Termination Notice (Action Girl Thrillers)

by A. D. Phillips

“Where’s Pryce?” Lucy asked, moving toward the house.

  Ron grabbed her by the waist. “I’m calling a cab. We can do the interview tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Lucy reached inside her suit, and pulled out a tube of breath mints. She popped one in her mouth and gave Ron a reassuring, straight-faced glance. “Really. I’m fine,” she repeated. “We can’t afford to wait until tomorrow. Not with a killer on the loose.”

  “The killer’s in there with three cops watching him.” Ron waved at the policeman guarding the door, and took Lucy out of earshot. “And really, you’re not fine. This is about Pryce, isn’t it? Look, I don’t know what the deal is between you two…”

  “There is no deal.” Lucy said defensively. “We knew each other at university. Briefly. That’s it.”

  “Briefly? I don’t think so.” There was a moment of awkward silence before Ron continued. “You dated the guy, didn’t you? When you were at college. How far did it go? Did you sleep with him?”

  Lucy brushed back her hair, unwilling to make eye contact. She looked a different woman now: a nervous wreck who couldn’t stand still.

  “Christ, Lucy!” Ron exclaimed. He lowered his voice to a hushed whisper. “You know the kind of shit you’re in? If Blake finds out there’s a conflict of interest—”

  “There’s no conflict!” Lucy snapped.

  The policeman looked over curiously. Lucy smiled innocently, and waited until he turned his attention elsewhere.

  “Trust me,” she pleaded. “It’s over between us. Has been for years.”

  “It’s hard to trust someone who drink drives. Or a cop who keeps the truth from her partner.”

  Lucy took another breath mint. The tube’s top almost flipped from her jittery fingers as she replaced it. “I know this man, Ron. I can read him.”

  “No, you can read the statement. Once I’ve taken it, and spoken to Blake.”

  Ron turned toward the policeman, about to call out to him. Lucy grabbed her partner’s shirt sleeve. “I’ll let you do the talking,” she promised. “But I have to be part of this.”

  “Not a good idea. There’s a dead woman in his back garden. You remember the receptionist at Taurus? The flirty one? Her name was Sophie Gallier. It looks like she was Pryce’s lover, too. Things don’t end well for them.”

  “They sure as hell don’t. I’ve been burned by that bastard. Don’t tell me you didn’t sense the animosity at the interview. The only feelings I have for that man are hatred and contempt. And he knows it.”

  Ron looked at the policeman, then back at Lucy. “This morning with that reporter…”

  “Game reviewer,” she corrected him. “Pryce struck first. I stopped him. Simple as that. I was doing my job, like I’ve always done. You go in there alone, and Pryce will just close up. Wait for his creepy attorney to show. With me in the room, he’ll get edgy and say something. Maybe it won’t be incriminating, but he’ll talk. What have you got to lose?”

  Ron chuckled in response. “How about my career and pension?”

  He paused for a moment’s reflection, and gave Lucy a serious, ‘don’t mess with me’ look.

  “I do the talking,” he insisted. “Let me be the bad, serious cop for a change. You be yourself. The silent, jilted ex-lover. And tomorrow, when you’ve sobered up, you tell me everything.”

  ***

  Adrian’s living room resembled a teenage boy’s dream world, with yet more framed posters of videogame characters on the walls. Computers were everywhere: an extensive, history-spanning collection from early 80s machines with thick keyboards and brick-like power units, to the latest, sleekly-designed game consoles. The chairs, rib-shaped tables, and pyramid lamp shades were ultra-modern, their opaque, black glass panels and chrome frames consistent with the architecture of the Taurus Studios tower.

  Adrian sat on the edge of a semicircular, five-cushioned futon in front of an inactive, sixty-inch plasma television and gaming suite. Dressed in a maroon bathrobe, he had two broad-shouldered, uniformed policemen for company. Adrian suffered in silence between them, perspiring face buried in his cupped palms. There was a nasty wound on the right of his forehead: a deep cut that had stopped bleeding and scabbed over.

  None of the cops looked sympathetic to Adrian, and the living room was crowded with them. Two butch females flanked the sliding door to the hall, and an unfriendly-looking older guy slouched by the closed window curtains. Lucy stared at the suspect from behind the television, arms folded. Everything below her hips was obscured by the giant screen. Ron was much closer: a tall, imposing figure toying with his handcuffs.

