A moustached man behind the desk stood up. “Knife to a gunfight,” Ron said. He lowered his firearm. “Not the most advisable approach. Some reason you don’t have a weapon? Oh yeah. That’s right. You’re suspended. This isn’t your case any more.”
Lucy slid the hallway door closed. “What the hell are you doing?” she whispered angrily.
“Just making sure you didn’t mistake me for a psycho.” Ron quickly lost his smile. “Oh, you meant here. In the prime suspect’s house. I was checking computer cables. Thought Pryce might be missing a couple. So, did you manage to get a semen sample from him yet?”
“You’re out of your mind,” Lucy fumed. “If Blake finds out you came here… that you broke into Adrian’s house…”
“Listen to the angel preach. You should take a look around your boyfriend’s private office. He’s got some interesting stuff.”
Lucy lowered the knife, and took in the spacious study. Almost everything in the room was made of silvery chrome and dark glass: storage cabinets, backless stools riveted around a sturdy design table, simplistic pedestals. Lucy strolled around the ‘exhibits’ on display. Adrian’s collection was a mix of memorabilia and merchandise that traced the history of Taurus Studios. The journey through time began with early logo concepts - red hornless bulls - and ended with contemporary Crimson Shadow action figures.
“This place is like a museum,” Lucy said.
She looked admiringly at a fifty-inch television screen embedded within the opposite wall. It switched on automatically as she approached. A muted, late-night action movie reached its dramatic climax. An African-American woman in a scruffy brown jacket - a fictional detective with a short ponytail and Los Angeles PD lanyard - stormed through a decrepit warehouse. She took out a small army of street punks with a laser-sighted colt pistol. The woman never missed a shot, and emerged from the one-sided gun battle without a scratch.
“The modern action heroine,” Ron mused. “Load of bullshit. Nobody could possibly be so gung-ho or dumb in real life. When you’ve finished watching TV…” He waited for Lucy to turn around. “I was referring to Pryce’s private collection. That he keeps hidden away. Pretty gruesome stuff.”
Ron placed a wad of papers on Adrian’s desk, and spread them out into a row. Lucy seemed unnerved as she viewed the pastel-drawn concept art. Crudely-shaded figures battled on plain white backgrounds. The recurring character was an early version of Crimson Shadow: a ninja in garish red, sashed martial-arts robes with blocky hands and black-penned curves for breasts. Fighting alone, the warrior woman came across as lethally-skilled and ruthlessly proficient. She despatched a horde of low-detailed, masked men with her katana and shurikens. The final image was of someone different: a black-garbed, hooded male ninja holding stretched piano wire.
“See anyone we know?” Ron asked.
“It’s just a drawing,” Lucy argued back. “Make believe. He probably did it years ago.”
Ron pulled the strangler’s picture away from the others, and pointed to the garotte. The razor wire had been drawn in different shades of grey, simulating a shiny glint.
“Almost looks real,” Ron said. “Like it’s based on personal experience. And the paper seems brand new to me. I don’t see any curls at the corners. Do you?”
“It’s concept art,” Adrian said.
His sudden appearance at the door startled Lucy. She spun round, her trailing suit scattering sheets of paper.
“For the planned Crimson Shadow sequel,” Adrian went on. “The Dark Hunter.”
“Thanks for clearing that up,” Ron said with a sarcastic smile. “I feel a lot better now. For a moment there, I was convinced you were a psycho.”
Adrian stepped into his study. Slipper soles slapped on the wood tiles. “Another guest I didn’t invite. Is this how you do things in the police? Invade people’s privacy? Violate their rights? I was under the impression that to enter someone’s property without permission, you required a warrant.” He walked over to a hi-tech videophone on the desk, and picked up the cordless receiver. “Perhaps I should give your boss a call. Get him to clarify matters.”
“Wouldn’t bother,” Ron said dismissively. “He’s at home sleeping.”
“Or maybe I should call my attorney!” Adrian raged. “And tell him there’s a smarmy cop poking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Who doesn’t seem to give a damn about probable cause or breaking the law!”
“Adrian…” Lucy said soothingly. “Don’t humour him.”
