The Code: A Christopher Lance Thriller

By L. Jerome Word

Solve an unsolvable crime. Break an unbreakable code...

A decade ago, Emily Stuart was America’s sweetheart until the world class gymnast is murdered in her prime. But that’s not all. Emily fell to a serial murderer known as the Code Killer. Her murder was one of six, and the killer left behind a cryptic tattoo on each victim, a code of sorts. The police never caught the killer or cracked the code!

Christopher Lance does not know when to stop...

To be with the woman he has always loved, Jordan Hilliard, Christopher moves to New York and, in doing so, leaves behind the newspaper world. His world. Without a fresh mystery to solve, Christopher is lost until he meets Jordan’s new boss, manipulative half billionaire Michael Park. When the two are alone, Park asks Christopher to look into the unresolved murder of an old college friend, Emily Stuart. What Christopher finds changes everything!

Christopher’s investigation leads him to the doorstep of another millionaire, Patrick Sweet, who when not building high-rise condos along the Miami skyline spends his time enjoying the finer things in life. Sweet, as a young man, had been a suspect in Emily’s murder. Now Sweet appears to be just a flamboyant man who spends money as fast as he makes it. However, things are never as they seem. Christopher is soon caught between a high stakes game played by two millionaires. As Christopher gets closer to the truth, and Jordan gets drawn into the world of her powerful boss, bodies start dropping again after ten years, Code Killer style.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. Jerome Word
• Release date: Jan 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310526282

L. Jerome Word

Born near Nashville, Tennessee, after bouncing around the Midwest and Deep South, the author now resides in Jackson, Tennessee with his wife. At night, during those nocturnal hours, he writes, but during the day he ‘makes a living’.His next Christopher Lance Novel will be available winter of 2013.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Waterbury, Connecticut

Waterbury Police Station

10 Years Earlier

The specter of a dead girl filled the room. In that room, an assortment of middle-aged Connecticut cops watched a sixteen-year-old South Korean gymnast attack the balance beam with the ferociousness of a lion. Su Kim, a phenom, was the favorite to win the gold. Her first pass was shaky, but then she righted herself, toes clutching the edge of the beam as if they were claws. She thrust her chest out and arms up and moved in a twirling motion that was athletic and elegant at the same time. After the theatrics, Su Kim stood still at the end of the beam, taking a deep breath in preparation for her dismount.

In the room, cops watched in silence. Someone tried to say something and all the others quieted him with a collective ‘shh’. Some cops allowed tears to well, and others allowed only smirks of disgust. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Sure, Su Kim was a talent for the ages and certainly, she belonged on the podium, receiving a medal, just not the gold. That honor belonged to Emily Stuart except….

Su Kim dropped her arms, lowered her head, and ran with a combination of power and precision. She leapt. She tucked. She twirled and landed flawlessly. The crowd stood to their feet, and the announcers barked wildly. Inside the Waterbury police station, half the officers booed, and the other half slunk quietly back to work. Detective James Riordan did neither. He stood silent in the center of the room, watching the group of South Korean gymnasts hug their victorious teammate and wishing things could be different.

A thin officer with bad breath walked to Riordan’s side and whispered in his ear. It should’ve been our girl Emily on that podium. But don’t worry, Jim, you’ll get this sick bastard, the Code. Riordan nodded. By the way, where’s Danny? Everybody’s watching except him.

Riordan smiled at the officer but didn’t speak. He had nothing to say, really. Their girl Emily deserved better. Dan Lawless was doing his job, trying to ensure someone, whoever was responsible, be held to account.

*

For Patrick Sweet, the anonymous interrogation room had walls that seemingly moved, creeping toward him at a snail’s pace. No matter the speed, in those few moments sitting alone, he felt the world collapsing on him because those walls would not stop moving. The dream/nightmare sequence gained balance only from the hard metal chair where he sat and the slimy metal table where he tapped his fingers. The repetition of tapping his fingers acted as a mental trigger that reminded him of his training. Following those simple principles, he regulated his breathing and calmed his nerves.

Why would the police question him about the murder of Emily Stuart? He had no idea what the police knew, but that didn’t matter, according to his training. He was better than the cops. Smarter. More prepared.