  “Let’s hear that crazy story again,” he said, “just so we’re clear.”

  “When I came home—” Adrian began.

  “There was a man in my house!” Ron shouted mockingly, quoting the famous line from The Fugitive. “Don’t forget to mention the artificial arm.”

  “He didn’t have an— There was somebody here,” snapped Adrian. “He was wearing a mask. I didn’t see his face. It’s the truth!” He looked at Lucy, who stared back indifferently. “He knocked me out. When I woke up, I found Sophie’s body floating in the pool. She was already dead.”

  “And that would be when you called us to confess. Makes sense.”

  “That wasn’t me!” insisted Adrian. “Right after I found her, you guys showed up. I never had chance to make a call.”

  Ron stretched his handcuff rings so the chain clinked. “This mystery guest. Did he turn off all the cameras? Let the girl in? It seems the killer was somebody who knew the security code, and had a key to the front door. Let me think who it could be.”

  “Anyone can find out a code if they want to. Maybe this guy has a friend at the security company. Maybe he was watching me. And copied my key while I was at the office. You think it could be a Taurus employee?”

  Adrian looked pleadingly at Lucy. She took out her breath mints, slowly unscrewed the cap, and swallowed a couple straight from the tube. “Could be,” she said neutrally.

  “Or maybe the killer already knew the code because it’s his house,” said Ron. “Sounds more plausible to me.” He held up an evidence bag. Inside was a mobile phone: an advanced model with a wireless Internet connection and flashy, touch-sensitive screen. “Recognise this? The last number dialled from it belonged to the dead girl. You don’t need to confirm that. Funny thing about these modern phones. Every time you send a text message, it records the sender, date, and time. Does all our legwork for us.”

  “Obviously someone stole my phone,” Adrian claimed. He sounded increasingly desperate, legs squirming like a caged animal’s.

  “Obviously,” said Ron, unimpressed. “No signs of a struggle inside. Forensics found heeled footprints in the hall. Which means the girl walked into your house willingly, to join someone for a late night swim…” He leant closer to Adrian, face twisted in an unpleasant sneer. “…only you had something else in mind for her. A date with murder.”

  Dawson walked in from the hallway, an expensive overcoat buttoned over his purple suit. The two women officers barred his path.

  “Don’t say anything, Adrian,” Dawson advised him.

  “He doesn’t need to.” Ron backed away. “We got all the evidence we need.”

  “I didn’t do it!” Adrian screamed. Once again he looked to his former lover. “Lucy! I’m being set up. You have to believe me.”

  Lucy stepped around the television screen. She nodded at the two men beside Adrian, who got up and hauled the suspect to his feet.

  “Adrian Pryce,” Lucy said formally. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murders of Justin Norris and Sophie Gallier.”

  Ron slapped his handcuffs on Adrian, who offered no resistance.

  “I want to talk to my client,” Dawson said. “Now.”

  One of the female officers led the attorney away while Lucy approached Adrian. His eyes burned with hatred.

  “You know what they say,” he said through clenched teeth. “No good deed
—”

  Ron twisted the handcuffs. He showed no remorse as Adrian grimaced in pain.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Lucy said. An emotionless, almost robotic speech. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  Chapter Nine

  Quite a few nosy neighbours watched from upstairs windows as the police escorted Adrian to a waiting patrol car. A beady-eyed woman in daffodil-patterned pyjamas talked excitedly to a much older man who yawned in response. She whispered despite being indoors, doing her best not to stare too intently as Lucy opened the car’s rear door. Adrian gave his ex-lover a grumpy, bitter-faced glare as Ron herded him past.

  Keeping the suspect’s wrists on a very tight leash, Ron forced Adrian’s head underneath the door frame, and bundled him into the caged-off, rear compartment used to transport prisoners. Ron slammed the door shut, and pulled Lucy to one side. With Adrian out of their sight, the neighbours seemed to lose interest. One by one, the bedroom lights switched off and curtains were drawn.

  “So you and Pryce were…” Ron trailed off, leaving Lucy to fill in the blank.

  “We were,” she replied coldly. “Now we’re not. Let’s leave my past where it belongs. Okay?”

