He knew he needed to get all of these mistakes under control. He would begin by making sure there were no potential witnesses who could later identify him. He would more carefully research his victims in advance before making any plans. Aha! he thought—he’d said it again. Victims. He was finally learning how to quit fooling himself into thinking that these women were anything other than what they were. For even though they gave him great pleasure and he always felt wonderful having his way with them, they were nothing more than victims.
And he absolutely hated every last one of them.
It had taken him much of his adult life to finally accept the truth about himself. In all this time he’d refused to admit how he felt each time he was humiliated by a woman. Hatred. Sheer hatred because women possessed the power to weaken and eventually decimate a man’s self-respect. The ability to strip a man down to nothing until he felt utterly worthless and impotent. Total domination.
He bit down hard on his tongue but managed to stifle himself before drawing blood. He was seething as the past seemed to suddenly envelop him in a hazy, hellish fog. No more, he thought. No more.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged his paintbrush into a thick smear of cadmium red on his palette and touched up an area. Focus on the future, man. This is the future; that was the past.
Since that night with Sarah Clark he had gotten wise and decided to shave off the lamb chop sideburns he’d grown back in the States and cut and color his hair. He had let his salt and pepper hair grow long to make himself look younger but all it had done was make him look silly. He then made his nose look larger, his lips thinner and gave himself a uni-brow. He had purchased blue contacts to cover his naturally brown eyes.
But this still wasn’t good enough. No matter how hard he tried to alter his appearance, he still basically looked like Trent Mason. His best disguise ever had been the one he’d used in Vegas—the same one he’d used his night with Sarah Clark before its retirement. Prior to hitting the casinos he had hired a former Hollywood makeup artist to show him how to alter his facial features to look dramatically different. After completing this crash course in cosmetology, he had practiced perfecting his disguise for weeks before he finally felt confident he had the new look down pat. The catch was how long it took to achieve that look—two hours of applying makeup, primping and preening. He’d had to repeat that same routine every day and by the time he’d blown the place, he was pretty much burnt out with the whole routine.
Then the answer to his dilemma suddenly appeared while he was watching an old Mission Impossible rerun. The solution was simple and why he had never thought of it before still eluded him. But that was okay—his credo had always been better late than never.
And now there was nothing on earth that could stop him.
He painted for another hour or so then decided to quit for the day. After preparing a bite to eat in the rather stark kitchen he refilled his wine glass and decided to do a little work on the living room.
Since his arrival in England Mason’s good fortune had continued. He had lucked into this modest English country home after chatting with a man he’d met in his London hotel lounge. Mason had been making small talk with Bernard Frye, a real estate agent. When Mason mentioned that he was looking for an affordable place to live out in the burbs, Frye asked if he’d be interested in a run-down farm he knew of near Chelmsford. The property consisted of an old two-bedroom stone farmhouse with a few acres of land. The house needed a lot of work, he cautioned, but the low rent more than made up for what it would cost to make the place livable. Frye added that he even knew a handyman who could do the work for him at a reasonable rate.
When Frye showed him this place, Mason knew it would be perfect. Although it lacked a few modern conveniences, he was sold on its location and what he felt was a ridiculously low price. He signed the necessary lease papers and employed the handyman to get the place properly wired and the roof patched. He would do the rest of the work as time allowed.
Mason knew he had to keep a low profile and the country retreat provided him with a place to do just that. It was also only thirty-five minutes from London—close enough to still feel he was in the swing of things.
For the time being he planned on getting settled into his new digs and giving the dust a chance to settle. And continue perfecting his new craft. He was financially secure again and his investments were doing even better than expected. So he would be content to play “Farmer John” for as long as he could before the inevitable desire to seek companionship swept over him, compelling him to hit the city and score some action.
Life is good.
Chapter 18
Two weeks earlier Inspector Clive Hogarth of the London PD entered O’Dowd’s pub and walked directly over to the gentleman standing behind the bar and introduced himself.
“Were you by any chance working last night?”
“Yes, sir, I was,” the man replied.
Hogarth pulled out the photo of Sarah Clark. “Do you recall seeing this young lady? She was here from between approximately five and seven-thirty p.m.”
The bartender reached into his shirt pocket for his reading glasses and put them on. “Aye, she was here. She’s been here a few times before, in fact—nice girl.”
“Could you tell me if you saw her with any men last night?”
“Not offhand, Inspector. We were packed to the rafters—it being Friday and everybody getting liquored up for the weekend. She could have been with someone but I could easily have missed seeing him.”
“I see. Is there anybody else who was working last night I could speak to?”
“Well, let me think. Robbie and Miranda were working the tables last night, but neither of them are here now.”
“Do you know when they’ll be in?”
“Not until Monday—they both have weekends off.”
“I see. Well, thank you for your time—I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, Inspector. May I ask why you’re asking about that girl?”
“I’d prefer not to say. Sorry.”
