by B. B. Hamel
Hunting Gorgeous
BB Hamel
Contents
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Prologue: Rose
1. Nick
2. Rose
3. Nick
4. Rose
5. Nick
6. Rose
7. Nick
8. Rose
9. Nick
10. Rose
11. Nick
12. Rose
13. Nick
14. Rose
15. Nick
16. Rose
17. Nick
18. Rose
19. Nick
20. Rose
21. Rose
22. Nick
23. Rose
24. Nick
25. Rose
26. Nick
27. Rose
28. Rose
Also by BB Hamel
Copyright © 2021 by B. B. Hamel
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Prologue: Rose
The note scrawled in blocky, bright-red lipstick on my bathroom mirror wasn’t in my handwriting.
I stood staring at the words for what felt like hours. Tingles crept down my spine in waves and my fingers dug into the doorframe on either side of me.
I thought about my sister, Delia, and her cam shows, the shows that helped pay for my college, that changed both our lives. I thought of her laughing, smiling, and all those men sending her money. She wanted to be pretty for them. She wanted to make them happy.
I thought of her white comforter and the lace curtains she put up to make the light soft.
Her clothes coming off, stitch by stitch.
The way my world collapsed when her body was found broken and alone.
The house smelled like her, but she never lived here. Lilacs and lemongrass. Everything I knew about being a human, I learned it from her.
That wasn’t her handwriting on my bathroom mirror, either. Delia was dead, dead and gone. I’d never see my sister again.
She couldn’t leave me messages anymore.
I stepped forward and reached out to run my fingers down through the smeared words but stopped myself. I yanked my hand back, as if burned.
I read the words out loud, trying to sound like my sister, sensual and wanted:
You’re next, gorgeous.
1
Nick
The driveway was long and gravel. Cal cursed as his tires bumped along a pothole.
“Middle of fucking nowhere,” he said.
“Relax, the house is up ahead.”
It was a small structure, barely two floors, tucked back into a small wooded area. There were other houses nearby, a few neighborhoods, a development or two, but this looked older than the others. The shutters were painted blue and the siding was a dirty white from age and use. Cal parked next to a rusty red truck and killed the engine.
Three cop cars and a black sedan were parked out front.
“Looks like the locals beat us,” he said.
“Not a bad thing. We’ll need their help.”
“Play nice in there, all right? I don’t feel like cleaning up after you again.”
I smiled a little. “That was one time.”
“One time too many.” He gave me a look. “By the book, okay?”
“By the book. Don’t you worry about me, partner.”
Cal sighed and shook his head. He was old school, the sort of cop that learned how to police on the street. Salt-and-pepper hair, square jaw, blue eyes. Loved to curse and fight. Born and raised in Chicago, he earned his rank and then some.
Head put me with him when I first joined the Hunters, two years ago now. Said Cal would be good for me. Said he’d soften my edges.
He hadn’t done shit, but he’d tried.
I stepped out of the car and stretched. It was a long drive from New York and I should’ve been tired, but the thought of what waited in that little house energized me. The sun was close to setting, the bugs chirped at the edges of the woods. Cal got out next and surveyed the place with his customary scowl, like he hated what he saw. I walked toward the front porch and he followed, close on my heels.
“Hello there,” I said to the local cop standing outside. He had a buzz cut and a beer gut. He scowled at the two of us until I took out my badge and showed it to him.
That got his attention. “Didn’t know they were sending feds,” he said.
“Guess they didn’t bother telling you.” I gestured at the door. “You mind?”
He shrugged and looked away, frowning the whole time like he smelled something awful. I stepped into a nice front hall, wiped my shoes on the welcome mat, then headed down into a kitchen. The floorboards creaked under my weight and I took in as much as I could: ancient wallpaper, ceilings slightly brown from tobacco smoke, framed photographs on the walls, kitsch stuffed on a side table. It looked like an old woman lived there, but I’d been told the place was owned by a girl named Rose Walters, twenty-two years of age.
I found another local cop in the kitchen. He stood near the windows and glanced over with surprise. I held up a hand in greeting. “Your detective around?” I asked.
He squinted. “She’s upstairs. And you are?”
“Nick Splitter, FBI. This is my partner, Cal Dam.”
Cal grunted in greeting. “Afternoon.”
The cop squinted some more. He looked like he could’ve been the brother or the cousin of the guy out front, but local places like this, the guys all looked the same to me. Cop hair, cop eyes. Walked like a cop, talked like a cop.
I guess I shouldn’t judge too hard. I’m a cop too, after all. Only a particular kind of cop.
A specialist, I guess, is what they’d call me.
“You want to take a look around down here?” I asked Cal. “I’ll find the detective and meet the girl.”