Ron stacked the papers in a neat pile. “I think I’ve seen everything I need to, Mister Pryce. It’s really quite easy to explain. I was concerned for your safety, decided to check up on you after the two murders at your office. You heard about those, right? Well, when I got here I saw the lights on at four in the morning. And Lucy’s car parked outside. Naturally, I was worried about my old partner. Thought she might be in over her head.”
“As you can see,” Lucy said abrasively. “We’re both safe and well.”
“Then I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing. It would probably be best if I made a quiet exit. With all the commotion outside and all.”
Ron walked foxily to the television and tapped an upward-pointed arrow icon on the screen. At his touch, the channel changed. Kristina Malloy appeared in centre-shot, stood in front of Adrian’s house. She was positioned near-perfectly in the middle of the gate. The bull’s head was directly behind her, horns shining in the news camera spotlight.
Ron touched a loudspeaker icon to deactivate the mute function.
“…confirm there have been two additional victims in the Taurus Strangler case,” Kristina reported.
Adrian clenched his fist when she mentioned the killer’s nickname. His angry reaction went unnoticed by Ron, but not Lucy. Her pupil movement was slight, lasting a split second. She returned her attention to the TV screen, and kept her thoughts private.
“It appears that Lieutenant Blake’s comments yesterday afternoon were premature,” Kristina said. “And that James Fitzroy may not have been responsible for the murders. With Philadelphia once again in the grip of fear, and two more employees of Taurus Studios dead, the spotlight is now firmly back on Adrian Pryce. I’m outside his house, where a number of witnesses have reported a blonde woman matching the description…”
Lucy tapped the loudspeaker icon, silencing Kristina in mid-sentence.
“Real life soap opera.” Ron walked to the broken window. “I can see why you’d want to switch it off.”
“You think I’m just going to let you walk out?” yelled Adrian. “After you broke in here?”
“Yeah, I think so. Unless you want to cause a scene, and give Miss Malloy something really juicy to comment on. Be careful, partner. You know what they say about life imitating art.”
Ron left the study with no further challenge. He winked at Adrian as he shut the window, and jogged away into the night.
Adrian’s unfriendly glare remained etched on his face. “I’m calling Dawson right now. We’ll need to prepare a statement to the press. Put whatever positive spin we can on the story while my company’s still worth something. Then we’ll discuss Detective Wallace’s unorthodox methods. His total disregard for procedure, his baseless insinuations. How the hell do you stomach working with someone so slimy?”
Lucy took a quick breather before she responded. “Ron’s…”
“Lucky I understand his concern.”
***
A pale ray of sunlight shone across Lucy’s forehead, tapering to a blunt point on the bridge of her nose. It widened to a full inch as she parted the living room curtains. Lucy took a discreet peek through the window - just long enough for news camera lights to converge on her - then pulled the drapes together.
“They still out there?” Adrian asked.
He entered from the hallway, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. The enamel was atypically bright and flashy in design, with a Taurus Studios bull on a creamy yellow background.
Lucy stepped away from the window. “Yeah,” she said with a tired yawn. “And multiplying, as vermin do. Tempted to take Lieutenant Blake’s advice and go on a long vacation. Were you able to get through to Dawson?”
Adrian shook his head. “Tried him three times. No answer. I left a message on his machine.” He scraped his thumbnail down the cup, applying so much pressure it scratched the paint. “Watched the morning news. That Kristina woman talking through her ass. And she used that name again. The Taurus Strangler. Like this nutcase is somehow connected with my company.”
“Well, three of the four victims worked for Taurus. And the other used to.” Lucy gave Adrian a placative smile. “Just saying.”
“Jenna was a temp!”
Adrian hurled his mug away. It spun upside down in mid-flight, and bounced on the futon. Coffee splashed over the cushions.
“I spoke to the girl once,” Adrian said. “Maybe twice. There was nothing between us. Why kill her?”
“Why kill any of them?” questioned Lucy. “That’s what we have to figure out. And we will, if we work together. Which is why you need to calm down and think.”
