by Debra Webb
“What do you want from me?” she cried. She just wanted to go home. She was getting married. She didn’t want to die.
He sighed. “I’m thinking brunette.” He reached into the box that sat next to her chair and drew out a dark wig. He tugged it onto her head, then swept the bangs out of her eyes. “Perfect.”
Shock held her still as he painted her eyes and lips. He dusted her cheeks with blush. She stared blankly at him. He was insane. Completely insane and she was going to die.
He pulled a skirt from the box and pulled at the stretchy waistband. “This should work.” He turned his attention to her. He picked up a big knife from the counter and waved it at her. “I’m going to cut your legs loose. I want you to remove your jeans and put on this skirt. You give me any trouble and I’ll slit your throat right now.”
Tears blurring her vision, Deana did as he asked. She sat perfectly still while he cut through the tape binding her ankles. She stood and let him unfasten her jeans and drag them down. She lifted first one foot and then the other. When he threw the jeans aside she ran.
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! She had to get out of this place!
He caught her halfway across the kitchen. The cold blade of the knife pressed against her throat, stinging her as it sliced shallowly into her skin. She screamed deep in her throat. The sharp bite of the blade and the feel of the warm blood dripping down her throat sent terror roaring through her. Oh God. Oh God. She did not want to die.
“Be a good girl now and put on the blouse.”
She held stone still while he cut her wrists free. He handed her the blouse and she tried to figure out how to pull it over her head without messing up the wig. The blouse looked too small. Please let it fit. She had no idea what he would do if it didn’t.
“Do not mess up your makeup,” he warned, those red lips flattening into a thin line.
Somehow she managed to get the blouse on. The only thing that saved her was that the scooped neck was so low it made for a wide opening to poke her head through. The damned blouse was skintight. The waistband of the bell-shaped skirt cut into her gut. She felt like an apple shoved into a deflated balloon. She couldn’t breathe.
He pointed to the black pumps on the floor and she stepped into them, twisting her ankle in the process. She never wore high heels like this. She couldn’t possibly walk in them. Her heart pounded so fast she felt as if it would burst out of her chest.
“Spread your legs.”
Fear closed her throat.
“Spread your legs,” he repeated.
She inched her feet wide apart. Her lips trembled with the need to cry. “Please.”
He reached into the box once more and brought out a leather belt. Attached to the belt was a large pink dildo. A cry squeaked out of her. Holding the knife by its hilt in his mouth, he pulled up her skirt and strapped the belt around her waist, leaving the dildo up front like she had sprouted a huge penis. Unable to move, Deana stood with her legs spread, the skirt hiked up and the big pink penis thrust out in front of her.
She closed her eyes and prayed hard. Please, please, God. I don’t want to die like this.
A ripping sound forced her eyes open. He’d torn off a piece of duct tape. He was going to bind her arms and legs again. She stood frozen while he reached between her legs and taped the dildo to her thigh.
“Now.” He pointed to the tray waiting on the long dining table. “You may serve the tea.”
She looked from the tarnished silver tea service up to the chandelier. It was massive and very ornate. Light reflected and twinkled from the hundreds of crystals draped on its numerous arms, the light rained over the table and the tea service like shiny raindrops. Where was she? Why was he doing this?
“Serve the tea!” he shouted.
Deana jumped. She somehow managed to walk to the table. Her hands shook, making the lid of the teapot rattle as she poured the tea. When he sat, she sat. She followed his lead and sipped her tea. She tried so hard not to allow the cup and saucer to rattle or to make a face at the bitter taste.
When she had finished the tea, she sat the cup and saucer aside. She lifted her gaze to his. He was never going to let her go. She was going to die. She saw it in his eyes.
“Come along.” He stood and held out his hand, his grotesquely painted mouth smiling.
She moistened her lips, wished she could swallow. Her heart was in her throat. “Where are we going?”
He winked. “To give her what she deserves.”
Twenty-Eight
Criminal Investigation Division
Tuesday, October 25, 6:35 a.m.
Asher tossed his keys on his desk. This was way too early to be at the office. He scrubbed a hand over his face. Holt would bitch ’cause he hadn’t shaved. How could he shave when he was up all night watching her damned neighbors’ house? He had no business getting personally involved, but damn it he couldn’t help himself. He’d run into Olivia Shelton at the supermarket Sunday evening and he’d seen the fresh bruises on her throat. She’d cried and begged him not to tell Holt.
He’d ended up promising her he would keep her secret this time. What he really wanted to do was catch that husband of hers in just the right place so he could give the bastard a taste of his own medicine. Since that hadn’t proven possible so far, he spent his nights watching her house. He’d doze off after all the lights went out. The husband left every morning about six to head to the garage where he was a mechanic.
Doing this forever wasn’t feasible. At some point the woman would have to do the right thing or Asher would kill the guy and then he’d be fucked. Not a good scenario for him. Why was it guys like Wesley Shelton never turned up the victims of homicide investigations? Shelton was more likely to become the killer than the victim. Being the coward he was, his victims would typically be female and far weaker than him.