Cal snorted. “I bet you will.” I gave him a look and he waved me off. “Go on, I’ll get this really friendly guy to show me around.”
I nodded and turned away as Cal turned on his charm. He had a way with cops, probably because he was one for a while. He spoke their language.
I didn’t get into the FBI through the traditional route. I never walked a beat and never joined a local department. I meandered my way through my twenties, taking up small odd jobs here and there until I landed a gig working for a private detective. Wasn’t much of a job really, mainly taking down notes and following marks with a really nice camera, that sort of thing, at least until a dead body landed square in our lap.
I caught my first killer by mistake. Well, maybe not entirely by mistake, but I stumbled more than a little and he nearly got away. I saw that girl, tied up and bound with her own underwear, lying cold and dead behind a tree, and I had to find the bastard that did it to her. I lost myself for a while there and went down a spiral that I never thought I’d come back out of.
In the end though, I caught the bastard.
And once he was arrested, the Hunters caught me.
I walked up a carpeted staircase and onto the second floor. A bathroom stood open at the end of the hall: pink tile, teal shower curtain, fluffy bath mat. I heard voices from a room next to it and walked over, trying not to stomp like a dinosaur. I lea
ned up against the doorway and peered into a subdued bedroom, walls painted light blue, big queen bed in the middle, clothes cluttered in small piles on the floor.
A young girl sat at the edge of the bed. Her eyes looked red from crying. She had long, raven-black hair, and these big, puffy, gorgeous lips that made me do a double-take. She was pretty, beautiful really, in a strange, angular sort of way. Like someone took perfection and shifted it slightly to the left, making it somehow more beautiful in its flaws.
She looked so much like her sister that I couldn’t find words for a few seconds.
The detective drew me out. “Excuse me,” she said, staring at me. She was a hard-nosed woman, graying hair cut short, stress wrinkles around her pale blue eyes. Her pantsuit screamed power and authority, and she had the bearing of a woman that was used to taking shit and dealing with it. “Can I help with something?”
“My name’s Nick Splitter,” I said. “The bureau should’ve told you I was coming.”
“Ah,” she said, understanding dawning in her expression.
The girl looked up at me. She frowned, slightly confused. I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t have the fed look. I wore dark jeans and a white button-down with a pair of big, brown boots. Cal kept pushing me to wear that stupid suit, and I kept telling him to shove that jacket up his ass.
“Hit traffic on the way,” I said, looking back to the girl. “You must be Rose. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Hi,” she said. “You’re with the FBI?”
“That’s right.” I stepped into the room and looked back at the detective. “You mind if I talk to her?”
She shrugged. “Go right away. My name’s Gayle Starch, by the way.”
“Good to meet you.” We shook. Nice and firm.
“Take your time. I’ll be in the hall.”
“My partner Cal is downstairs getting the tour from your overly friendly uniforms down there.”
She smiled a bit at that. “They’re real pleasant, once you get to know them.”
“Aren’t they all.”
She slipped past me and I heard her footsteps recede down the stairs.
I studied Rose for a few seconds. She shifted, clearly uncomfortable. I walked into the room then to her window, glancing out over a backyard studded with weeds that backed up against a wooded area. There was a wood pile on the left and a metal table with the chairs knocked backwards on the right.
“Nice place,” I said.
“Thanks. It was my grandmom’s. She passed away.”
“Sorry to hear that.” I turned to face her again.
She shrugged. “She was sick for a while, but refused to go to a home, you know?”
“Good for her.”
“She was strong, Gramma.” She tilted her head. “So what’s the deal with you? The FBI is involved now?”
I smiled a little. “The FBI was always involved.”
“Nobody told me that.”
“They wouldn’t.” I tilted my head. She glanced down at the floor, and I could only guess what was going on in her mind right now. Her grandmother died, then her sister was brutally murdered, and now this. “Would you show me the message?”
She squeezed her eyes shut but stood. “It’s in here.”
I followed her into the bathroom. It was written on the mirror in thick red lipstick. You’re next, gorgeous.
I took out my phone and got a picture. “That’s his handwriting,” I said, more to myself.
“Are you sure?” Her question sounded fierce—and terrified.
I grimaced a little. Shouldn’t have said that around her. Poor girl’s been through enough.
But shit, I wasn’t going to lie to her. Even if the truth was awful, and she’d probably rather look away, I couldn’t bring myself to feed her pretty bullshit.
Not when she’d had a serial killer in her house.
“I’ve seen it before,” I said. “It’s his, all right.”
“And he’s the guy that killed Delia?”
“I’m pretty sure.” I took a few more pictures, looked around the bathroom, then stepped into the hall. “Did they have forensics in here yet?”