“I built Taurus from nothing.” Adrian pointed angrily at the window. “And those news crews want to drag my company’s reputation through the dirt. I’m not going to fold to the pressure, Lucy. I’m not going to run away because some disgruntled employee has it in for me. I worked too hard for this.”
Adrian bit his lower lip. Raw fury burned in his eyes. He was a walking pressure cooker ready to explode.
Lucy approached him with care, hands in her trouser pockets. “Relax, tough guy,” she said tenderly. “The strangler tried to bump me off too, remember. I’m not about to skip town either.” She watched circles of light sweep over the closed curtains. “But I wouldn’t mind some privacy. I know a place where the press won’t be so welcome. Want some breakfast?”
***
“Any more reporters show up?” an early morning riser bellowed across the street.
The old-timer looked somewhat comical in his cartoon-strip pyjamas and Mickey Mouse slippers. White hair and sunken eyes hinted at a man in his seventies or beyond. He stooped to pick up a newspaper off his front doorstep. Folded in two, a pessimistic headline was printed above a cropped-off picture of a miserable-looking Lieutenant Blake. TAURUS STRANGLER OUTWITS POLICE.
“Hey, pal!” the elderly resident persisted. “I’m talking to you.”
His comments were directed at an anonymous motorcyclist parked across the way. The helmeted rider was a hundred yards from the news vans, in a tree-sheltered spot with a narrow - but clear - viewing angle of the Pryce residence gates. Dressed in a zip-up jumpsuit, studded boots, and padded gloves, the biker’s body was completely covered from the neck down. They - it was impossible to tell whether it was a man or woman under all the black leather - had kept the silver-coloured, reflective face plate lowered, and no hair protruded from the helmet.
The motorcyclist slowly turned their head. Sunlight reflected off the visor - a blinding glare that forced the old man to cover his eyes. He mumbled something incoherent, stormed into his house, and back-heeled the door shut.
A yellow taxicab stopped in front of the news vans, reversed into an empty driveway, and turned back. Some reporters gave the car a passing glance, but nobody surrendered their spot outside the gates. Only the motorcyclist noticed two people climb over the picket fence with the assistance of an aluminium ladder. They were both dressed in thick, blue jeans and trainers, winter coat hoods pulled across their faces. The biker watched them, reflections at the centre of the visor.
The woman who led the way - her coat folded round her breasts as she jumped down - was relatively inconspicuous, but the man behind seemed a lot edgier. He glanced around nervously, face pressed between two ladder rungs. The female had to beckon three times before he leapt into her arms. The biker watched the misfits move discreetly into the next garden, exit through a wooden gate, and get into the cab. Once inside, Lucy and Adrian lowered their hoods.
The motorcyclist stamped on the accelerator pedal to rev the engine. Camera lights flashed across the silver visor as the biker did a sharp, one-eighty-degree turn in front of the duped reporters.
As the taxi moved off, Lucy and Adrian shifted closer together, shoulders within an inch of touching. Both passengers appeared relaxed, unaware of the tail.
Chapter Eighteen
Adrian cautiously sniffed the food on his plate. The smouldering pancake was more brown than yellow, batter covered with burnt grease. There was very little meat on the fatty bacon, and the pickled onions were shrivelled. Not a single scrap had been eaten, or even touched. Lucy sat across the dining table. She was either famished or not too choosy about her diet, since her plate was almost empty.
“When you said breakfast at your place, you made it sound so romantic,” Adrian grumbled. “Thought you’d eat healthily.”
Adrian rolled over a pickle with his wood-handled fork. The reverse side didn’t look any more appealing. He let the onion spin back, decided to play safe, and stuck to his creamed coffee. Lucy sliced a thick strip of bacon from her last portion, speared it, and gobbled it down.
“Messed up the timings,” she said after she’d eaten. “Not used to cooking for two.”
“You didn’t need to go to all this trouble.” Adrian prodded his pancake to test its hardness. In most places he had to force the fork in. “I’m sure there’s a diner around here.”
“In this neighbourhood? Not a good idea. Anyway, I thought you wanted privacy.”
Adrian finally took the plunge. He cut off a thin piece of pancake, chewed for a few seconds, and then swallowed - a silent concession of defeat.
