For Wrath, page 7
"Dom, this is Agent Morgan Cross from the FBI," Patty explained, her voice wavering slightly. "She's here about... Dr. Friedman?"
"Dr. Friedman? The 'whack job' surgeon?" Dom's face darkened, and Morgan took note of the anger simmering beneath his words.
"Whack job" might have been a bit strong, but Morgan couldn't deny that something about Friedman had put her on edge. However, she needed to stay focused on the task at hand. "I'm investigating a series of crimes, and I'd like to ask you both a few questions about your experiences with Dr. Friedman."
"Of course," Patty agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Whatever we can do to help."
"Is this about the murders?" Dom asked. "I heard about it on the news."
Morgan's eyes widened in surprise as she processed Dom's words. "You heard about the murders on the news?" she asked, her mind racing with the implications of this information. "And it made you think of Dr. Friedman?"
"Exactly," Dom replied, his expression grim. "I mean, I know it sounds crazy, but when they described what happened to those poor women... it just reminded me of that surgeon Patty had a consultation with a while back. The guy was really pushing for her to get a facelift, even though she's only thirty-four."
Patty squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, avoiding Morgan's gaze. "He didn't seem like a bad person, though," she insisted, her voice barely audible. "In the end, I only got some injections. No facelifts or anything like that."
Morgan studied the couple, taking in their body language and the tension in the room. She could sense Patty's embarrassment and reluctance to discuss her experience with Dr. Friedman, and Dom's protective nature, his concern for his wife clear in every word he spoke.
"Still, it's not every day you hear about women being killed and their faces mutilated like that," Dom continued, his voice tight with anger. "When I heard about it, my first thought was that sketchy surgeon who wanted to cut my wife open for no good reason."
As Morgan listened to Dom's words, her gut instinct told her that there was more to this story than met the eye. Something about Lance Friedman was off, and if these victims were connected to him in any way, it was crucial that she followed up on every lead. She couldn't let another woman suffer at the hands of this brutal killer.
"Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me," she said, her tone sincere. "Your insights could prove invaluable to our investigation."
"Absolutely," Dom said.
The conviction in Dom's voice was enough to convince Morgan that Lance Friedman was a viable suspect. She nodded her thanks to the couple, standing up and adjusting her coat. "I appreciate your candor," she said. "You've given me a lot to think about."
"Stay safe," Dom called after her as she left their home. The door clicked shut behind her, and Morgan allowed herself a moment to process everything she had just learned.
"Time to pay Dr. Friedman another visit," she muttered under her breath, reaching for her phone to call for backup as she walked towards her car. Her fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel as she drove back to the clinic, her mind racing with the possibilities. Were Patty and Sheryl simply isolated cases, or was there something more sinister at play?
CHAPTER NINE
Morgan arrived at Lance's clinic to find it empty, the bright atmosphere tainted by the suspicion now clouding her thoughts. Police officers combed through the sterile environment, examining the unsettling photos of unnaturally smooth faces that adorned the walls. The receptionist sat behind the front desk, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she watched the activity around her.
"Where's Dr. Friedman?" Morgan asked, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of him.
The receptionist shook her head, her voice trembling slightly. "He left right after you did earlier, Agent Cross. He seemed... agitated."
"Did he say where he was going?" Morgan pressed, trying to suppress her growing sense of urgency.
"No," the receptionist admitted, biting her lip. "But he took his laptop and some files with him. It looked like he was in a hurry."
"Damn it," Morgan cursed under her breath. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but she needed to find Friedman before she could confirm her suspicions. She turned to one of the officers nearby, her voice firm. "I want eyes on every airport, train station, and bus terminal in the city. Friedman can't have gone far."
"Understood, Agent Cross," the officer replied, immediately relaying her orders to his colleagues.
As she watched the flurry of activity around her, Morgan couldn't shake the nagging feeling that they were running out of time. The killer had already claimed two victims, and if Lance Friedman was involved, he would likely strike again. She needed to find him – and fast – before another woman's face became his twisted canvas.
Morgan's gaze lingered on the empty doorway of Dr. Friedman's office, a chill running down her spine as she considered the implications of his sudden disappearance. The receptionist fidgeted nervously under Morgan's scrutiny, wringing her hands in her lap. Morgan got the sense that the girl knew more than she was letting on.
"Are you sure you don't know where he went?" Morgan asked.
The receptionist wrung her hands more, nervousness written all over her face. "I... well..." She sighed. "I think there's something you should know."
"Go on," Morgan urged.
"Dr. Friedman asked me to book him another flight to Mexico," she confessed, her eyes downcast. "He seemed really desperate to leave like he was trying to escape something. It was strange because he just got back from a trip last night."
"Mexico?" Morgan repeated, her mind racing. "Did he mention why he was going there?"
"No, but I've overheard him talking about plastic surgery practices on the phone with people I didn't recognize," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I hate to say it, but I suspect he might be taking bribes to send clients to Mexico for dangerous surgeries that are illegal here in America."