“That’s fine—just curious is all.”
“Good day,” Hogarth said and walked away.
He left the pub knowing that without some physical description of Ms. Clark’s assailant he was just wasting his time. He hated cases like this. Not only was he clueless as to what the alleged bad guy looked like, the victim hadn’t even been conscious during the actual crime.
When Ms. Clark called the police that morning to report that she had been sexually assaulted Friday night she was told to go directly to the hospital ER and undergo a forensic examination. She complied and afterwards was interrogated by himself along with Inspector Molly Higgins. The young lady was on edge after having been poked, prodded and basically put under a microscope throughout the exam and Hogarth sensed she was beginning to wish she had never reported the assault in the first place. Fortunately, Higgins was eventually able to put the poor girl at ease, noting how brave she was for coming forward and how important it was to catch her attacker before he did this to some other innocent victim.
But there was a very big problem in this case. Sarah Clark had amnesia and remembered very little of what happened last night. She believed that a man she met at the bar had slipped a date rape drug into her drink and that she had been taken advantage of while under the influence of the drug. Initial toxicology tests taken during her examination confirmed that there were traces of rohypnol in her urine. So that much was certain—she had indeed been drugged. She could also recall that the man had accompanied her to her apartment and they’d had a nightcap. But this was the extent of her recollection, other than that the man had told her he was from America. As for actual sexual assault, there was some nasty bruising on her breasts and buttocks so there was no doubt she had been manhandled by this character. But until all the testing was completed from her rape kit, which could take weeks, there would be no way to confirm if there had been any sexual penetration.
Which was a
moot point of course since the woman had clearly been in the very least physically assaulted by this American. He deserved to be apprehended, charged and punished accordingly for his crime. But until there was something concrete to go on—DNA analyses for potential matching or a solid lead of some sort, Hogarth was pretty certain this case would be tossed aside for the time being—perhaps even indefinitely. There were simply too many crimes happening in this city and not nearly enough hands on deck to cover them all. All he could do for now was question anyone having been at the pub Friday night who might be able to describe what the American looked like. He wasn’t feeling very optimistic to say the least.
There was also a slim chance that Ms. Clark’s memory might return. From what he’d read about this sort of drug, the victim could continue having random flashbacks of the assault for several weeks after the attack.
Perhaps he could get lucky and that would be the case.
Chapter 19
Sam closed his iPad and stretched out his legs. He stared at the LCD screen mounted on the seat in front of him and saw the curved green line denoting the plane’s current position on its flight path as it arced its way across the Atlantic. He still couldn’t believe he was really on his way to London.
The past week had been busy leading up to his flight. Amidst the numerous early morning calls from Mitch Stevens regarding the particulars of the trip, Sam had spent much of his time going over what he planned on saying and doing during his engagement at the book store. He had done readings before, but they had all been unremarkable and sparsely attended for the most part. He had never been much of a public speaker and felt awkward reading passages from his books, constantly questioning his effectiveness as he tried to put the proper inflection into what he was reading. He marveled at the way skilled narrators were able to put so much feeling into their voices on audiobooks he’d listened to. Then he would listen to himself speak and want to burst out laughing.
He had written three mysteries and was now working on his fourth. He planned on reading a selection from his first to warm things up. The Foxburg Murders was by far his most popular work and the one that most readers would identify with—there was no way he could not include something from that. Then he would read a couple of passages from his newest thriller with hopes it might draw some interest from his audience. And hopefully incite them to purchase a copy for him to sign afterwards.
According to Mitch, advance sales of tickets for admission to the event had been tremendous. He would be meeting Harold Kinsey’s daughter, Nicole, the one responsible for his getting this sweet gig in the first place. He was already nervous enough about the reading but the prospect of meeting this “big fan” of his only to end up being a huge disappointment made him all the more anxious.
When he had told Maisy about his trip to London she had flipped. She was excited for him and envious that she wasn’t going. When he half-seriously offered her to accompany him she had declined, saying that she had too much work coming up to free herself. She made him promise to call her and he assured her that he would. They had been together twice the past week and both times had been wonderful. He was in awe of how well things were going between them and there were times he wondered where their budding relationship might lead. All he knew for sure was that being with Maisy Fleming was a blessing and a whole hell of a lot better than spending weekends getting drunk with Roger.
As his detective friend had suspected, the man in the stolen Nissan that Sam had chased all the way to the west side the week before was not Stanley Jenkins. Roger was informed that the Nebraska highway patrol had pulled over the driver for speeding on an interstate ten miles west of Omaha and that the man’s name was Thomas Quinlan of Wellston, Ohio. He had stolen the Nissan from a parking lot in Jackson and had driven through Smithtown on his way to Denver. Roger showed Sam a photo of the guy and although the detective agreed that Quinlan bore a remarkable resemblance to Stanley Jenkins/Jerry Rankin, Sam had to concede that Quinlan looked younger and more fit than Jenkins could even dream of looking ten years after his incarceration.
