Ungrammatical sentences appeared piece by piece. Sophie. Would love to see U. My house. 2nite. The gloved caller inserted a blank line, and added a one-word signature: Adrian.
The killer flushed the unused toilet - presumably a precaution - and walked past three other lavatory stalls to the exit. Murmuring voices grew louder as the door swung inward to reveal the Taurus Studios lobby. A second later, the faceless figure had disappeared among the expo attendees.
Chapter Seven
Suburban Philadelphia was a different world from the inner city: low-rise detached houses, leafy cul-de-sac lanes, and serenely peaceful. Except for the occasional SUV driving by and excited dog barks, it was a quiet evening in this wealthy part of town. Moonlight pierced silvery clouds, adding a shine to the Taurus bull decorating Adrian Pryce’s front garden. There were no signposts outside the mini-mansion, but the layout of the road-encircled lawn and horned statue was identical to the scenic approach of the Taurus Studios tower. If the palatial, white-bricked home with the iron-fenced front yard and arched windows wasn’t the private residence of the company president, it belonged to a very obsessed fan.
The garden and swimming pool to the house’s rear were fully enclosed by a picket fence, slatted white panels attached with rigid steel brackets. The wooden planks were ten feet high with only hairline gaps between, and the sharpened-to-a-point tips made it clear trespassers weren’t wanted. The pool looked just as unwelcoming: still, impenetrably black water within a moderately lighter, tiled border.
The back yard was monitored by a surveillance camera fixed to the temple-like pediment that covered the patio. Motors whirred as the device swivelled in a pre-programmed arc. It took roughly ten seconds to complete a sweep of the pool area, then the reverse rotation started.
A white plastic tarpaulin sheet flew up into the air, thrown by someone behind the fence. It landed atop the spikes, and flattened against the wood. Even if the camera had been pointed the right way, the blink-and-miss-it movement would have been tough to spot for even the keenest-eyed observer.
A fence panel creaked. There was a grunt of exertion - faint and muffled. Two leather-gloved hands gripped the tarpaulin. A balaclava-masked head came into view, slowly rising until the eye slits cleared the fence. Shrouded by darkness, the killer remained motionless as the camera rotated back. There was no alarm siren, or any indication the intruder had been detected.
As soon as the camera turned away, the killer mounted the fence, used a powerful push to gain altitude, and swung a booted leg between two cushioned spikes for leverage. For someone so physically fit, clearing the ten-foot obstacle was no real challenge. The intruder dropped down into the garden, and sprinted across the frost-hardened grass to the patio. By the time the security camera reversed its motion again, the masked figure was stood in a blind spot under the pediment.
Pausing for the lightest of breaths through the mouthpiece veil, the killer opened a metal box mounted on the house’s exterior wall. An insulated cable linked it to the camera, making it obvious what the numeric keypad inside controlled. The intruder typed a six digit code, and a blinking message appeared on an LCD screen: SYSTEM DEACTIVATED. The whirring stopped, with the switched-off camera pointed at the swimming pool.
The killer closed the control box, and threw a nearby electrical switch. Underwater light discs powered up along the pool base. With the gloom dispersed, the water was transformed from black to clear, turquoise blue. The intruder flipped a second switch beside the first. Steam rose from tiny vents around the pool’s edge, generating a fog effect that reduced visibility to mere inches.
***
A flashy sports car - a sleek, yellow convertible with its roof covered - drove through the front gates of the Pryce residence, around the bull statue, and stopped outside the front porch. Sophie exited wearing a milky-white, short-skirted evening dress with stringy shoulder straps, glittery high heels, and a pearl necklace. Her lips were so heavily coated in gloss they appeared almost bloody.
Sophie closed the car door, and stopped to check her appearance in the side mirror. She made a minor adjustment to her dress, pulling it tighter around her waist to expose even more cleavage. Smiling in satisfaction, Sophie strutted up the porch steps, heels clacking the polished marble. She reached for the buzzer - a simple button set in a carved brass, bull-headed fixture - and was about to press it when she noticed a rather-obvious note taped to the door frame.
