threats and I don’t do blackmail. Now hand me the folder! You will get exactly what we agreed on and nothing more.” He hiked a bushy brow with a don’t-play-with-me look. His open hand awaited the large envelope.

“Just how important is this information to you?” Meyers grinned waving the envelope in his hand.

“Ask yourself this. How much do I value my job?” he said relighting his cigar.

“You have nothing on me De Luca,” Meyers confessed confidently.

“On the contrary, I do. Many things the agency would be quite interested in. All it takes is one call to my pal the deputy director.” He pointed out with certainty. Then leaning back in his squeaky chair, he pulled Meyers’ personal file from the top drawer of his desk. He gazed up at Meyers, “Do you know what this is?”

A smile slowly stretched across his weathered face accompanied with a brief silence. Their eyes locked like two rams in battle then finally Meyers insisted, “No, I don’t know what’s in that folder and I don’t care either. I call your bluff . . . I think I’ll hang on to this information until you come to your senses,” he smiled then turned his back, “you’ll come around. Any smart man would.” He headed toward the door.

“Hired hookers for starters,” De Luca said without any hesitation. He puffed his lit cigar, and without looking up at him, he continued, “Narcotics . . . Possession of crack cocaine, and let’s not forget the large quantity of pain killers that you live off because of your back injury . . . Do you still have that back problem? Maybe you’re just addicted. You can fool the agency but you can’t fool me! One word of this to the deputy director and you will never get a second chance to join the Homeland Security Division. You can forget about being a FBI agent all together. Then you wonder why you never became a special agent.”

Meyers stopped abruptly just before reaching the door. Frozen in his tracks he was unable to face De Luca. His words pierced into Meyers like a hot knife through soft cheese.

“Need I go further?” De Luca questioned before taking another puff of his cigar. The phone rang and reaching for it, he gestured for Meyers to pass him the folder. Meyers tossed it onto his desk and the photos of him and a black busty bombshell with waist length hair spilled across his desk. Without saying another word, Meyers left.

“Dr. Mackenrowe is at the Wilson’s Suites on Grand Street in Washington. It’s not far from Pennsylvania Avenue,” the voice reported over the phone.

“Good, stay on him,” De Luca demanded. After hanging up the phone, he dragged the tiny wastebasket closer to him, and one by one, he burned each picture until there was only a pile of ashes left.

* * *

Outside, the gray clouds of Midnight skies covered the city. Not more than a few stars sparkled bright. Icy winds from the west blew through the crowded streets, but everyone was still enjoying their Friday night, despite the freezing weather. The club’s music emptied out onto the streets of the upper west side and traffic continued to crawl sluggishly between the red lights, but the redness lurking in Julia’s eyes were real. Her empty screams blended with the city’s noise. She clawed at him, nipping at his neck. He smacked her hard, and her face spun to one side. She tried fleeing for her life, but he snatched her by the back of her hair. Julia being a voluptuous girl, she turned to swing; he pulled his face back causing her to miss. He punched her in the stomach with such force she fell to the ground. He heaved her to her feet so he can look into her eyes one last time. He deviated from his ritual, never before had he met a girl like Julia.

“A fighting prey makes the victory that much better,” he said through a sinister laugh, before ripping the blade across her neck. Her blood splattered across his chest and down her pink suede coat. Down she went hitting the cold concrete. He advanced toward her then kicked her in her face and in her stomach; she felt her breath leaving her body along with her soul.

With swiftness, he cleaned around her. He then placed a beautiful Oriental mask upon her dead yet warm face. It resembled something from a Broadway play. He then wiped out the few pieces of skin from under her fingernails after yanking her pink suede heels from off her feet. When he was finished, he wiped the sweat from his smiling face and hurried to his car. It was parked several streets down from the park. He ran the last block. At last reaching his Seville Elegante, he threw the pink pumps in the trunk then entered the nineteen eighty-three car. He started up the engine, took off his gloves and drove toward the Henry Hudson River. The trip was short and silent but when he finally got there, he pealed out of his clothes; placed them in a plastic bag along with the bloody gloves and a rather heavy rock. He then threw it over the docks and after looking up at the heavens, he realized he and the moon were the only witnesses.

Copyright© Mo’Dayvia La’Beija. All rights reserved.

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Mo'Dayvia La'Beija
By Mo'Dayvia La'Beija January 14, 2013 01:34
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