He watched a burly man with thinning hair and a scowl on his face enter the room. I’m detective Dan Lawless, Patrick.

Yes sir, Patrick said.

No doubt you know why you’re here.

About some girl I don’t know.

Emily Stuart.

Yeah. Yes, sir.

You don’t know who she is? Gold medalist in gymnastics at the World Championships last year. Homegrown product. She’s a pretty, big fuckin’ deal around here.

She was a pretty, big fucking deal, the one and only Emily Stuart. Beauty and brawn in one tight package. He knew her, but Patrick Sweet, who sported a perfect grade point average in computer science, wasn’t giving Lawless free information. I think I heard my sister go on about her. That’s all.

Let’s make this easy. Real easy. Lawless leaned forward, sinking his face into a deeper scowl than before. You fed my partner a pile of crap when he spoke with you earlier. Pure shit. We’ve got an eyewitness.

Am I under arrest, Detective?

No. No, you’re not.

Then with all due respect, sir, you are the one spreading feces.

Lawless lowered his head and pressed his fingers into the palms of his hands. Patrick Sweet heard something that sounded like ‘asshole’ under Lawless’s breath.

The dirty metal door creaked open, and another detective, a man Patrick had spoken to for hours earlier in the day, poked his head inside. Danny, we need to talk.

*

Outside the interrogation room, Dan Lawless scanned the face of his partner and mentor. What the hell is going on, interrupting me like that? What happened to protocol?

Detective James Riordan placed a firm hand on his partner’s shoulder. You were losing your cool. Doesn’t matter anyway. This guy isn’t the Code.

Oh, no. Don’t start doubting yourself now. He’s the one. We’ve got this maniac’s profile down. Young, white male. Check. Highly intelligent. Check. Loner. Check.

Yes, I know—

We’ve got a dead girl, America’s sweetheart, daughter of a goddamned federal judge. The other victims of this maniac were bad enough, but we need to solve this one. The country’s looking at us—

His alibis check out, Danny. We haven’t checked all of them but, for at least two of the murders, his alibi is iron clad. If Emily’s murder is part of the Code, he’s not our guy.

Dan Lawless stepped away from his oldest confidant as if the old man’s influence corrupted his analytical mind. He placed a hand on the interrogation room door and then laid his head against it. Did the South Korean girl win?

Come on, Danny, Riordan said. It’s all over now. The medal ceremony, everything. Let’s grab a bite to eat.

He’s got a partner. Lawless slammed his fist against the door. They’re tag teaming this…this whatever you call it. Insanity.

I wish it were true, Riordan said, opening the door leading away from the interrogation area. Nearly gone, he turned back. We surveilled this guy for two weeks before bringing him in. We talked to high school classmates, college classmates, shit, we even ran down some potheads he worked with on summer jobs. All of them, each and every one of them said this guy is the epitome of a lone wolf. As sad as it may seem, Patrick Sweet doesn’t appear to have a friend in the entire world.

CHAPTER 2

Northern, California

An Unmarked Compound

Present Day

The Passenger slid out the side door of a rented minivan, the perennial vehicle of sensible soccer moms. Not looking back at the Driver, the Passenger hoisted a duffel bag with all the required tools to complete the project. The night was impossibly dark. Clear sky. A Northern California dream.

Shifting and shimmying down a slope where the two-lane road trailed off, the Passenger entered a dense maze of spectacular redwoods. This was known because the Passenger had visited the location before, several times actually, to perform the necessary research. Hidden behind the vast barrier of trees and nestled between a valley of absolutely nothing, sat a compound filled with bruised, battered, and confused souls. One of those souls happened to be their project’s Mark. Inside the compound was a Pentagon like enclave with a large open-air conservatory in the middle. Inside the circular area under roof were modest dorm rooms, prayer pavilions, and a grand meeting room used for prophetic announcements and dining.

By counting steps and feeling the circumference of trees, the Passenger emerged through the forest, to a place that overlooked the compound, the home of God’s Favor. The half-mile hike to the compound turned into just under a mile because the Passenger sought to avoid security cameras situated at each of the structures five corners.