Sophie read the message typed on the yellow paper: Waiting in the pool. Warmed the water up just for you. A.
“Adrian, you naughty boy,” Sophie said affectionately. She peered into the security camera above her. “All right. I’ll play your game.”
Sophie gripped the doorknob, gave it a deliberately slow, drawn-out turn, and pushed. She stepped through into the hallway: a long corridor decorated with silver-framed posters of Taurus Studios games. Candle-shaped bulbs glowed in crystal pyramids, lighting a straight path from the entrance to the rear patio. The double doors at the far end were half-open, windows steamed up by the artificial mist.
“Out… here.” Adrian’s voice came from the pool area, words broken by a jarring pause.
Sophie seemed not to notice the odd speech. She stepped out of her high heels, and slid them under a coffee table with a toe-prod. “I’m coming.” She walked barefoot down the hall. “Don’t want to be late for an appointment with the boss.”
Four sliding, black-glass-panelled doors led to ground floor areas of the house, and a chrome railed staircase to the upper landing. Sophie ignored those and proceeded directly to the patio, dress rustling against her knees. Water vapour condensed on her face as she stepped out into the swirling steam.
Sophie wafted the air, and looked around the foggy garden. “Adrian?” she called out.
There was no reply.
“Adrian?” Sophie repeated, more apprehensively.
“Take your… things… off!” was the pieced-together response. The three snippets were all different volumes, the last word shouted dramatically as if part of an edited public speech.
Sophie jerked back. She looked round again, but the steamy mist made it difficult to see anything other than shifting, blurry shapes.
“Why do you sound so weird?” Sophie asked tentatively. “So… scary?”
Nothing could be heard except Sophie’s heavy, irregular breathing. Her dress was wringing wet, starting to stick to her knees. She made no attempt to pull it loose. Water dripped from her damp hair as she swivelled on the spot.
“Adrian!” Sophie wailed in fright. “This isn’t funny. And it’s freezing cold.” She shivered as if to make her point.
“Taurus Studios invite you to play a new kind of game.” It was Adrian’s voice again, but the sentence sounded normal, without any gaps or change in tempo. Faint cheering was audible in the background.
“Stop it!” Sophie shouted. “You’re freaking me out.”
“A game without checkpoints or continues.”
Adrian’s voice was louder now. The mist parted, and Sophie saw a dark, vaguely human shape. A fully-black figure, little more than a silhouette. The steam thickened, obscuring the mystery stalker. Sophie slipped on the wet tiles, and almost fell back into the pool. She clumsily regained her footing.
Sophie saw the shadow again, larger and more clearly defined. The masked, leather-clad killer stepped through the steam toward her, approaching from the direction of the house. Sophie looked on, quivering in fear as a gloved hand lifted up an object. It was made of white plastic, flat and oblong in shape.
“A game with true consequences,” the voice said, now obviously a pre-made recording. “Where death is permanent. Just like real life.”
The killer stopped the playback, and threw the MP3 player down on the frosty grass. Sophie backed away, mouth open in an expression of pure terror. Her feet were now dangerously close to the drop-off. She was trapped, with the pool at her rear and the menacing figure in black obstructing her path forward to the house
.
The killer’s eyeballs rolled around the balaclava’s oval slits - observing the environment - and then focused directly on Sophie. Looking at the mouthpiece, she saw the wearer’s lips press into the black cloth, twisted into an evil smile.
Sophie screamed. She made a diagonal run toward the house corner in an effort to evade the killer. The black figure crouched down, and vanished into the mist. Slowing to look around, Sophie retreated toward the perimeter fence and rubbed her watery eyes.
The masked killer rose behind her, grabbed her necklace, and yanked it taut. Gloved fingers pulled the pearls apart, forcing them along the threading. Thin steel wire bit deep into Sophie’s windpipe. Her scream turned to a choked gasp. Eyes bulging, she squirmed in the killer’s grasp. Her toenails scraped up frost and dry mud.
