Trigger

By Alexa Preece

What makes a loving father stab his wife and children before turning the knife onto himself?

What makes a rational woman kill her co-workers, and then shoot herself?

Chloe Lawson, Special Agent with the FBI, is trying to find out. Each of the murderers received a phone call mere minutes before their killing spree. Each of the murderers killed themselves, almost as if programmed to do so...

The investigation leads Chloe and her partner, Liam Reynolds, to a man who calls himself the Maestro, the man behind the show. He uses hypnotism to teach his performers their lines, their actions in the game he controls from the safety of his ivory tower. When he realises Chloe is getting close to stopping him, he draws her into the game and leaves her a trail of bloody breadcrumbs leads her back to the city she left five years.

FBI Special Agent Mark Phillips, Chloe's former mentor and partner, is surprised by Chloe's sudden reappearance in his life but sees it as his second chance at making things right. Now divorced from his wife and a devoted father to his thirteen year old daughter, Mark is determined to both help catch the Maestro and keep Chloe in his life.

The Maestro has realised that Chloe may be the one agent to bring him down... unless he brings her down first. He makes it clear he wants her to be part of the final act, teasing her that someone she loves might become his next and greatest player – and she might be the trigger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexa Preece
• Release date: Feb 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301585021

Alexa Preece

An aspiring author who made a promise to herself she'd have something published before her thirtieth birthday, 2013 is the year that needs to happen. I write in a variety of genres - romantic suspense, fantasy, urban fantasy and romantic comedy.

Book preview

Trigger

A Chloe Lawson Novel

By

Alexa Preece

Copyright © 2013 by Alexa Preece

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition

First Printing: February 2013

Chapter One

The sweet sound of a child's laughter floated down the stairs towards him, filling his heart with contentment. His daughter's giggle was soon joined by the warm chuckle of his wife and Miles Brent couldn't help but smile to himself as he started to wash the used dishes from their evening meal.

Life was good. In fact, it couldn't be better.

He had two beautiful children, a daughter and a baby son. He had a wife he adored who adored him in return, a woman he'd loved since childhood. He had an offer on the table for the movie screenplay he'd spent over a year writing, well before the self-imposed deadline he'd set himself.

Eighteen months, Kath. I'll give it eighteen months and then I'll get a regular job, I swear.

His wife had laughed, her eyes shining with love he didn't know what he'd done to deserve. Eighteen months and you'll be on your way to getting your first Oscar.

The Oscar was still a long way off and a pipedream he couldn't quite let himself believe in but the script was done, the money almost in the bank.

Knowing that, and knowing his wife's belief in him had never faltered, meant more than any trophy - no matter how revered - ever could.

A creaky floorboard he hadn't got around to fixing told him Kath had left their daughter's room to check on Patrick, their infant son. Finishing with the dishes, Miles started to put the cutlery away, his mind already wandering to the bottle of wine chilling in the fridge.

A celebration, he decided, was definitely in order.

As he put away the knives and forks, the house phone began to ring; a shrill sound that shattered the easy calm that had settled over the family home. With a furtive glance up at the ceiling, hoping he could get to it before it woke either Lucy or Patrick, Miles crossed the kitchen floor and picked up the receiver.

Hello?

For a moment, there was silence. Annoyed, Miles started to move the receiver away from his ear only to freeze when the caller eventually began to speak.

Good evening, Mr Brent. Congratulations on your screenplay. I'm sure it will be a tremendous success.

Confused, wondering if it was someone from his agent's office or the studio that'd made the offer, Miles held the phone even closer to his ear as if doing so would make it possible to identify his caller. Ah, thanks. Thank you. I sure hope so.

Oh, I know so, Mr Brent. The voice was smooth, familiar yet not. Just one more thing before I leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening.

Yes?

Let the screams begin.

Four words. Four, simple, terrifying words.

Without replying, Miles hung up the phone. His mind shut down. He looked blankly at the open cutlery drawer before picking up the carving knife they only ever used at Thanksgiving. Its serrated blade glinted in the beam of the spotlights in the ceiling above.

He walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs, not seeing the smile that lit up Kath's face when she walked out of Patrick's room and saw him. He didn't see the smile slip, either, or notice the concern that took its place. He didn't hear her ask him what he was doing upstairs with the knife.

He didn't hear her stunned gasp as he thrust the blade into her chest, or hear her screams, or see her blood as it splashed onto his clothes and stained his hands. Once, twice, three times.

He didn't hear anything but that strange, smooth voice and the command he somehow couldn't resist.

Let the screams begin.