“So, Crimson Shadow…” Lucy looked up. “Who else was on the team?”
“Besides Sophie and Norris? Dawson was the chief producer. Tania did most of the coding. It’s this year’s marquee title. Pretty much everyone in my company has worked on it at some point.” Adrian paused, tapping his knife handle against the table. “But not Levitt, the security guy. He had nothing to do with the project. Neither did you. And Jenna wasn’t technically a Taurus employee. Are you so sure that’s the connection?”
“I just got in the killer’s way. But Levitt… Could he have seen something on the cameras?”
Adrian started to laugh. It turned into a cough as he choked on a pickle. “A bunch of security staff left Taurus. When we went over budget last Christmas, we made a lot of adjustments. Job cuts. Levitt wasn’t great. Or even average. He was a low paid rent-a-cop we could afford.”
“And now he’s off your payroll altogether,” Lucy said coldly.
Adrian gave her a distasteful glare. It wasn’t clear whether it was her comment or the food that had made him queasy.
A loud thump came from the apartment above. Glass smashed. A door slammed.
“God damn it, bitch!” the man upstairs yelled. “If I have to tell you again.”
A woman cried. Whimpers soon faded to quiet sobs. Adrian looked about nervously - first at the ceiling, then his host.
“Excuse me.” Lucy placed her cutlery on her half-eaten food, and pushed her chair away from the table. “There’s this jerk I know. Been waiting to punch him for years.”
Lucy collected her suit top from a clothes hook on the way out. She paused, then replaced it. Lucy rolled up her shirt sleeves to expose tough-skinned forearms. She opened the door, and left the apartment with a distinctly mean streak.
Adrian pushed away his plate, food barely touched. He took only the coffee with him as he stood up to wander the apartment. Saucepans and dirty spatulas were piled by the kitchen sink, next to empty plastic packaging. Adrian avoided them as if they’d been contaminated with a fatal disease, and stuck to the lounge area.
His first steps were cautious, transparent facial expressions swinging between unimpressed and total dislike. Adrian’s demeanour improved when he spied the photo album on Lucy’s credenza. He flicked the pages back from the pol
ice force pictures, and stopped at the section of them together at university.
There was a wood-splitting crack, quickly followed by a violent thud. Light shades shook. Stomping feet moved from above the apartment window to the door area.
“What the hell—” the male resident began.
The resulting commotion began with a slap - possibly a punch - and ended shortly after with a high-pitched, just-about-masculine groan. Adrian flinched in discomfort.
“You…. You… Bitch!” the man upstairs cried.
“Don’t touch her ever again,” Lucy threatened. Her voice was deafeningly loud. Everyone in the building could probably hear her. “Not unless you want me to come back. Next time, it won’t be a gentle prod. I might decide you’re not man enough and chop them off altogether.”
Adrian tracked Lucy’s footsteps back to the door. He smiled as he looked out on Sycamore Avenue. A sleek black motorcycle sped by, its helmeted, leather-clad rider a blurry, motion-distorted figure. Adrian pressed his cheek against the glass to get a wider viewing angle. There was no sign of the vehicle, only rusty-hooded junkers parked along the kerb.
Five tones rang out - the start of a tune. Its high-tempo, adventurous theme was similar to Justin Norris’ music, possibly one of his compositions. Adrian took his cellphone from his trouser pocket, and tapped the screen to read a just-arrived text message from Miles Dawson.
My office. Urgent. You know why. Better have answers. Come alone.
Alerted by footsteps outside, Adrian put the phone away. Lucy entered her apartment to see his hand move swiftly away from his pants, and a thin, oblong-shaped bulge in his pocket. Lucy’s knuckles were redder than when she’d left, but she looked in good health.
“Thought you’d been suspended,” Adrian said, a little hastier than usual.
“I was.” Lucy walked to the dining table and calmly collected the two plates. She balanced them expertly on one hand, and laid the cutlery on top. “Wouldn’t have done that wearing a badge. There are lots of rules for cops. Not so many for concerned residents. But it felt good to disobey the rules.”
Termination Notice (Action Girl Thrillers) Page 13