Sophie’s hands flailed at the garotte, but she couldn’t even get a firm grip, let alone pry it off her reddening skin. The killer was much stronger than her. Boot heels dug into paving stone gaps, the masked figure dragged Sophie across to the swimming pool, spun her about so her feet dipped in the water, and then let go. With the necklace loosened, Sophie managed to scream for about half a second. Then she landed with a splash, and her desperate cry for help was literally drowned out.
Sophie surfaced and coughed out water. The killer was there waiting, gloved hand in position to snatch the necklace. The assailant inserted one arm through the loophole at the rear, gloved palm sliding down Sophie’s lubricated back into the water. Increased tension made the wire tighten round Sophie’s neck. Loose pearls rattled together on the thread.
Sophie pounded the killer’s arm, screams silenced once more. Her blows were timid, made even less effective by water resistance. The smiling killer forced Sophie down and dunked her head underwater.
Air bubbled from Sophie’s nostrils. She watched helplessly as the killer took out a tablet phone and used its camera to record her dying moments. After another failed attempt to loosen the necklace, Sophie reached up at the kneeling figure. Her wet hand slipped on the leather jacket, unable to get a grip. Sophie reached higher still, and pulled at the balaclava. It stretched, and came away in her hand.
A large air bubble rose from Sophie’s open mouth, and popped on the surface. The shock of recognition upon seeing the killer’s face was clear in her eyes, every detail recorded by the phone’s camera. Sophie’s limp hand slapped the paving stones, splashing water over the assailant’s boot. Then it slid back into the pool, and her struggles ceased.
The killer reached into the water to reclaim the floating balaclava, and pulled free of the necklace. Sophie’s face-down body drifted away from the pool edge, her drowned black hair waving like tangled seaweed.
The black-clad figure placed a Taurus-logo-headed letter on the paving stones. Water soaked the paper, but the typed words were perfectly legible.
Sexual liaisons between Taurus employees are strongly discouraged, and could bring the company into disrepute. You behaved inappropriately, Miss Gallier. Consider your employment terminated.
Chapter Eight
Sycamore Avenue - labelled with a traditional white-on-green, misaligned signpost - was on the fringes of inner Philadelphia, a few blocks from Downtown and its modern skyscrapers. Windows in this neighbourhood were far less clean, with many protected by bars. The few that had been recently washed glowed pinky-red, lit by sleazy, neon advertisements for hotel rooms, twenty-four-hour liquor stores, and adult entertainment. The road was in poor condition, marred by cracked kerb stones and potholes full of muddy water. Luminescent graffiti was everywhere, from garage doors to shadowy alcoves.
Lucy looked out from a second-floor apartment window, blonde hair and shirt appearing amber-orange under the steady glow of a nearby street lamp. With no bars for protection, she’d be an easy target for an opportunistic shooter. But Lucy didn’t look afraid. She stood there unflinching as she sipped from a plain white porcelain mug. There was little activity to see. Nobody walked the pavement except an old, snowy-haired woman with a crooked walking stick.
Lucy turned away and sat down on a hard-cushioned, brown leather sofa. It was typical of her non-luxurious and practical apartment furniture, with sturdy wooden legs, flat-topped armrests, and no features that could be described as purely cosmetic. The mahogany table was basic if spotlessly clean. Paperwork was neatly filed in a sectioned brass rack, and Lucy’s folded suit top, wallet, handcuffs, and holstered handgun laid out in a straight, tidy row. If it weren’t for the cracked walls and peeled-back carpeting, Lucy’s abode could be classed as fashionable.
Lucy lifted a plastic folder from the empty seat beside her. Her expression was unreadable as she rested it on her lap and opened the front cover. Inside was a photo album that showed Lucy’s progression from a blonde, happy-looking toddler to a casually-dressed teenager with sleepy eyes and purple lipstick. On the next page, she appeared with Adrian, who looked far less professional than the present-day company president, and a lot more like a stereotypical, messy-haired computer nerd. As album pages - and the years - progressed, Adrian disappeared from the photos, and Lucy morphed from the scruffy teen into a smartly-dressed, makeup-free patrolwoman. And finally to a black-suited detective who proudly flashed her shield.