Sam heaved a long sigh. He had made a solemn vow to forget Stanley Jenkins’ existence while he was in London. He must focus on the present, enjoy himself and make the most of his first European experience—not let that creepy bastard ruin it for him. Realizing that in less than four hours he would be landing in one of the most awesome cities in the world, he reckoned he would feel like a kid in a candy shop once he arrived. He was absolutely stoked.
He ordered a cup of hot coffee, opened his iPad and resumed reading.
***
Although going through customs was grueling and had taken much longer than expected, Sam was finally in a cab heading to his hotel. As the cabbie tore along the highway from Heathrow, Sam’s first impression of London was how crazy the traffic was. Driving on the left side of the road was strange enough—but he also seriously wondered if there were any speed limits as he observed how everybody was driving at breakneck speeds.
His hotel was located near the southeast corner of Hyde Park near Knightsbridge. He tipped the cabbie and simply stood outside the entrance for several moments to absorb his surroundings before entering. He felt incredible electricity pulsating throughout the city as he took in the sights and sounds. The people, like the traffic, moved along at a brisk pace, not unlike New York City. But he sensed a much keener, more collective vibe here. He noted the cleanliness of the streets, the well-kept, historical buildings and felt a sense of pleasantness coming over him. In this tiny blip of time he knew he had already fallen in love with London.
After checking in he went to his room and debated what to do next. His flight had departed from New York late last night and it was already mid-morning in London. He hadn’t slept at all on the plane and despite his excitement at being here he was understandably tired. Sitting on the edge of his bed he pulled up a map of London on his iPhone and zoomed in on his current location. Noting his proximity to Hyde Park he decided to take a walk in spite of his fatigue.
Sam spent the next hour strolling through the park, enjoying the crisp weather and natural beauty. He thought of Central Park and how much more inviting and wide open Hyde Park seemed in contrast. There was clearly a strong sense of history here and he felt as though he was walking on hallowed ground as he approached Kensington Palace. He thought of Princess Diana and the media attention regarding her death so many years ago, realizing that he was in a land where royalty and tradition still ruled supreme. It was surreal.
As he left the park and headed back toward his hotel he decided to stop for a bite to eat. He found a place still serving breakfast and settled on eggs and toast, reeling from the fact that beans and bacon that looked like thick, greasy ham were popular breakfast fare with the locals. His eggs were underdone, his coffee tasted like mud and there was nothing but skim milk to lighten it. As he finished his first English breakfast all he could do was hope there was a Starbucks or perhaps even a Denny’s somewhere nearby.
Back in his room he peeled off his clothes and plopped down heavily on the bed. He fell fast asleep in less than a minute.
***
Hours later he was awoken by the sound of his cell phone. Coming out from a deep sleep it took several rings to realize that he was not in his new home in Smithtown but in London, England.
“Hello,” he mumbled groggily.
“So you made it there,” Mitch Stevens declared.
“Yeah, I’m here. What time is it anyway?”
“Nine o’clock here—that would make it two in the p.m. your time. So what are doing sleeping instead of taking in the sights and sounds, eh?”
“You’re kidding, right? I didn’t sleep a wink during my flight and I’m trying to catch up from major jet lag. Gotta say, I already love this place, though.”
“I knew you would—makes me homesick in fact to hear that, to be perfectly honest. Anyway, I just wanted to check in to make sure you made it there okay and to wish you well with tomorrow’s event.
”
“Thanks—one thing though, Mitch. I’m a little concerned how to get to the bookshop. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to see that this city is huge and getting around it looks intimidating at best.”
“You needn’t worry about that—apparently Nicole Kinsey is sending someone from her staff to pick you up and serve as your personal ‘author escort.’ All you need to do is find your way to the front of the hotel by twelve o’clock sharp.”
“You’re kidding, right? I mean, why in the world is this woman being so accommodating to the likes of my unknown, unworthy self?”
“I must say, I’ve never represented an author who has gotten this kind of treatment so early in his career. All I can say is don’t question it, milk it for all it’s worth and enjoy it while it lasts, Sam. Apparently somebody believes in you and your work. You’ve been blessed.”
“You can say that again.”
“So how is the hotel, by the way?”
“It’s nice. I took a walk across Hyde Park, which is just a stone’s throw away. It was wonderful.”
“So you didn’t just crash immediately after all, eh? That’s what I like to hear. I know of a pub not far from there that you might want to check out. It’s called Jammy’s and it’s just down the road. Nice folks and a wonderful ale selection.”
“I may do that. Any suggestions on where to eat? Had breakfast this morning and it was pretty horrible. I’ve always heard the English have weird food and I’m beginning to believe it. Not really looking forward to kidney pudding and spotted dick, if you know what I mean.”
Mitch chuckled. “My advice to any American in London for the first time is to find a nice Italian restaurant. You should feel quite at home there.”
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