"Last night, you said?" Morgan asked, gears turning in her head. If Lance had been in Mexico last night, then he couldn't have been in the country when Sheryl Stewart died. Then again, maybe he was never in Mexico. Morgan needed to know more.
The receptionist nodded. "Yes, he came back late last night. I thought it was odd that he wanted to leave again so soon and right after your visit, no less."
Morgan clenched her fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. She needed answers, but it felt like every new lead only led to more questions.
"Thank you for your help," Morgan said, forcing her voice to remain steady. "We'll find Dr. Friedman and get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, stay safe and let us know if he tries to contact you."
Morgan stormed back outside just as her cell phone rang again. She took it out and answered promptly, propping a hand on her hip as she took in the street around her.
“This is Cross,” she said.
“Cross, we’ve got eyes on Friedman,” the officer on the other end said. “We’ve spotted his car, and it looks like he’s heading straight to the airport.”
Morgan grits her teeth. It was like she'd suspected—Lance was trying to make a run for it.
Not on her watch.
“I’m coming right now,” Morgan said.
***
Morgan’s heart pounded in her chest as she burst into the Dallas airport, eyes scanning the sea of people before her. The adrenaline coursed through her veins, igniting a fire within her as she searched for Lance Friedman. Her gaze fell upon the illuminated departure board, and there it was – the flight to Mexico City, now boarding.
"Dammit," Morgan muttered under her breath, clenching her fists. A decade ago, she could have been one of those people boarding a plane to escape the life that had been stolen from her. But instead, she'd spent ten years biding her time, hardened by the cold walls of prison. It was a fate she wouldn't wish upon anyone.
"Listen up!" Morgan barked, locking eyes with her police team. Their faces were etched with determination, a reflection of her own fierce resolve. "I want every inch of this place searched for Lance Friedman. If he so much as sneezes, I want to know about it."
"Understood, Agent Cross," replied one of the officers, his voice steady despite the urgency of the situation. He signaled to the rest of the officers, who immediately dispersed, eager to leave no stone unturned.
As her team fanned out across the airport, Morgan's mind raced with possibilities. What if Lance had already boarded? What if he slipped away right under their noses? She shook her head, refusing to entertain such thoughts. They had come too far to let him escape now.
Morgan's gaze darted between the countless faces milling about in the bustling terminal, her heart pounding in her chest. She scanned the crowd with laser-like focus, searching for any sign of Lance Friedman's distinctive blond hair. The flight to Mexico had begun boarding, and the cacophony of voices, announcements, and footsteps only heightened the tension gnawing at her.
"Where are you, you bastard?" she muttered under her breath, frustration simmering as she pushed past a group of tourists snapping photos, their laughter grating on her nerves.
"Excuse me," she said, approaching an older man wearing a fedora pulled low over his face. "Have you seen anyone matching this description?"
The man shook his head, his eyes obscured by the brim of his hat. Morgan thanked him and moved on, the sinking feeling in her gut growing heavier with each passing moment.
A thought struck her like a bolt of lightning. What if he was wearing a disguise? Her mind raced through the possibilities - wigs, glasses, hats - anything to mask his appearance. With renewed determination, she began examining the people around her more closely, scrutinizing each one for any telltale signs that they might be Lance in hiding.
"Hey, you there!" she called out to a tall man with dark sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up over his head. "Can I have a word?"
"Sure, ma'am," the man replied, his voice thick with a Southern drawl. "What can I do for you?"
"Sorry, wrong person," Morgan said, unable to shake the feeling that time was running out. She surveyed the sea of faces once more, her pulse quickening.
Morgan's eyes darted from one face to another, her frustration mounting as she tried to remain alert, focused on finding any trace of Lance Friedman. The murmur of the crowd and the drone-like announcements over the PA system threatened to drown out her own thoughts, a cacophony of sounds that did little to quell the anxiety clawing at her chest.
It was then that she saw him – or rather, someone who seemed oddly out of place in the bustling airport. A man wearing a beige trench coat and dark sunglasses, his head lowered as he attempted to blend with the sea of travelers around him. But there was something about his posture, the way he moved with furtive glances around him, that sent Morgan's intuition into overdrive.
"Hey!" Morgan shouted, instinctively pushing her way through the crowd, her strides lengthening as she closed the distance between them. "Stop! FBI!"
The man glanced back, his eyes widening in surprise as he realized he'd been spotted. In his haste to escape, his hat fell off, revealing his blond hair.
Lance Friedman.
"Freeze!" Morgan yelled. She pulled her badge out for everyone to see, trying to make it clear she wasn't messing around. "Lance Friedman, you're under arrest!"
But Lance had no intention of going down without a fight. He began pushing people out of his way, knocking over suitcases, and causing general chaos in an effort to evade capture. His movements were frantic, desperate, clearly displaying the panic that had taken hold of him.
"Stop! FBI!" she screamed again, her voice carrying across the crowded terminal.
Morgan's legs pumped furiously as she pursued Lance through the bustling airport terminal. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, yet she refused to let up. The sea of people parted before her like a river splitting around a boulder, their expressions a mix of confusion and fear at the sight of a desperate chase unfolding before them.
