Dark Justice by Kristi Belcamino (smallest ebook reader .txt) 📗

it had no windows in the back. The only windows were the front windshield and the windows on the driver’s side and passenger side.

Tony knew what I needed. There was a curtain you could pull that was right behind the seats so you had complete privacy in the back of the van.

Although the outside of the van was beat-up—dented with patches of bondo—the inside wasn’t as bad. It was equipped as a temporary mobile home:

A thin twin mattress was on the floor with a military-style sleeping bag neatly rolled on top of it. There was something that I could only describe as a chamber pot with a screwed-on lid. Gross. But maybe necessary. Gallon-sized water bottles lined one wall, held back with a webbed strap. A milk crate held military rations. But the best part was the laptop. It was inside a case that looked like it would survive a drop from a twenty-story building. An index card taped to the top of it gave the log-in information and explained how to connect to a satellite Wi-Fi network. Sweet. A small box held two more burner phones that had not yet been activated. A duffel bag held some changes of clothing—thick woolen shirts, socks, and sweaters. A heavy wool pea coat lay on the bed too.

I had no idea how Tony pulled it all together so quickly but suspected this was all part of his own bug-out kit.

It was nearly dawn and I still hadn’t slept. I was exhausted. I unrolled the sleeping bag and then leaned up against one cold wall of the van, pulling the laptop on my lap.

I logged in and started digging around, looking for information on Deepfake. But then I realized it was a waste of my time. Danny was handling that. I needed more info on our suspects. Right now, every person who was at that first gala fundraising meeting was a suspect. Someone there had targeted me that night.

I went down the list of names. For each name, I logged into search engines that only existed on the Dark Web.

After I researched the first five names, I didn’t feel like I was any further along than when I’d started. One guy who had made his billions on a Silicon Valley start-up had a little bit of a sketchy background. He was dishonorably discharged from the military about fifteen years before for an incident involving “friendly fire.” After digging deeper, I found that he’d lost his shit and accidentally shot up a home with women and children in Afghanistan. When one of his fellow soldiers had stumbled on the scene and tried to intervene, he’d turned and “accidentally” killed the man. Holy fuck. He could be the guy.

The entire thing had been covered up in the interest of “national security,” allowing him to go on with his normal life. And apparently become a billionaire. What a joke. This guy was clearly unstable. I thought back, trying to remember any interactions I had with him. The only impression I had was that he was super arrogant, quiet, and talked to my chest instead of my face. Ew.

He was my best suspect so far. But what was his motivation? Maybe he was just a nutjob? But the murders were too methodical to be crimes of passion. There had to be a motivation. What would someone gain by killing members of the gala fundraising committee? Was he Jewish and offended by the opera like so many others? Maybe he was killing in protest?

I still needed to make my way down the list. I yawned and stretched. I wish I had a coffee maker in the van. Outside, I could hear the low murmur of voices. I got up to stretch more and peeked out the curtain. I could see a few fires in trash cans. It was just starting to get light. Dark figures huddled around them, and smoke poured out of them in plumes. I had a chill all the way down to my bones. I’d finish up and crawl into the sleeping bag. It would keep me warm. It was made for extreme cold.

Back on the bed, I decided to search Nicoletta Marchese.

After I waded through all the press clippings about her illustrious career, I had to admit I felt a bit jealous. She was a really accomplished opera singer. It explained a little bit about why she was such a diva. In fact, looking at the press on her, I was surprised she wasn’t even more of a bitch. People adored her. She was sweet and attentive to her fans. She gave extravagantly to charity, and she’d had her heart broken two years ago by another opera singer she was engaged to. He ran off with a Brazilian model a decade younger. The press had covered the break-up ad nauseam, painting her as a sweet woman who had been wronged.

It made me question whether I was right to disapprove of her relationship with James. Maybe she really cared about him. Maybe she was really looking for love and had found it with him. I frowned. I just didn’t buy it. As much as I wanted to believe that she might be good for James, something stopped me. It was gut instinct. I listened to that. I’d learned over the years that ignoring it was only at my own peril.

I decided to dig deeper.

I used some Dark Web tricks to dig up photos from her childhood, teen, and young adult years. Some were on her mother’s Facebook page.

Yawning, I idly scrolled through pictures of her as a young girl and then into ones of her as a teen. Then I froze.

She was at a high school dance with a young man who looked familiar. I zoomed in on the picture. It looked like Charles Wellington. Then I scrolled through the “likes” and the comments and found someone with the same last name. It was a woman.

I clicked on that profile.

The account was disabled, but as