After scaling a wall and dislodging a ventilation duct cover, the Passenger slipped inside. The project was twenty-seven seconds ahead of schedule. Their Mark slept in chamber sixty-six. The Mark, someone who always seemed to be a few seconds behind the pace set by the real leaders of the world, was a late joiner and recent convert to the God’s Favor Mission. He was member number sixty-six out of seventy-nine. In the compound, at that very moment, were seventy-nine members of God’s Favor, a cult that believed electric transmission lines emitted powerful signals that weakened the body’s defenses against the devil’s assault. Hence, the move to a sandy rift in the shadows of the Shasta Mountains where a monstrous DC generator, which shielded them from the side effects that allowed nasty demons to enter the body, illuminated the prayer pavilion where all seventy-nine members would be for the next hour.

In the hallway leading to chamber sixty-six, the Passenger setup miniature cameras, which operated off a wireless hotspot in the duffle bag. With the task finished, the Passenger tapped an earpiece. Do you have visuals?

Crystal clear.

I’m entering sixty-six.

You’ve made excellent time. The Driver’s voice came through the small device with a mechanical like clarity.

The Passenger opened the chamber door, and all chambers went unlocked. The members of Favor trusted one another fully, according to their website’s manifesto. The Passenger snickered. Their Mark, a man known to them for nearly twenty years, trusted no one. He simply wasn’t capable.

Inside the chamber, on the walls there was a giant calendar and verses, but not from the Bible; instead the verses came from the Favor’s leader, a strange man, who until a few years earlier made a living affixing satellite dishes to cookie cutter homes in walled off subdivisions. Near the bed, sitting on a simple wooden box that doubled as a nightstand sat the picture of a younger man, smiling, healthy, standing atop the highest peak on Earth.

Memories rushed back, not of that trip because the Passenger had not been atop the mountain, but of earlier times. I don’t want to do this, the Passenger thought.

What did you say? The last phrase. It didn’t quite come through.

The Passenger placed a hand over the earpiece, realizing words and not simply thoughts had been uttered ever so lightly. Nothing. I’m going under. The Passenger slid underneath the bed and waited for evening prayer to end, which would bring about an inevitable confrontation. Silence. The room smelled of rubbing alcohol and faint jasmine.

Twenty seconds. ETA, the Driver transmitted. Ten, nine, eight…

The Passenger hated countdowns, but refocused when the chamber door clicked. The Passenger then started another countdown…five seconds to removing the prayer robe…ten seconds to slip on Favor issued pajamas…five seconds to spread toothpaste on a brush. Rolling from underneath the bed, the Passenger gripped a state of the art electroshock weapon. Guaranteed to incapacitate a mule. The Passenger was on the Mark before he was even able to stuff his brush in his mouth.

He let out a sickening growl before tumbling backwards into the arms of the Passenger, who pulled him into the center of the room. They locked on each other’s eyes. The Mark’s eyes flashed the kind of shock brought on by three hundred kilovolts of electricity coursing through one’s body. But behind the shock, the Passenger knew, dwelled a deep hurt and disappointment. From the duffle, the Passenger produced two rags, one to place over the eyes of the pitiful man in the floor and the other to apply the chloroform. Hovering over the Mark, his eyes now covered, the Passenger placed the antiseptic rag over his nose and mouth and then waited.

You have a possible infiltrator at twenty seconds, the Driver said.

Man or woman?

Woman…five seconds…you’re infiltrated. Prepare to take her out.

The Passenger grabbed the rag that now only covered the victim’s mouth and dashed behind the door. Click. Before the woman could scream, the Passenger placed a forearm around her neck and a rag over her face. She struggled, but she was soft. Unlike the Passenger, she hadn’t trained weeks for this project.

With two unconscious victims on the floor and three minutes of schedule to make up, the Passenger unfolded a plastic body bag and unzipped the length in one motion. The final act of the three-part murder was carried out on autopilot. Feet up and in the bag. Same thing with the head. Grab the shoulders and twist. When the stomach lay flat on the floor, the Passenger zipped the Mark up tight. For the final piece, the coup de grace, the Passenger fixed a portable vacuum sealer to small nozzle on one end of the bag and drew a vacuum in seconds. The result was a less than perfect vacuum, but under the conditions perfect would be unreasonable. For the Passenger, the seal was good enough. Death would come in minutes.