  Lucy turned toward the patrol car. Ron grabbed her shoulder. She shrugged him off without slowing her pace.

  “Yeah, I get it,” Lucy said, heading round the passenger side. “You’re driving.”

  “You did the right thing,” Ron reassured her over the car roof. “The professional thing.”

  “Did I?” Lucy pondered aloud. “The evidence seems too convenient. Too obvious. What if he was telling the truth, and this is a frame up?”

  “Right.” Ron chortled in amusement. “A phantom intruder broke in, shut down the security, drowned a girl, and left without leaving a single trace. That’s as hard to believe as you going all soft. This is real life, not television. Sometimes the answer is obvious.”

  Ron opened the door, climbed into the driver’s seat, and adjusted the rear-view mirror to get a good view of the prisoner. “Better get used to the accommodation, pal,” he said, buckling up. “You live a long way out of the city. It’s a good half hour’s drive to the precinct. Why don’t you relax, and make yourself uncomfortable?”

  Lucy got into the passenger seat, facing forward to fasten her seatbelt. She closed the door, and Ron followed two other police cars down the leafy street. Neither of the detectives spoke as they set off on the long drive to Philadelphia. Distant skyscrapers towered over suburban homes, shining like beacons in the pitch black sky.

  “I thought we were friends.” Adrian leant across to Lucy’s side.

  A tow truck passed in the opposite direction, casting light on the squad car interior. Adrian didn’t blink, not even when the headlamps shone straight at him. He sat motionless as the barrier’s latticed shadow moved across his face.

  “We were a lot more than that.” Lucy kept her eyes on the road ahead. “But being told you’re special by someone, only to come home and find another woman in his bed… It doesn’t leave much room for interpretation. Still can’t believe I fell for your charm. But I won’t make the same mistake again.”

  “All right,” admitted Adrian. “So I was seeing someone else four years ago. What does my love life matter now?”

  “A great deal,” Ron chipped in, “since we discovered your latest girl’s body floating in your swimming pool.” He spoke quickly to keep up the pressure. “Your admission of guilt’s refreshing. Got anything else to confess?”

  “No,” Adrian said bitterly. “What’s the point? You both think I did it. I’m not saying anything else until I’ve spoken with my attorney.”

  He leant back in resignation, and turned his neck to peer out through the side window. All was quiet except for the rumble of tires on tarmac. Ron glanced at Adrian’s reflection in the mirror, and took advantage of a break in traffic to whisper in Lucy’s ear.

  “Whatever happened between you two, it’s over,” he said. “If Blake comes after you, I got your back. We all have our secrets, partner. So long as they don’t cloud your judgement, I’m quite happy to leave them buried.”

  “That’s okay, Wallace.” Lucy made no attempt to speak quietly. “Once we’ve processed this two-faced creep, I could use some downtime. Coffee sound good?”

  ***

  Kelli’s Open All Nite Diner - a name written in bold yellow on the grease-stained, laminated, one-sheet menus - was a fast food joint located on a street corner. Plastic, low-backed stools bolted around the central bar left little legroom, and sixty people could squeeze around the table booths if the place were busy. At this early hour of the morning it wasn’t.

  Other than Lucy and Ron - who’d chosen a table in the back corner - the only customer was a bald, bearded redneck who wore a lumberjack-style chequered shirt, ripped jeans, and cowboy boots. He spat saliva into his coffee cup, ate a rash of bacon with his hands, and wiped his palms on the tablecloth. The young waitress working the night shift timidly approached his seat, standing as far away as she could while she gave him a refill.

  Ron gave the poor-mannered customer a no-nonsense glance, and moved his jacket flap to expose his holstered sidearm. Seeing the weapon, the redneck turned away with a bearish grunt. The waitress gave Ron an appreciative nod, and made a speedy return to the bar.

  “I was in my freshman year,” Lucy said, ignorant of the confrontation. She absent mindedly plopped a sugar cube in her coffee cup, and watched it slowly dissolve. “A carefree teenager on her own in the big city.”

  Ron sipped his drink. “I imagine that was scary,” he said tactfully.