*

Phone calls at four AM on a Saturday morning never brought good news. Especially not on her first weekend off in three months on what promised to be a beautiful day. Already, the sunlight was beginning to slip into the room around the edges of the drapes, warding off the chill that had settled overnight.

Chloe Lawson, Special Agent with the FBI, cracked open an eyelid and glared sleepily at the offending item.

The phone continued to ring regardless.

Muttering under her breath, she willed her arm to move, groaning at how heavy the sleep-laden limb felt. She flexed her fingers before closing them around the receiver, rolling onto her back as she lifted it to her ear.

Special Agent Lawson.

There's been another one, Chlo.

Another one.

For a moment, she forgot to be annoyed at the sound of her partner, Special Agent Liam Reynolds, sounding so awake at such an ungodly hour. There was only one kind of case he'd refer to as 'another one' and she'd hoped, as they all had, that the last one had been just that – the last one.

Serial killers weren't unheard of in her line of work, unfortunately. Though certainly rare - much more so than the glittering world of Hollywood would have the public believe - they did exist, and it was her job to find them, stop them and bring them to justice. Her partner's words served as an unwelcome and unnecessary reminder that there was still a serial killer on the loose they hadn't managed to find.

The Maestro was what he called himself because he believed, the profiler had theorised, that he was in complete control, pulling the strings of his victims and choreographing their moves without getting his own hands dirty. Though there was a chance the serial killer could be a female - the FBI hadn't ruled that out completely - the many profiles they'd completed on the killer suggested that the probability of their perpetrator being male was over eighty in percentages. In her gut and in her heart, Chloe knew the profilers were right, and they were dealing with not only a man but a sick and sadistic one at that, an invisible killer with the confidence and cunning needed to evade the authorities for so long.

His calling card was a bouquet of red roses at the scene of the crime, often placed after the initial walkthrough, a fact which had at first confounded the federal agents working on the case. It was standard operating procedure to ensure all crime scenes were well protected, at least initially, to make sure that no one could wander onto the scene and contaminate any potential evidence that might be found.

Not that the Maestro ever left much evidence, Chloe recalled ruefully, or at least not of the variety that would lead them to his door. He was far too smart for that, too clever. He wasn't a serial killer in the traditional sense, either, which made her job harder to do. As far as they were aware, the Maestro himself was yet to draw blood himself. While some serial killers settled on guns as their weapon of choice and others chose knives, poisons and ropes as the tools of their evil trade, the Maestro chose people. He used innocent people, manipulating them into carrying out his bidding before having them turn on themselves. The killers, in the truest, physical sense of the word, were just as much victims as the people they killed.

At the beginning, four cases ago, there'd been theories abound at how he did it. Blackmail and bribery had been at the top of the list until a fellow agent had planted another suggestion in their minds, almost accidentally: hypnosis.

He hadn't even realised what he'd said at first. Agent Green had been chatting in the break room with his partner, talking about the show his wife had forced him to go and see with his in-laws, and laughing about the man who'd been tricked into believing he was sharing an intimate moment with his girlfriend when instead he'd been clinging amorously to the hat stand that had been dragged onto the stage. At first, there'd been a light-hearted debate over whether it was morally acceptable with some agents arguing it was pure entertainment while others stated it was inhuman to seek amusement at the cost of someone else's humiliation.

Chloe had listened half-heartedly, following the discussion as she'd stirred her coffee but making no effort to join in until what she was hearing began to make sense to her. She'd stood up so suddenly the conversation had ceased; it'd only taken Liam a few moments more to realise why the colour had drained from her face, and why she looked so stunned.

Hypnosis.

The profiler had agreed that it was a possibility, though was reluctant to agree outright that it was a definite likelihood. Murder by hypnosis wasn't entirely unheard of but it was something many people were sceptical about. How could one person take another's life just because of a suggestion? How could someone let themselves be convinced to murder a loved one, regardless of how it had been done, if they weren't already capable of murder in the first place?

The debate had gone on for days, with Special Agent in Charge Frank Lewis listening keenly to all sides of the argument. He'd eventually agreed that he would accept it as a possibility and ordered his agents to cover all their bases and do their research. They had, but even after days spent looking up every source they could find on the subject, they hadn't gained any new leads.

Chloe? You there? Liam's voice brought her back to the present with a sigh and a headache she could already feel brewing behind her eyes.

I'm here. When and where?

Last night, a family home in East LA. Guy apparently stabbed his wife and kids before turning the knife on himself. A neighbour called it in this morning. There was a note of something in Liam's voice that set alarm bells ringing in her head, a note she'd heard in the voices of former classmates from Quantico in their first years out of the academy. Resignation and frustration, almost as if her partner was already counting the case amongst all of the others that had gone unsolved.