"Out of my way!" Morgan barked, her eyes locked on the back of Lance's head as he disappeared into the throngs. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, adrenaline coursing through her veins with each determined step.
"Get back!" a voice shouted, catching her attention. A security officer had joined the pursuit, his uniform crisp and authoritative. Others soon followed suit, forming a veritable army of enforcers dedicated to apprehending the fleeing fugitive.
"Corner him!" Morgan commanded, her voice hoarse from exertion. She could sense Lance growing more desperate by the second, weaving erratically through the crowd as his options dwindled.
"Gotcha!" one of the security officers exclaimed triumphantly, lunging forward to tackle Lance around the waist. His momentum sent them both crashing to the ground, causing a nearby luggage cart to topple over in a cacophony of clattering suitcases.
"Stay down!" the officer ordered, his knee digging into Lance's back as he struggled to catch his breath. "You're under arrest!"
"Finally," Morgan panted, her hands resting on her knees as she caught her breath. Her gaze bore into the prone figure of Lance Friedman, the man who had eluded her for so long.
A flurry of thoughts raced through her mind – the years of injustice, the prison cell that had once been her home – and she knew that this was her moment of retribution.
"Good job," she told the security officer, her tone firm but appreciative. "Now, let's get him out of here before he causes any more trouble." As they dragged Lance to his feet, Morgan couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction, knowing that she was one step closer to redemption.
CHAPTER TEN
Morgan eyed Lance as he sat across from her in the cramped airport security room. Morgan leaned against the cold metal table that separated them, her eyes never leaving his. The air was thick with tension, each breath punctuated by the distant hum of airplanes taking off.
"Alright, Lance," she began, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why were you running?"
"Running?" he scoffed, feigning innocence. "I was just going on a trip to Mexico." His voice trembled slightly, betraying his attempt at nonchalance.
Morgan studied him for a moment, trying to find a crack in his facade. She thought about the pain he had caused, the lives he had destroyed, and felt her resolve harden. She wouldn't let him slip away again.
"Cut the crap," she snapped, slamming her hands on the table. "You think I'm stupid? You don't book a one-way ticket to Mexico in the middle of an investigation unless you're trying to escape. So why don't you save us both some time and tell me the truth?"
Lance's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He hesitated for a moment before shaking his head, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't do it, I swear."
"Didn't do what?" Morgan pressed, narrowing her eyes. "Kill Bethany Good?"
"Look, I know how this looks, but I didn't kill anyone!" Lance exclaimed, desperation seeping into his voice. "Please, you have to believe me!"
"Your word isn't good enough," she said coldly, her gaze unwavering. "Why were you trying to flee the country, Lance?”
"Agent Cross, please," Lance pleaded, his eyes welling up with tears. "I don't know who did it, but it wasn't me. I was just… I was scared, you know? I didn't want to spend the rest of my life behind bars for something I didn't do. You have to understand…"
Morgan let out a frustrated sigh, struggling to maintain her composure. She needed to remain objective to pursue the truth no matter where it led – that was her duty as an FBI agent. But for now, all she could think about was the injustice she had suffered at the hands of men like Lance Friedman and the countless others whose lives had been irrevocably changed by their actions.
"Understand?" she whispered, her voice trembling with rage. "You want me to understand? I spent ten years rotting in a cell for a crime I didn't commit. So don't you dare talk to me about understanding? You were trying to run. If you were truly innocent, then you'd stay and fight, like I did."
Lance fell silent, his gaze shifting downward, unable to meet Morgan's stare. She had been right: Lance had believed he could escape from his crime, that it would be easy to run and avoid the consequences.
“You don’t understand,” Lance said. “I didn’t kill anyone. I would never… that’s not what this is about.”
Just as Morgan was about to respond, a knock at the door interrupted her. She looked up, momentarily jarred from her intense focus on Lance. The door opened slightly, and a police officer poked his head into the room.
"Agent Cross," the officer said urgently, "I need to speak with you. Right now."
"All right," she replied tersely, casting one last suspicious glance at Lance before stepping out of the room and closing the door behind her.
Morgan met with the officer in the hallway. Her heart pounded in anticipation; had they found new evidence that could seal Lance's guilt? Or was this another dead end?
"What is it?" Morgan asked, trying to maintain her composure.
"Ma'am, we've just confirmed something with airport security that you need to hear," the officer began, his face etched with concern. "Lance Friedman couldn't have killed Bethany Good or Sheryl Stewart."
"Excuse me?" Morgan snapped, feeling her blood pressure rise. "What are you talking about?"
"Airport security provided us with flight records," the officer explained. "Friedman was on a flight back to America from Mexico yesterday. It's impossible for him to have been around to kill them."
Morgan's mind raced, trying to piece together this new information. If Lance truly wasn't responsible for the murders, then who was? And how could she have been so wrong? She took a deep breath, forcing herself to swallow the bitter taste of frustration and disappointment.
“You’re sure about this?” she asked.
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