Finished, the Passenger removed the cameras, maneuvered through the ceiling vents, and dropped back to the ground. The night had grown cool, and the sky remained a clear black. Back at the van, the Driver had the side door open, waiting for the Passenger’s arrival.

You’re thirty seconds ahead of schedule even after the infiltration. Flawless execution. You did get everything from his room, all of his belongings?

The Passenger tossed the duffle into the backseat and buckled up. His world is in the bag. Everything in his itsy-bitsy room. His last will and testament, so to speak. Pathetic, really.

The Driver pulled off into the night and within minutes the pair merged onto the highway, heading south toward San Francisco. Are you okay?

Emotionally? Don’t be silly. Of course, I’m fine.

But he was a—

Simply someone who had turned into a weakling and needed to be disposed of, the Passenger said, looking to the Driver.

The Driver smiled. So, I take it you’re ready to start research on the next project.

The weekend, the Passenger said. I have clients flying in from Europe on Monday and a board meeting on Wednesday. And you?

Yes, yes. Work will be quite hectic this week. We’ll start on the weekend.

One hour later the non-descript rental minivan entered a sparsely occupied rest stop and parked next to a tan Toyota sedan. The Driver grabbed the duffle bag and drove off in the Toyota, the one rented and left at the rest stop earlier that day. The Passenger, now alone, slid over to the driver’s seat, waited thirty minutes, and headed toward the airport, intent on catching the first flight of the morning. Mission complete.

CHAPTER 3

New York City, New York

I looked down at the maze of wood boards, rods, screws, and pins. What a mess, I thought, a minor catastrophe. The mess, a shelving unit purchased over the internet from some big box store, was supposed to ease the logjam of clothing in Jordan’s dwarfish closet. Instead, the contraption had just come crashing to the floor, and, in some ways, I thought the failure an imprecise metaphor for our relationship over the past month or two. At one moment, sturdy, functioning, but not quite spectacular. Something we could not do without. At other points, a confusing jumble of parts that maybe weren’t ever meant to fit together.

Stop it! I even silently mouthed the words to myself. These days, away from the newspaper game and my friends in Atlanta, I spent too much time in my head. I needed a villain to chase, a real bogeyman. I felt that something or someone was coming my way. Still that wouldn’t be the answer to the problems between me and — Jordan!

I felt her arms around me. Sorry, Ghostface. I didn’t mean to scare you.

I said, You didn’t scare me, though I had jumped high enough to bump my head against the ceiling.

My fiancée, girlfriend, soul mate, and friend since I was a chubby kid in braces inched her head around my shoulders to get a glimpse at my minimal fail, my inability to follow the instructions within a package of parts. I, too, looked at the jumble of parts and thought of it in relation to my personal madness.

Jordan understood this, as she always had, and placed a kiss on my cheek. Cheap materials. You can just never tell what you’re going to get over the internet.

I sighed. You’re home early.

She removed her hands from around my waist and took a step backwards. I took her in. The curves, the sweep of her cheekbones, her lips, her lashes, and her hips made me weak. I’ve big news. She paused, her hands on her hips and her forehead lowered. Her immersion in the New York City media world had cultivated her dramatic flair.

Spill it already.

"You know that my magazine just got sold, right. Media Glare was bought by this man, not much older than us, Michael Park."

"Hedge fund guy, whiz kid, looking to be hip. That’s what the Journal and Times say anyway."

"I don’t know if he’s a whiz kid or if he’s trying to be hip, but I met with him this morning, and he gave me a big, fat promotion. You are now looking at the new editor-in-chief of Media Glare. Dig that!"

How? I said. Not surprised at anything that Jordan accomplished, but this was a whirlwind. What happened to Harold?

She leapt into my arms. "Harold wanted to take Glare in one direction. Michael wanted another one. When Harold decided to leave, he recommended me. Apparently, Michael was already impressed with my work."

Is that right? I said, kissing her.

Yeah, that’s right, she said, kissing me back.

Now I can tell everyone that my fiancée is a fucking big deal.

Jordan reached for my belt and then for my zipper. I think you’re the one that’s a fucking big deal if you know what I mean.