  “Maybe I should have been more scared. Then I wouldn’t have got into the trouble I did.” Lucy dipped her spoon into her cup, stirred the coffee, and watched milky trails spiral around. “The crowd I got mixed up with… For them, fitting in was a big thing.”

  “Lucy Duvall was a sorority girl?” Ron frowned, as if struggling to visualise it. “Out chasing boys. Clubbing, drinking. No wonder you kept it secret. Doesn’t match the ice queen persona at all.”

  Lucy didn’t look up. “We didn’t just drink,” she said regretfully. “There were other pressures. Bad habits I shared with the rest of the girls.”

  “You’re talking about drugs. And not just the odd bit of weed. You mean the hard stuff.” Ron spoke the last part slowly, phrasing his deduction like a question. When Lucy didn’t reply, he placed a consoling hand on her wrist. “That’s all in the past though. Right?”

  Lucy nodded and wiped a tear from her eye. Ron offered a napkin, but she shook her head.

  “Yes,” she admitted, last trace of iciness melting away. “But it was bad, Ron. And I mean real bad. I can’t remember when I took the first pill. I must have been drunk. But I remember taking three that night four years ago.”

  Lucy slurped her coffee, and gulped heavily enough to be heard across the table. The saucer wobbled as she replaced the cup, spoon rattling on the unbalanced porcelain.

  “I could barely stand when I left the bar,” she went on. “I was on my way home, stoned out of my skull. Somehow I got lost, and ended up in the local park. That’s when it happened. When I first met Adrian Pryce.”

  ***

  With trees and shrubbery in full, summery bloom, the park could be mistaken for the open countryside. Blaring rap music shattered the peace, rapidly-spoken lyrics indecipherable except for frequent, uncensored profanity. An unseen car sped off into the night, rubber tires screeching. As the noise faded, two conifer branches parted, blown to the side by a fierce breeze. Then a modern office tower became visible through the gap, and the illusion was truly broken. The grassy lawns, cobbled footpaths, and freshwater lake were merely a nature reserve in the wilderness of a nondescript American city, a place where locals might go for an evening jog.

  Young Lucy was the only person in the park. The teenage brat wore a bright pink, sleeveless top, PVC miniskirt, and platform-heeled shoes. The
purse strapped on her shoulder was less than an inch thick, barely large enough to hold an identity card. Lucy zig-zagged along the footpath, struggling to stay on her feet. Her eyelids were half-shut, her pupils dilated. Long blonde hair blew across her cheeks as she wandered onto the grass.

  “Don’t mess with me!” Lucy yelled out, hiccuping drunkenly. “I’m one of the girls.” She held her arms out wide, and looked up at the starry sky.

  Wind picked up, whistling through the trees. Lucy staggered to and fro erratically. Her shoe soles slipped, leaving soft, light brown mud marks on the turf. Lucy was still stargazing when the breeze turned into a gale. Her dress pressed close against her skin, sinking into the gap between her bare knees.

  Without a solid foothold or the alertness to react to danger, Lucy was blown across the grass to a low, single-roped fence at the water’s edge. Her lower ankle caught the cordon, and she toppled over backwards into the lake.

  The splash Lucy made was tiny, but her scream was ear-piercing. Her eyelids sprung open, as if she’d woken from a daydream. Her shrill cry was replaced by spluttering coughs as water poured into her mouth. Lucy struggled to stay afloat. Within seconds, her flapping arms and kicking legs had slowed to the point where she hardly moved at all. Even in summertime, the water was apparently cold enough to induce numbness. Lucy clawed at the lakeside grass, varnished fingernails digging tiny trenches in the slippery slope. She screamed one more time, and then went under.

  Water clouded Lucy’s vision. From her perspective, the shore was a dark, ripply blur. Black streaks spread to all four corners, obliterating the finer details until only vague outlines remained. A white light appeared, rays spinning around its blinding white centre. Lucy squinted, and made out the faint, mirage-like shape of a man riding a pedal cycle. The featureless stranger dropped his bike on the lawn, sprinted across to the shoreline, and thrust a helping hand down into the water.

  Lucy - finding strength from somewhere - reached up and grabbed the lifeline. The man gripped her wrist firmly, and pulled the drowning woman to the surface. Water trickled down Lucy’s cheeks. She looked on the verge of death, eyes fluttering as she cleared her throat to speak.