She nodded. “Dusted and took pictures for hours. Vacuumed the whole place up.”
“Good.” I made a note in my phone. “And you told your story to the detective?”
“There’s not much to tell.”
I nodded some more, made another note, putting down my observations. She lingered in the bathroom, and I caught her giving the mirror a strange look, her face pale and drawn. I was struck all over again at how pretty she was, and how much she looked like her sister. I’d spent so many hours scouring pictures of Delia Walters, the fourth victim of nine total, that I felt like I knew her for real.
Seeing Rose in person only made that impression stronger.
“Stay up here for a little bit,” I said. “You’ll be okay on your own?”
“I guess so.”
I nodded and gestured at her room. She walked back in and sat on the bed again, curling up on herself like a flower bloom closing.
“I’ll talk to Detective Starch and be back up. You sure you’re okay? I can send for someone to sit with you.”
“I’m fine.” She laughed a little. “It’d be nice to be alone for a while. It’s been a really long day.”
“Sit tight. I’ll be back.” I headed down the hall, still thinking about her lips and eyes. I’d looked at that face so many times in the past year, watched so many videos, spent hours thinking about it—except not that face, not quite. Her sister Delia looked older, rounder, fleshed out, and very pretty, but not quite beautiful like Rose.
Delia’s shows were some of the best of all the girls I’d watched. It wasn’t only about sex with Delia, although of course that was part of it—you couldn’t make a living as a cam girl without getting off as one primary aspect of your career. Even still, she was funny, and she spent a lot of time interacting with her clients, even the ones that never bothered to pay or tip. She’d chat, and laugh, and smile, and she always seemed genuine.
She was one of my favorite dead girls.
I found Detective Starch on the back porch with Cal. They looked up at me as I stepped outside. The uniformed cops were still in the kitchen, drinking coffee at a small round table.
“How’s the girl?” Cal asked.
Detective Starch gave him a look that we both ignored.
“Traumatized,” I said. “For obvious reasons.”
“Catching up with the detective here,” Cal said, nodding at her. “I assume you met.”
“We met upstairs.”
She nodded at me. “I was telling your partner about what forensics found.”
I leaned up against the vinyl siding and crossed my arms over my chest. “Go ahead, don’t let me stop you.”
She cleared her throat and looked back at Cal. “Like I said, it’s a lot of nothing. Some fibers, some hairs, some prints, but nothing promising. It’s probably all going to match that girl or people in her family.”
“CGK never leaves a trail,” I said.
Detective Starch glanced at me, frowning. “You’re sure it’s him?”
I looked at Cal and shrugged. “Handwriting on the mirror matches.”
He cursed. “Why would he come back here?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It doesn’t fit the profile at all.”
“He’s been spotty lately. That fuck-up in Texas, that stupid letter to the office. He’s all over the goddamn map.”
“And now this.” I glanced at the door and pictured Rose standing there with her strange little half-frown.
“You boys mind clueing me in here?” Detective Starch tapped her fingers on a rocking chair. Out beyond the yard, the forest stretched out into dim darkness, and fireflies blinked above the grass.
“Let’s take a walk,” I said, heading to the steps. “Cal, do another sweep up there, will you? And say hello to the girl.”
“Roger that,” Cal said and heade
d inside.
Detective Starch followed me into the backyard. I walked slowly, eyes sweeping over the grass. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I never did—that was how it worked for me. So long as I didn’t try to shape what I saw, something always showed itself. It was like searching around in a closet in the dark, touching sweaters, t-shirts, jeans, and pulling out an outfit. Eventually you got what you needed, but you could spend hours in there, obsessing about the details.
I didn’t obsess. I took it all in.
“How much did they tell you?” I said.
Detective Starch spit. It was an ugly habit. I guessed she played soccer when she was younger, maybe still did. She looked like she was in shape, a little stocky, muscular arms, grim smile.
“Not much,” she said. “Enough. You’re serial killer guys, right?”
“Right,” I said, picking my way around the metal table and toward the edge of the forest. I didn’t see an easy path, and the ground was littered with rocks, twigs, and small bramble bushes. If someone approached the house from back here, it wasn’t an easy trip. I skirted along the edge, but didn’t plunge in. “Lots of folks call us the Hunters.”
Detective Starch laughed. “Sounds fake.”
“I know. I didn’t make it up, trust me.”
“That girl up there, her sister was killed a year back. I read about it in the paper. She was a sex worker, right?”
“Cam girl.” I tugged at a low-hanging branch and broke off a twig. “Doesn’t actually fuck, only puts on shows. Strips, masturbates, teases, that sort of stuff.”
“I know what a cam girl is.” She sounded annoyed.