Without a clear memory of how it happened, every stitch of Jordan’s clothing found its way to the floor. We made love until we were too tired to move. I slide into a luxurious dream that went something like this: a beautiful wedding ceremony in June, a burgeoning career as a writer with awards, excitement on the side from chasing bad guys and always catching them, and infrequent but lengthy vacations with the woman I love to places without Wi-Fi connections. I woke to my cell phone ringing and an empty bed. I reached for the sleek, rounded device and was met with Jordan’s feathery touch.

Let it go, she said. I looked up and found her naked. In one hand, she held white wine from a vineyard in Jersey, and, in the other hand, she held two glasses. I’ve got water and bubbles in the tub.

She slithered into the water, and I eased in behind her. She lay back against my chest, and I breathed as easy as I ever had. With my nightmares having receded and only the occasional flare up, I began to enjoy the goodness of life – bubble baths, the burnt sweetness of local wines, and Jordan Renee Hilliard. She sang a song, and I listened.

Our vision for the magazine is going to require some sacrifice.

Our?

Yes. Michael and mine. We’ve got the same vision for how to grow the magazine. That’s why I got the job.

And sacrifices?

She sat her glass on the bathtub’s edge and took my hand. Longer hours. Travel. That kind of thing. Are you okay with that?

Heck yeah. While I spoke the truth, I hoped my apprehension hadn’t seeped into my voice. Among the cities eight million residents, it wouldn’t have been possible to find someone more excited than me. But my apprehension, my doubt, came from my own personal upheaval. I had left the brick and mortar newspaper world in Atlanta. I had done it mostly for Jordan, but I had needed the change. My plan was to pick up freelance gigs, run a blog on solving cold cases, which I am now known for, and hock my book. My freelance work was steady but didn’t pay what I had planned. Plus, I never had to leave our apartment. My blog was not as widely read as I had hoped. And finally, the book, that damned book. It had been out for a few months and had done well. It was a bestseller, but I didn’t agree with my publisher’s marketing strategy, and they didn’t give a damn about my disagreement. With all of the change and isolation, the one thing that made it bearable was Jordan’s presence. Our dinners in the evening and wine and song every other late night at someone’s club or dive. However, more work for Jordan meant more isolation for me. It will be okay, I told myself. Stay positive and support the woman you love, just as she supported you all those years.

I’ve got one more surprise, she said.

Let me brace myself, I said and playfully held onto the sides of the tube.

Michael’s a fan of yours and he wants to meet you, the dashing and adventurous Christopher Lance. He invited us to dinner at his estate tomorrow night.

Dinner with a guy worth half a billion dollars made in hedge funds, who traded all that for the relatively more glamorous life of a media mogul. My soon to be wife was taking me places.

Christopher, she said, after a long silence. There’s only one problem.

And that is, Dear?

There’s absolutely nothing in that pile of clothes in our bedroom suitable for dining with a half billionaire.

Indeed, Sweetheart, I said. Indeed.

We both laughed and finished off the bottle. I laid back, felt her wet smooth skin, and enjoyed a growing buzz. I prayed we could stay this way forever, and if not that, at least for the rest of our lifetimes.

CHAPTER 4

Darien, Connecticut

The Park Estate

The ride approaching the Park Estate, along a winding mile long driveway, provided a brilliant view of what seemed like a zillion acres laid out across rolling hills. The landscaping revealed the restraint of old money. Subtle and tasteful. The same could be said for the car that had picked up Jordan and me, your standard issue Lincoln Town Car limousine. All that understatement evaporated once we stepped into the foyer and met a cache of Park’s staff — large, technology-enabled security guards, barking commands, a definite symbol of the outrageousness of new money.

Out of that group, one guard stepped forward and offered his hand. Welcome to the Estate in The Fallows. Mr. Park wishes for you to join him for drinks in his lounge later, but he’s been detained on a business call. Los Angeles. He’s asked me to provide you with the four-star tour. The man laughed at his own assertion, the practiced chuckle of someone used to making rich people happy. Follow me this way. The tall, thin man appeared to have a kind lanky strength that would surprise a larger man if a conflict broke out. His name was Rudolpho Pettibone, head of Park’s security team.

