Page 41 of The Collector
What the hell could this be about?
"I'm Special Agent Blackwell," the man said before gesturing toward his partner. "This is Special Agent Ames."
Ames didn't speak, only nodded—brief, simple, efficient. She didn't waste words where none were needed.
Raven leaned back slightly, maintaining casual authority over the situation but his patience was already thin. "What can I do for you, Agent Blackwell?" His voice was even laced with a warning tone, indicating that he didn't appreciate the disturbance and wanted them to get to the point.
Blackwell met his gaze. "Mr. Cordoba, I assume you've heard about the recent murders of one young woman and the abduction and suspected murder of a second in the area?"
The air in the room shifted—tightened. The words settled between them as Blackwell paused for dramatic effect.
"And our ongoing search for a serial killer?"
The statement wasn't just informational; it was bait.
Blackwell wasn't just asking. He was watching. Waiting.
"Let's skip the theatrics, Agent. I doubt you came here to confirm whether or not I watch the news."
Blackwell cleared his throat, cutting through the pretense with the sharp precision of a man with no interest in games, just information.
"You seem busy, so I'll get straight to the point," Blackwell replied. "We have surveillance footage from one of the abduction sites. It shows a man near the victim's car before she disappeared."
"The footage wasn't clear enough to give us a face, but we could zoom in on a tattoo. A very distinct one." Blackwell's gaze sharpened, his voice paced, watching for any slight changes in Ravens' face. "It's a mark we've identified as being affiliated with your family and its businesses."
Raven's expression remained unreadable. He’d spent years mastering that art. Even if he was shocked to hear the information, they wouldn't read it on his face.
Blackwell continued, pressing forward. "So, we'd like to know, Mr. Cordoba—how many people in your organization carry that same tattoo?" He leaned forward slightly, his presence shifting the balance of the room. "And more importantly… where were you the night in question?"
"Firstly, which night are you referring to?" Raven's tone remained neutral, but behind it was the unmistakable edge of offense. "While I've seen the footage on the news, I can't say I cared enough to keep track of dates and times."
He let the statement settle. That was their first attempt at implicating him, assuming he knew the date of the abduction. The absence of the date had been a deliberate play—to try and get him to divulge that he knew when it was the girl went missing, an attempt to tighten a noose around his neck.
"Last Wednesday," Ames replied coolly.
Raven barely nodded, shifting slightly in his seat. "Fine. About what time? I'm very busy—appointments late into the evening, sometimes stretching past midnight." His tone was measured and dismissive, just enough to test their patience.
Blackwell exhaled, already irritated. "About three a.m., Mr. Cordoba." He leveled his gaze at Raven, clearly frustrated with the evasive responses.
Raven met his stare with practiced ease. "Three a.m.? I was home for the night." He leaned back slightly, exuding calm confidence. "We have surveillance that will prove that fact. If necessary, I can have the footage sent to your offices—assuming you leave me a business card."
He let the offer settle, but before they could respond, he tilted slightly, just enough to make them reconsider their approach.
"But let's be honest here. You're the FBI—you don't ask questions you don't already know the answers to." A faint smirk ghosted his lips. "So, I doubt you'll require it."
Ames nodded at Blackwell. Indicating that the conversation was getting them nowhere. It didn't stop Blackwell from continuing.
"And the tattoo, how many people in your organization have that same tattoo you have on your hand, Mr. Cordoba?" he asked as his eyes fell on Ravens' tattoo.
Raven didn't move or shift under the scrutiny. Instead, he allowed the silence to stretch, controlled and calculated.
"That's an interesting question, Agent." His voice was even, smooth, neither defensive nor forthcoming. "Why? Are you compiling some sort of registry? Or are you looking for a single name to pin your theory on?"
He met Blackwell's stare, unwavering, forcing the Agent to break the silence first.
Blackwell exhaled, patience thinning. "It's a simple question, Mr. Cordoba. How many men in your organization wear that mark?"
Raven tilted his head slightly, considering. "It's a symbol of loyalty, Agent. Brotherhood. You'll find it on many men—but I suspect you already knew that."