“How many times have I told you, Wendy?” a thuggish-sounding man yelled. Heavy footsteps pounded above. “You’re such a lousy—”
“Hey!” Lucy projected her voice up at the ceiling. “Got a problem up there, Joe? Something I need to deal with?”
Everything suddenly went quiet. Lucy waited a few seconds, and returned to studying her photo album.
A mobile telephone rang, playing a default, factory-set tone. Lucy put down the folder and walked over to the table. Mug in hand, she reached into her suit pocket and took out her cellphone. It was a dated, black-cased model with keypad buttons eroded from overuse. The caller ID displayed on the simplistic screen was Wallace.
“Duvall,” Lucy answered. “You need something?”
“He called the cops,” replied Ron. “Said he killed her.”
“Who?” Lucy sounded a touch baffled. “Who are you talking about?”
There was a brief pause before Ron spoke again. “Take one guess. He told us to meet him at his place. Your old college buddy just confessed to murder one.”
Lucy’s grip tightened around the mug handle. “Send me the address,” she instructed Ron. “Don’t do anything till I get there.”
“Sure. We’re partners, aren’t we?”
Lucy terminated the call before Ron could say more. She covered her mouth to cough, and put her mug down on the table. It wobbled before settling. The liquid at the bottom was syrupy brown, too viscous to be tea or coffee.
***
Floodlights shone on Adrian’s backyard from every conceivable angle, leaving no part of the garden, pool or ‘temple’ unlit. A dozen temporary stands and generators were set up near the picket fence. The police forensics team - the same personnel who’d attended the warehouse murder scene - scoured the area for clues. Some moved across the grass, stepping carefully and precisely as they waved violet strip lamps. Others dragged poled nets and pinging sensor equipment through the pool, stopping every so often to check results.
Sophie’s corpse had been removed from the water and laid face-up on a black plastic sheet - a body bag ready to be zipped up once the preliminary examination was complete. Her dress had partially dried, but still clung to her chest in several places. Damp, shiny skin gave her a plastic, almost mannequin-like complexion. The pearl necklace and soggy, Taurus-headed letter had been placed in evidence bags beside the deceased.
“The note has the same typeface,” Doctor Vickers observed from above. “Same logo at the top.”
“So Pryce killed them both?” asked Ron, looking over her shoulder from behind.
“Somebody did.”
Ron walked around Sophie’s body to study it from a side angle. “You’re starting to sound like Lucy.”
“I’ve been doin
g this job five years.” Vickers moved Sophie’s tangled hair with tweezers, and knelt down to inspect her neck. “First thing I learned: stick to the facts. And the facts are we got a dead woman. Strangled. Circular depressions to the side suggest the murder weapon was that pearl necklace.”
“You mean the one we found around her throat?” quipped Ron. “Looks like something you’d wear, Doc.”
“Nothing traditional about this woman. Is that how ladies dress these days? She’s practically naked.”
“You think Pryce and this… Sophie were having a fling? Maybe he invited her over to his place for a little midnight get together? Dancing. Sex. Murder. The usual.” In response to Vickers’ despairing sigh, Ron raised his hands in apology. “Stick to the facts. I get it.”
Ron gave Vickers a mock salute and turned away. A car engine chugged. Headlamps lit up the fence spikes, moving past the hanging tarpaulin towards the front of the house.
“Here comes trouble,” said Ron. “Wish me luck.”
***
“I told you to wait for me.”
Lucy looked flustered as she exited her car. Her ride was a plain, gunmetal-grey economy vehicle with a heavily-scratched roof, missing left wiper, and more than one luminous paint stain on the windscreen.
“No mystery to solve here,” said Ron. “I was at the office when Pryce confessed. Me and a dozen other cops heard him spill the beans.”
“You still should have waited,” Lucy complained.
She staggered, quickly righting herself. Ron’s eyes narrowed. He took a sniff, then leaned forward to smell Lucy’s face. She pushed him away and straightened her suit top.
“You drove here in that state?” Ron looked flabbergasted. “Are you insane? Why the hell didn’t you call someone to pick you up? Or sit this one out at home?”
Termination Notice (Action Girl Thrillers) Page 5