“Piece of shit.”
Coffee. He needed coffee bad. Between the twisted case they were working and this extracurricular activity, he was dead on his feet. He straightened his shirt, draped his tie around his neck and proceeded to knot the damned thing as he made his way to the lounge. He filled the brew basket and then poured in the water. He had no idea how long it would take to brew the pot. Coffee was always done when he came in.
The older guys preferred to make the coffee. They swore the younger generation didn’t know how to make good coffee. This morning Asher felt anything but young. He felt as old as hell.
When the machine stopped dripping he poured a cup and took a sip. He groaned as the hot brew slid down his throat. “Oh yeah.” Now, that was a cup of coffee.
He headed for the bullpen. Might as well get started reviewing the list of POIs they needed to interview again. At this point it felt as if they were repeating the same steps over and over and getting nowhere. They hadn’t found anyone who’d seen or heard a damned thing beyond the family who’d noticed the old Lincoln Town Car and that lead had turned up nothing so far. Holt and Owens insisted they had to interview the whole damned list of names again. And again.
How many times and ways could they ask the same questions?
He stalled before he reached his desk. Devine was here. Asher started to say good morning and to ask him why he’d come in so early but his jaw locked. Devine was going through Bobbie’s desk. It had taken Asher and everyone who worked at CID a couple weeks to get used to the new guy. Even now, some mornings Asher walked in and expected to see Newt making the rounds. He’d be wearing the blue suit he loved so much and sporting that damned flattop he’d worn since he was fifteen. Not once had Asher ever caught Newt pilfering through Bobbie’s desk.
Devine looked up and spotted Asher. He smiled and said, “Morning, buddy. You’re mighty early.”
For a split second Asher didn’t respond. The smile was right, Devine’s voice was right, but that moment he’d
hesitated between seeing Asher come through the door and smiling had missed a beat.
“Pulled an all-nighter outside a vic’s home.” Asher walked to his own cubicle and set down his coffee. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
“You’re a braver man than me.” Devine laughed. “The last time I tried to make a pot I thought the desk sergeant was going to shoot me.”
Asher smiled. “Yeah, some of these guys are a little territorial.”
Devine held up an evidence bag. “Finally.” He closed what sounded like a drawer. “I came in early to take this back to the lab for Bobbie and I had a hell of a time finding it.” He breezed past Asher’s cubicle. “I’ll be back in a few.”
Asher gave him a nod and turned back to his coffee. Evidently he was jumpy this morning, seeing trouble everywhere he looked. He needed a good night’s sleep.
“Bauer!” Devine shouted from the corridor.
“Fuck.” Asher set his coffee down again and hauled his weary body out of his chair. “What the hell is it?”
“There’s a guy in the parking lot taking a big-ass wrench to your car.”
Asher pushed past Devine and bolted out the front door just as his windshield shattered. “Motherfucker!”
The guy swung the tool again, taking out the passenger window. When he drew back once more, Asher grabbed him by the arm and twisted. The wrench hit the ground.
Wesley Shelton.
“You just made a big mistake, pal.” Asher shoved him backward.
Shelton regained his balance and charged Asher.
Asher hit the asphalt. The air burst from his lungs. Shelton straddled him and pounded a fist into his face before Asher could react. His jaw absorbed the blow. His lip cracked and the taste of blood filled his mouth.
Fingers curled into a tight fist, Asher plowed his right hand into the bastard’s face. Then he bucked, throwing him off. In the next second Asher was on top of him, his Glock shoved into his face. Fear widened Shelton’s right eye, his left was swiftly closing from the blow Asher had landed.
“You’re under arrest, asshole.”
“Stay away from my wife.” Shelton went for another punch.
Asher blocked the blow with his left arm and shoved the muzzle of the Glock into his throat. “You do that again and my finger might just slip, you piece of shit. The only person who needs to stay away from your wife is you.”
Shelton sneered up at him.
“Uniforms are on the way,” Devine said.
Asher got to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Read him his rights. I don’t want to mess this one up. This dumbass assaulted me.” He looked at his Mustang and groaned. “God damn it.”
Shelton kept his mouth shut as Devine cuffed him and recited the Miranda. Asher had to walk away. He couldn’t believe the dumb fuck was stupid enough to show up on city property at the damned Criminal Investigation Division and try something like this.
Bobbie’s Challenger rolled into the lot. She parked and jumped out of the car. Asher looked back at his car and groaned again. “Shit.” He’d just gotten it back from the shop.
“What’s going on?” Bobbie hustled over to where Asher stood staring at his damaged vehicle. She glanced over at Devine who was making sure the uniforms took care of Shelton.
Asher jerked his head in that direction. “He’s the husband who beats Holt’s neighbor.” He set his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Thought he could scare me, I guess.”
“Why would he want to scare you?” Bobbie had that look. The one that said she suspected Asher had done something he shouldn’t.
“I’ve been watching their house at night.” He shrugged. “Just to make sure she and the kid are okay. I guess he noticed.”
Bobbie smiled. “Wait. I thought you weren’t a nice guy?” She punched him on the shoulder. “Didn’t we have that conversation?”
