Mississippi Blues (41 page)

After returning to his assigned FBI field office in Los Angeles and reviewing reports on the three “safeman murders,” there was no doubt that a serial killer was on the loose. A definite pattern, a signature, had emerged. The crime scenes were organized with little evidence to work with, revealing a killer who went at great lengths to avoid detection. The murders appeared preplanned, deliberate, and calculated. Rafe also knew that he was dealing with a “trophy taker.” The killer removed body parts creating a crime signature, a pattern connecting the crimes. The motive, though, was as mysterious as the individual committing the murders. The question of who, when, where the killer was going to strike next infiltrated his head like a bad headache. Rafe reviewed the facts in his mind.

There were more similarities than differences between the three murders. All of the victims had been safemen of great renown within the business.

Irving Samuals was a safe tech with a big ego. Some said it was as big as his Budweiser belly. Boastful of his skills, he was featured frequently on television, in newspapers, and in magazines. Touted as the best in Dade County, Irv's colleagues, including Rafe's father, had questioned his true ability. If not for the New York and LA murders, his death would have easily been considered a direct result of his flamboyant personality and lifestyle. The way he flaunted his skills, gold jewelry, and money would have left little speculation as to his murder.

No money or goods, though, had been taken from his shop or home. He was rendered unconscious and strangled to death and stuffed into one of his safes. Three fingers, those he used to manipulate safes were severed and missing. The calling card of a deranged killer. A mouse luring cats.

Johnny Pennetto, the Brooklyn victim, was as quiet and unassuming as wallpaper. Unlike Irv Samuals, he had guarded his privacy. With an unlisted telephone number, caller ID, a post office box, and frequent moves, he was a vagabond always looking over his shoulder. If not for his being a bonded independent contractor and a safe tech for reputable locksmiths, one could have easily assumed him to be a crook. Unfortunately, with all of his suspicions and precautions he had been hunted and murdered, stashed in a safe in one of his locksmith client's warehouses.

Georgie “Sticky Fingers” Martin was another story. A reformed criminal, he had found God and redemption and had given up his skill at opening safes as well as adding to his rap sheet. A legend in criminal and law enforcement circles, Georgie had retreated from life as an underworld safecracker to preach the Gospel. He made it to heaven earlier than expected, his casket a safe he had stored in his home office.

Rafe sat perched on the corner of his metal desk sipping strong black coffee. He stared at the reports stacked on his desktop and shook his head. Though he specialized in crimes relating to safes and vaults, including murder, this was his first experience with a serial killer and the first such case assigned to him as the designated agent in charge. His undergraduate degree in psychology, the courses he took with the FBI's behavioral science unit, and field experience in criminal profiling would come in handy.

“Serial killers have a disease,” he had been told by one of the experts in the field.

“This one has an addiction to safes,” Rafe thought aloud.

An addiction to safes was something he could relate to. After all, he had grown up amidst safes and safemen. His father was one of the best in the business and was determined that his son possess the same skills. From the time he could walk and talk, Raphael Costillo spent hours in his father's shop and out on service calls. The first word he ever uttered was “safe” and he had memorized the manufacturers and characteristics of safes before he knew the states and their capitals. He could see a safe, rattle off its make, model, and age and know how to logically proceed in opening it. When other parents were fearful of their children getting locked in a safe and suffocating, the Costillo's beamed with pride because their son could open them. He had kept a yellowed newspaper article and photograph of himself at age five beside a small Alpine he had manipulated open.

Safes had been good to him. By being a safe and vault technician, he had worked his way through college and law school. The profession even helped to finance a comfortable apartment and a shiny red Corvette, luxuries for most college students. Yet, his schoolmates thought the luxuries came from some secret life of crime. After all, how could a Hispanic boy from Little Havana finance such an upscale lifestyle? There wasn't enough challenge in working in his father's small shop and he needed to escape from the old neighborhood. He needed more. More stimulation. More demands. More knowledge that he was doing something to benefit society as well as his family and himself. He needed to prove that he was an equal and not a minority. To his father's shock, he joined the FBI.

Thinking about his father at Costillo Safe and Lock in Little Havana made him shudder. The “safeman murders” were hitting too close to home. The victims were people he understood. Some he had even met at safe and lock conferences and conventions. His father was the victims' contemporary. Luis Costillo was as legendary in the safe business as the victims. Rafe couldn't imagine his father murdered and stuffed into a safe. The thought made him flush with anger. He had to do everything within his ability to uncover the killer because his father could have been and could become a victim.

“Yo,
amigo
. Don't you have anything better to do than sit around and drink coffee?”

One didn't have to see Anthony DeGrasso to know he was around. The tangy pungent Aqua Velva after-shave and cologne he favored preceded him. Rafe rubbed his nose to suppress a sneeze. Though in the LA office the past two years, Tony retained that brash Brooklyn accent and attitude. A fellow FBI Special Agent, Tony grated on him but Rafe and he had formed an amicable, almost friendly working relationship.

“At least I drink real coffee, not that rotgut espresso you thrive on,” Rafe answered with a chuckle.

“Heard you've been assigned to the âsafeman murders' case,” Tony said.

“Yep.” Rafe took another sip of his coffee.

“Hot Fingers Costillo to the rescue.”

“You got it.” Rafe winked though he hated the nickname given to him as a teen and perpetuated through the years.

“Seriously, how's it going?”

“It's going. My fear is that we have a serial killer on our hands. The faster we nab the guy the better.”

“Who would wanna kill safe techs?” Tony asked, shoving his hands in his pants' pockets. “Not for Rice Krispies, eh? You know,
cereal
, serial?”

“Who would want to kill anyone?” Rafe didn't find humor in murder.

“Got a motive?”

Rafe stroked his chin. “First things first. Enough about me, what are you working on?”

“A bank fraud.”

“Could be interesting.”

Tony shrugged his sloped shoulders. “You get the high profile cases. I get the crumbs.”

“But I get the stress and the danger, not to mention the nightmares. I'm sure you sleep well at night.”

“With Bertha?” Tony's bushy black brows shot up.

“Hey buddy, you married her.”

Tony winked. “That's not what I meant.”

“Viagra works, doesn't it?” Rafe teased. With Tony it was difficult staying serious for long.

“You know, that's what you need, a good woman. You wouldn't be needing all that strong coffee.”

“Here we go again. Have you been talking to my sister and my mother?”

A knock rattled Rafe's office door.

“Come in,” Rafe called.

In strolled a bespectacled young woman, his more efficient than pretty administrative assistant.

“What's up, Jamie?” Rafe asked, eyeing the padded envelope she gingerly held.

“This came for you. Priority Mail,” she answered, handing him the envelope.

“Who's it from?” Rafe asked, cocking an eyebrow as he perused the front of the envelope.

“I don't know.”

“Hmm,” Rafe mumbled. He hated envelopes and packages that arrived without return addresses. In his field, though, they were common. Informants and witnesses often wanted to shield their true identities.

“It's been checked with a wand,” Jamie said.

“That's reassuring,” Rafe said, casting a glance at the girl who was too smart and too plain for her own good.

Tony cleared his throat. “Surprise package?”

Without comment, Rafe ripped open an end. Inside was another smaller padded envelope with a sticker. Printed in red were the words, “Caution: Dry Ice.”

After tearing open the end of the small envelope, Rafe spilled the contents on his desk.

A finger, cleanly severed, lay atop a mountain of papers.

“Holy shit!” Tony yelled.

Jamie, covering her mouth with her hands, raced out of the office.

Rafe stared at the finger, speechless.

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