We ascended a spiral staircase and down a hall with impossibly high ceilings. The marble tile beneath our feet shone from the slivers of light bouncing in through the hall’s wall length windows. The floor was slippery and, just as I reached out to steady Jordan, Pettibone spoke.

Careful on the tile. I do apologize, but we had the floors waxed just this morning and, of course, Michael was upset that the help, Nico, hadn’t read the daily schedule. If he had read the schedule, he would have known that guests were expected, one of them a splendid lady who would surely don heels and thus it would be prudent to shave off a coat or two on the wax.

A Spaniard? I whispered in Jordan’s direction, remarking on Rudolpho’s accent. She raised a finger to her lips to quiet me.

At a dead end, we turned and entered a taller, more fabulous hall, and this one contained paintings on both sides of the wall. Of all Michael’s possessions and he has quite a few, he is most proud of this collection. Pettibone, an art aware security expert, explained the unique features of each work. As we moved along the hallway, he discussed delicate brush strokes and avant-garde use of color.

I had no idea that Mr. Park was a collector?

Ms. Hilliard? Pettibone looked at me, not Jordan, which forced me to nod. Yes, Mr. Park collects many things, and he’s proud of all of them. It’s just that the paintings are his favorite.

We continued until we reached a second floor balcony, one the size of a suburban cookie-cutter master bedroom, that overlooked the eastern side of the grounds. Fall was in full flourish and the colors, oranges and reds, provided a landscape more impressive than any of the million dollar paintings on Park’s wall. Pettibone explained the native region of each tree, flower, plant, bush and shrub. This guy, Park, had to be some kind of maniac.

Please call him Michael, Pettibone said. Both our faces must have displayed confusion. Earlier, Ms. Hilliard, you called Michael ‘Mr. Park’. He insists that everyone who works for him use his first name, Michael. I’m surprised he hasn’t — excuse me. Only then did I notice the small receiver attached to his ear. Pettibone turned his head away from us and placed his long, creepy hand over his ear. Let’s venture downstairs. Michael’s ready.

Pettibone called the room a study, but the expansive space surrounded with books on all four walls was anything but an ordinary study. The room was bathed in the color brown — hard wood floors, dark wood bookcases, and old-world wooden furniture. In the middle of this expanse stood a thin man of modest height. Even though he had called Pettibone to say that he was ready for us, Park seemed surprised when we actually showed up in his giant study.

He rushed toward us. Really, he only rushed toward Jordan, taking her hand, pulling her close, and kissing her cheek. Dear, Jordan. I’m so happy to have you at my home. And you look, well…exquisite.

Thank you, Michael.

Ah, Mr. Pettibone must have gotten to you. I would have told you to call me Michael eventually. Working relationships, especially close ones, like I expect ours to be, sometimes require cultivation.

Mr. Pettibone? Jordan said.

He calls me Michael and I call him mister. We have a strange relationship. I must admit. But we’ve worked together for many years, and I have no closer friend or confidant. Well, except for my wife.

And where is your wife? Will she join us? I asked. I had finally had enough of the third wheel treatment and cleared my throat.

Christopher! Park stepped away from me and angled his head just so. All of these movements appeared to be an attempt to look me over. So, you are the great adventurer, investigator, and crack reporter. Finally, after satisfying whatever preconceived notion he had of me, he offered me a handshake and ushered us forward to a small bar. He poured drinks and engaged my fiancée in shoptalk.

We must drive distribution and penetration, Park said.

Readership is king, Jordan said. Park looked pleased.

Agree but so is format flexibility.

Yes and we must drive all of them – print, video, static pages.

Again, Park smiled and ran his hands through his long, black hair that nearly touched his shoulder. All of this. Exactly. But one element is greater.

Quality.

Yes, Jordan, yes. Quality. Every article, every photo, every layout. All of it must be unfailingly intertwined with quality.

I was glassy eyed. I was an internet guy now. I blogged, and I still wrote freelance for traditional print, but their corporate lingo bullshit was about to drop me. I eyed my empty glass with disdain. I needed another drink. Luckily, another member of the staff poked a head into the study and announced dinner.

Over duck and pasta drizzled with a light white wine sauce, we learned that Park’s parents had arrived in the country as immigrants from South Korea. His parents did not have the