Is it definitely our guy? She held the phone to her ear as she threw back the blankets, grimacing at the sudden lack of heat. The sun might've been shining and the floor might feel warm beneath her bare feet as she padded across it to the dresser but the air in the room was still cold, gooseflesh breaking out across the bare skin exposed by the short-and-t-shirt combo she wore as pyjamas.

Red roses left on the porch at the back of the house, Liam confirmed quietly. First on scene claims it was secure. He and his partner called in back-up as soon as they recognised it was one of ours and there was always someone stationed at both the front and back entrances of the house.

Chloe sighed heavily; she couldn't help it. Over a week without a Maestro related murder had foolishly made her let her guard down a little. Not enough to believe it was truly over, or to be ready to class the investigation as cold, but enough to think that maybe they'd have a little time to catch their breath and retrace their steps before he struck again.

Text me the address, she told her partner, dragging out an old pair of black jeans and a black tank top from a drawer. Black and old was always good - that way the blood stains would either blend in and be inconspicuous or she could throw them out when she was done processing the scene. I'll be there as soon as I can.

Sending it now. See you soon.

She held the receiver to her ear for a few seconds after the click told her he'd hung up, staring at her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Her skin was pale despite having lived in Los Angeles for five years; she'd never been able to cultivate the perfect golden tan she envied on so many. The pallor of her face made her green eyes stand out, more so with the shadowed bruises underneath them, she thought with a critical sigh. She'd been hoping a weekend off would help them fade but that obviously wasn't meant to be.

With another sigh, she turned to throw the receiver of the phone onto the bed, promising herself she'd be more organised later and put it back on the cradle where it could charge, and walked into the small en-suite bathroom as her cell phone beeped from inside the pocket of the jacket she'd worn the day before.

There'd be no time to wash her hair, she thought as she pulled her t-shirt off over her head and reached for the bra she'd grabbed from the top drawer of the dresser. Murder didn't leave much time for vanity, much to the egotistical side of her brain's remorse. A hair brush and hair tie would have to do the trick, hopefully keeping the shoulder-length brunette hair under control until she had time to deal with it later.

Later. Right. Chloe snorted at the thought. Like there'd be time for later with another Maestro murder joining the stack of others in the file. She finished dressing with an efficiency gained from years of experience, foregoing make up in an attempt at shaving a few minutes off her travel time. Brushing her hair as she walked back through to her bedroom, she tied it in a high ponytail as neatly as possible and threw the brush onto the bed to join the phone. Taking a moment to secure her trusty holster, complete with service weapon, around her waist, Special Agent Lawson was almost ready to face the world.

Scooping her jacket up from the floor where she'd left it, she did a quick check to make sure her badge was still in the pocket before walking down the short, narrow hallway to her open-living-room-come-kitchen. Sliding her feet into her boots as she cast an envious glance at the coffee maker, Chloe squared her shoulders and made her way to the front door of her apartment.

Phone calls at four am on a Saturday morning were definitely never a good thing.

Chapter Two

Black and yellow crime scene tape greeted her as she walked along the sidewalk, her car parked a good five minutes away from the address Liam had sent her despite the fact the street had been cordoned off. The black van told her the coroner was already in attendance and the white truck told her the forensics team was on the scene, too.

Chloe shrugged her shoulders in a futile attempt at easing the tension already starting to knot her muscles and took her badge out of her pocket in preparation to show the officer on duty at the end of the drive. She'd had to show it to the officers manning the entrance to the street, too, and wasn't sure if she was pleased with the obvious display of security or not. On one hand, it kept the public away from her crime scene but on the other, such an obvious display of police presence would undoubtedly get people talking. Idle curiosity of passers-by was one thing; members of the press on the scent of a story like bloodhounds on a hunt was another.

Her partner was waiting for her at the entrance of the house and walked up the drive to meet her when he saw her. Chloe came to a stop in front of him, studying him out of the corner of her eye as he briefed her on what he knew. Tall, almost lanky, Liam Reynolds was young to have such a jaded look in his dark brown eyes. Two years her junior and not as experienced, Chloe couldn't help but wonder how much longer he had in him before he traded in active duty for a life behind a desk or maybe even early retirement from the Bureau. While undoubtedly good at what he did – she was picky about her partners even after the gruelling training process the FBI put its recruits through, Liam was what her mother would call a sensitive soul and she knew it cost him to witness the horrors mankind could inflict on one another.

