Car accidents, accidentals, overdoses, but nothing violent or gruesome enough to be tied to Ghost. At least, that had been his assumption.
A searing lick of fury directed squarely at himself lashed through his belly like the worst case of heartburn ever. Assumptions weren't facts, and here he was, Mr. Fuckin’ Universe, making an ass of himself.
“You're thinking he might have utilized the cover of whatever PI jobs you sent him on to take out members of the Leviathans, or someone in a position to help him prepare a coup?”
Dillon's question made his dick hard, simply for the fact that she'd caught on and was keeping pace with him. “That, and/or removing pieces on whatever chess board he's playing on, Leviathan-related or not.
"I'm also thinking he utilized his time here with Perdition to perpetuate the legend of the invincible Ghost who can walk through walls and kill people without getting caught. But there's something else to consider.”
“What's that?”
“By the account Wren gave when Damon and Saint were being held by Ghost, it sounds like Andrew Stanfield loved his job.
"I'm not an expert on serial killers, but I know enough to say serial killers follow the same habitual guidelines.
“Stanfield took trophies to give to his wife, he wrote stories about his murders, passed them off as fiction and had Wren read them aloud to bring her into his fantasy.
“He would have kept on being the perfect husband living a dual life had Wren not seen the news broadcast with a photo of the deceased woman wearing the jewelry Wren had on.
“He'd been doing work for the Leviathans for years at that point, was reliable, built an epic reputation, and he had a discernible pattern of taking his victims and holding them prisoner for his pleasure.
“The sheer number of sexual assaults reads as Stanfield especially enjoying that aspect of his work, but right after Susan and Pike were murdered, that number dropped to zero.”
Dillon clicked her tongue as she frowned. “Working with battered women, I can tell you with certainty, rapists aren't known for their impulse control.
"If that was part of Stanfield's methodology, he would have had an incredibly difficult time denying himself.”
“Right. So now I have a timeline I can work off of, and I can start separating Stanfield's murders from Toad's.
"I'm also wondering whether Stanfield's retirement was voluntary, or if the current Ghost killed Stanfield and assumed his identity. If the current Ghost is John Lewis, then the question becomes, is he on assignment?”
Dillon got up just enough to seat herself back down sideways over his lap. He could see the doubt in her eyes, hear it in her tone, but she didn't dismiss what he was saying out of turn.
“Assignment, as in, he's still active within the bureau?”
“I told you I've suspected for a long time he's had help from the government. Getting out of jail free because his alias had diplomatic immunity, even after literally murdering twelve men in a cell with him at county lock up. There is no way that would have happened if not for some kind of agency intervention.
“One of the three letter companies had to have been involved. I can't believe it's taken me this long, or that I didn't manually measure each facial characteristic until I got a perfect match.”
Dillon chuffed at him, curling her fingers in the hair at his nape. “Do you normally take every face you put through your software and measure it manually?”
“No,” he admitted grudgingly. “But I should have.”
“Why? These programs are designed to do all that for you, and a ninety-six percent match off a grainy photo is pretty damn good, I'd say. Not to mention the fact you've got a full-time job working the digital side of the PI business.
“I've only been here for a few weeks, but I've seen the way your guys come down here night and day asking you to run this search or do a background check on that guy—as though they don't know how to run one themselves—because they have something else going on and they can’t right now, which interrupts whatever project you're working on.
“You're monitoring where thirty people are every day at any given time, watching the stock market, dealing with legal issues, chasing down assholes who haven't paid their bill because they weren't happy finding out their wife is sleeping with their boss, taking care of everyone who matters to you, catering to whatever it is I need, and doing nine million other things to keep this place running.”
He couldn't remember a time when anyone else had been annoyed on his behalf, or recognize how much weight he carried around every day.
Nasa wouldn't trade it for anything, bearing the responsibilities with pride because he could multi-task like a beast, but it didn't mean all that shit didn't get heavy from time to time.
It's why BDSM played such a big role in Nasa's life. He needed the release of stepping out of his basement, away from his computers to focus on just one person. On being responsible for that single person's needs and wellbeing.
It's why he'd been so eager to help build Pavlovia, and yet he hadn't stepped foot in the dungeon more than twice to actually play. Both times, Nasa hadn't been able to fully engage because his partners for the evening were temporary. Their needs were simple.
Nasa enjoyed his time with those women in the same way he enjoyed sitting on the deck with a cold beer in his hand. There hadn't been any depth to it, just a pleasant way to relax and pass the time.
Nasa didn't want Dillon because she was powerless and afraid. He didn't want her because he thought she needed someone to take care of her.
He didn't want her simply because she was the first woman in ages to make him salivate like a starving wolf presented with a flock of sheep.
Nasa wanted Dillon because she was strong. Because she refused to let her