“Whatever.”
“Come on.” She wrapped her arm around his. “I’ll help you clean up that handsome mug.”
He looked back at his car and growled. “I should just get a new car.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” she said.
Bobbie ushered him into the ladies’ room and sat him down on a toilet seat.
“This is weird.” Asher shuddered. “I shouldn’t be in here.”
Bobbie laughed. He liked the sound. It had taken her a long time to learn to laugh again. She gently cleaned his split lip with a wet paper towel. He winced and growled and she laughed some more.
“You sound awfully chipper this morning,” he ventured. “Is there something you need to tell me, Detective Gentry?”
She grinned. “Actually, I do have a bone to pick with you.”
He kept to himself the crude remark about the bone he could give her. He respected Bobbie too much to say shit like that. Still, it crossed his mind.
“So pick,” he told her.
“You told Devine about Nick Shade.”
His first instinct was to deny the charge. “If I did I didn’t mean to.”
Bobbie frowned at him. “Explain what that answer means.”
“The first week after he transferred in we might have had a few beers together.” He shrugged. “It’s possible I mentioned things I shouldn’t have. That was before I started AA,” he tacked on.
She exhaled a big breath. “Don’t let it happen again.”
He held up two fingers, then remembered it was supposed to be three. “Scout’s honor.”
Bobbie smiled. “I’m proud of you, Asher.”
He stood and pulled her against his chest in a hug. “I’m proud of you, too.”
They stayed that way for a long time. It wasn’t often that either of them let their emotions show.
Maybe that was something else that needed to change.
Twenty-Nine
Criminal Investigation Division
11:30 a.m.
The chief had called a special briefing.
Bobbie struggled to stay focused while Holt and Owens went over the meager updates to the Parker-Manning murders and the three missing women as well as the way they appeared to intersect with Mark Hanover. There was not enough evidence to arrest Hanover for anything. As he had pointed out numerous people supported the summer youth camp. But he was the only one who’d had a dagger stolen that might have been used as a murder weapon—might being the operative word since the weapon had not been recovered. And he was the only one who kept insinuating himself into the investigation. At least until recently.
Since Nick insisted it was someone close to Hanover, she and Devine had made a list of Hanover’s closest associates. As soon as this briefing was over, they would start plowing through those names.
As hard as she tried to pay attention, images and sounds from last night kept invading. Nick hadn’t left her bed as she’d expected he would. He’d held her tucked against his body the rest of the night. She’d fallen asleep that way and roused to the feeling of him extracting his arms from around her. He’d taken D-Boy for a walk. She’d wanted to lie in bed and cocoon herself in the smell of him on her sheets. Instead, she’d hit the shower and made coffee. When he returned the awkwardness she’d feared hadn’t come. They’d shared a quick breakfast and discussed details of the case like normal people.
Except you aren’t normal, Bobbie. And neither is Nick.
Owens said something and gestured to their visitor. Bobbie blinked and reminded herself that Special Agent Anthony LeDoux had shown up for this unscheduled briefing. Maybe the briefing had been his doing. She didn’t know why he was here rather than the agent from New York, but it appeared he was taking over and wanted to be more involved in the MPD’s investigation. He’d thrown in that Vincent had been called back to the Big Apple. Really it didn’t matter as f
ar as Bobbie was concerned. A fed was a fed—her history with LeDoux notwithstanding. Still, it seemed unusual considering Vincent had been from the White Collar Crimes Division while LeDoux was from the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Evidently the FBI had decided that the murders had less to do with Nigel Parker’s Ponzi scheme and more to do with a potential serial killer recruited by Weller. Maybe. Possibly. Jesus they needed a definite lead.
Whatever LeDoux’s reason for gracing them with his presence there wasn’t a hell of a lot to pass along in the way of updates. Every name on the list of known business associates, wronged investors and clients, family members, classmates and friends of the victims had been interviewed twice. They had absolutely zero true suspects. The Life Church connection and the dagger put Mark Hanover at the top of the persons-of-interest list. The man had an alibi for the murders and the abductions as did everyone else they could find who had ever threatened or been involved with one of the victims.
The case was back at square one except for the news she’d received shortly before the briefing about the video clip. Andy had called to say the clip Hanover provided had been altered. Part of the actual video was missing. Now, why would the man offer up a clip from his security video to supposedly help with the case if he was going to alter it? The reasonable conclusion was that he had something to hide.
There was just one thing to do: go at Hanover from a different angle.
Lieutenant Owens took the floor while Holt passed out the profile LeDoux’s team had provided. Bobbie surveyed the report. White male, twenty-five to thirty-five. Introverted. OCD. Well if they’d had this profile a few days ago they could have saved themselves a lot of time. Not a single one of the business associates or wronged investors of Nigel Parker’s, or friends and coworkers of Slade Manning’s could be called an introvert and most were older than the profile suggested. They could have ignored all the female friends and fellow students or coworkers associated with the three missing women. Hanover would have been eliminated, as well. Wow. She rolled her eyes.