Miles and Kathleen Brent; married for twelve years. Neighbour says they were high school sweethearts. Two kids, a girl aged five called Lucy and a boy, four months, called Patrick. Liam's expression darkened as he stared up at the two storey house. Seemed like the perfect family, according to everyone I've talked to. Devoted wife, loving husband, great parents to two happy, healthy kids…

No problems, arguments? Chloe shrugged a shoulder at the look he shot her. I've got to ask, Liam. Everyone else will.

Her partner lifted a hand, trailing his fingers through unruly sandy blond hair that was already well mussed. I know, I know. Sorry. He took a moment to collect himself, a moment Chloe allowed. The husband wasn't working. Could've resulted in some tension between them but I don't think so. There was a bottle of wine in the fridge – the good stuff. Neighbour said he was working on a screenplay, and that the wife had mentioned something about him getting good news.

Did the neighbour give a reason for why he or she decided to check up on them? Four in the morning seems a little unreasonable to be asking for a cup of sugar.

The neighbour, Brittany Kyle, has a pet dog. She let the pooch out for a potty break just after three this morning and noticed the lights were still on. Liam shrugged at the sceptical look she shot him. Said it concerned her, and that the pooch ran towards the house so she had to follow. She looked through the front window and saw the husband at the bottom of the stairs. Looks like he fell after stabbing himself.

He's definitely the killer? Chloe asked the question as she started moving towards the house, nodding at the pale-looking officer standing on the porch. It couldn't just be a break in gone wrong?

Forensics are taking the murder weapon to dust for prints but from the blood trail, it looks unlikely there was anyone else involved. There'd be tracks, footprints, if there was. And the doors, both front and back, were locked from the inside.

She noticed he trailed behind her, letting her take charge, but didn't comment. Although they were partners and he'd been the first of them to arrive at the scene, she was the senior agent – and the one with a stronger constitution.

As soon as she walked into the entrance hall of the family home, Chloe knew exactly what Liam had meant when he'd said there'd be more tracks if someone else had been involved. Even an experienced agent like herself, one who'd seen her fair share of gruesome and bloody crime scenes, had to take a moment to compose herself.

Breathe through the mouth, she told herself, not through the nose. There was a large pool of blood around the body of Miles Brent as he lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. The murder weapon was still present, buried to the hilt in his chest so only its blood stained handle was visible.

A forensic technician clad in a white boiler suit wearing shoe covers on her feet snapped photographs in an almost dispassionate manner. Distancing herself, Chloe wondered, trying to separate herself from the horror in front of her. Blood stained the carpet-covered stairs, too, and she wondered for a moment why a family with two small kids would have chosen cream.

She recalled her two younger siblings when they were small and almost winced at the memory of the destruction they'd wrought on the pale sofa her grandmother had been so proud after being left unsupervised for all of five minutes. They’d decided to try and create an artistic masterpiece with brightly coloured finger paints and Grandma’s sofa had been their canvas. Chloe had felt the consequences of their actions on her ass for almost a week when Grandma had decided that, as the oldest, she should have been paying attention to them. Shaking herself mentally to get rid of the memory, Chloe studied the blood stains on the stairs.

Not quite footprints - Miles Brent hadn't walked down the stairs but had fallen as Liam said - but there were definite blood splotches in varying shapes and sizes as his dead or dying form had bounced from step to step. The coroner would confirm if he was dead when he fell or if the fall had contributed to it but Chloe was sure either way wouldn't have made an impact on the end result - the knife was buried so deep in his chest that there was no chance he could have survived.

Shoe covers are over there, the forensic tech told her, sounding almost bored. You gotta wear them if you wanna go upstairs.

Chloe stared at her, waiting for the other woman to notice and look up. She didn't say anything but thought she didn't have to; the expression on her spoke volumes and the abashed expression on the forensic tech's face combined with the mumbled 'sorry' told her the message had been successfully received.

Taking the covers Liam held out to her and ignoring the smirk her partner was unsuccessfully trying to hide, Chloe made short work of slipping them over her boots, bypassing the white-clad woman who studiously ignored her.

She took her time on the stairs, alternately studying the family portraits on the wall with trying to visualise the events of a few hours earlier. By the time she reached the landing at the top, she was lost in the moment, picturing all too easily the actions of the dead man one floor below.

He'd taken the knife from the kitchen and had walked up stairs with it. His wife and kids had already been upstairs. Maybe bath time, maybe bedtime. Either way, they hadn't been expecting him to join them - at least not with a knife in hand and murder in mind. The wife, Kathleen, still lay where she'd died. There was no one taking photographs so Chloe crouched down, studied the face of the dead woman closely.

Did you ask him what he was doing? She wondered silently. Did you get a chance to ask before he killed you?

Kathleen Brent couldn't answer.

Glancing at the body with the experience of someone who'd seen it before, she estimated the wife had been stabbed two to three times, with at least one piercing the heart. It might've been quick but certainly not without pain or fear. She straightened when she remembered Liam standing behind her, looking to her partner with an eyebrow arched questioningly.

From the blood trail, it looks like he caught up with her as she was leaving the baby's room, Liam informed her. His gaze strayed to the doorway beyond Kathleen's body but he made no attempt at walking towards it. The baby, Patrick, was stabbed once. There's a trail of blood drops from his room to the little girl's room. Doc Wright will probably confirm she was the last, bar the father, to be killed.

Not wanting to go into either child's room but knowing she had to, Chloe took a deep breath to prepare herself. She stepped over the body on the floor at her feet and walked into the baby's room just as the coroner was lifting the tiny body from the crib. Bright colours decorated the walls of the room but they paled in comparison to the vivid red of the blood on the pale blue blankets that had no doubt once been wrapped lovingly around the lifeless little boy.

There was a picture on one wall, a child's drawing. In it, a crudely drawn family of stick people beamed underneath an exaggerated bright yellow sun. The big stickman held one of the little stick girl's hands, the big stickwoman holding the other. In the big stickwoman's other hand was a tiny stick boy and the words that broke her heart were scrawled in multi-coloured crayon in what was unmistakably the handwriting of a child: 'welcome to our family, Patrick'.

Chloe allowed her eyes to close, willing back the sting of tears. As far as crime scenes went, she'd seen worse, but it was that little memento - a reminder that the bodies she stood over had once been people, a family, with hopes and dreams and so much wasted potential - that threatened to betray her composure.

Chloe? His voice as soft as the hand he let rest momentarily on her arm, Liam watched her in obvious concern.

I'm okay. The words were automatic and she told herself they were the truth and not the lie they felt like. She squared her shoulders and straightened her spine, catching the eye of the medical examiner as he finished zipping up the small body bag. Doc.

Chloe. Liam. Doctor George Wright gave them a small nod in greeting, his aged face seeming to have developed a dozen more lines since she'd seen him last just mere days ago. The coroner was only weeks from retirement and had confessed to her during their last Maestro-related murder that it couldn't come soon enough. No offence meant but I had hoped I wouldn't see you two again. At least not until the surprise party I'm not supposed to know about.

No offence taken. Chloe tried to smile at him but it fell flat. I was hoping the same thing.

Doctor Wright sighed heavily, his hand lingering over the zipper of the body bag. His eyes, so big and blue, were sad when he looked up at her again. Poor little thing. My grandson's about the same age. Recalling the photograph of the little baby boy she'd been shown with pride by the doting grandfather earlier in the year, Chloe could only glance away in response, swallowing the lump that rose in her throat. You'll catch him. Or her. Whoever's responsible for this. You'll get them.

She held her head up, determined, and looked him in the eye as she answered. We will.

Good. Satisfied, as if having no doubt that her word was good, Doctor Wright gently picked up the body bag, almost cradling it against him as he prepared to carry it out of the room. I'll get started on the autopsies first thing. I'll let you know when I'm done.

Thanks, Doc.

The removal of the body did nothing to ease the nausea in her stomach as she looked around. Chloe forced her mind away from the little boy and the life that had been taken from him and promised herself she'd get him justice by catching the true killer - the person responsible for making his father a murder weapon. She studied the blood drops on the floor as the forensics team had done. There was no sign of a hesitation, no accumulation of blood where Miles had stood over his son's body and paused to question what he was doing. The murder had been quick, thoughtless.

They've already taken the daughter's body, Liam told her as they left one bedroom and prepared to enter another. I told them it would be okay.

She shot him a look but didn't say anything. While she had no real desire to see the lifeless form of the little girl who'd been stabbed in her bed, it was her responsibility as lead on the case to study the scene and make sure nothing was missed. While Liam was her partner and his account of events would be no doubt detailed in his report, she still felt annoyed that the decision had been taken from her.

Without a word to her partner, Chloe crossed the landing to the daughter's bedroom. She didn't need the body to be there for her to picture the scene, her imagination supplying her with an image of the little girl whose photographs had adorned the wall of the staircase. There was blood on the sheets, seeping through the thin material. She followed the blood trail with her eyes as it both entered the room and left it, noting the footprints made by Miles as he'd left, standing in the drops that had fallen from the knife on his way to his daughter's bed.

After several moments, she turned and walked out of the bedroom, aware of Liam shadowing her. Walking back downstairs, she noted the absence of both