TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not
By Becki Willis
Text copyright 2013 Becki Willis
All Rights Reserved
Dedicated to my husband Roger.
Thank you for supporting my dream!
CHAPTER ONE
“These all night stake outs are going to be the death of me yet,” Lange Sterling groaned, shoulder-opening the door to his downtown Richmond office and staggering inside. Muttering a reminder to himself about getting the doorjamb fixed, he threw his crumpled jacket near the vicinity of the coat rack and started for the sofa.
A persistent red light flashed from his answering machine, determined to catch his attention before he crashed for an early morning nap. Lange hit the play-back button as he plunked himself down on the sofa, marveling at how soft the worn leather felt after a night spent in his pickup truck. At thirty-one, his body was beginning to protest the erratic lifestyle he had led over the past five years.
Hell, who was he kidding? He had been existing with psychotic sleeping patterns for half his life. As a half-wild teenager, sleep was something done primarily in class. After graduation and that fateful summer he turned nineteen, his life changed forever, but not his sleeping habits. Lack of sleep was all a part of his newfound career with the sheriff department. And now, as an ex-cop turned private investigator, the hours were even worse. There was no one to relieve him when his shift was over, no one to wake him when the bell rang. Everything was left up to him, and he had so few hours in a day to do it all.
Lost in self-pity, he almost missed the first message on the machine. It was Diane, reminding him of their dinner arrangements with one of her clients. Lange winced as he belatedly remembered to call off their date. The second message was from her, as well, as she realized he had forgotten to cancel their date. She told him what she thought of him in no uncertain terms, bringing a sigh of resignation from the prone body sprawled across the couch. She had some painful suggestions about what he could do with the cell phone he refused to answer while on a stakeout. Eyes drooping in fatigue, he listened to the next message, a pre-recorded message assuring him there was nothing wrong with his credit now, but by enrolling in their latest program...
Diane called a third time, apparently after returning from her dinner and having cooled off. She regretted her earlier outburst and wanted to make it up to him. Known for her mercurial mood swings, the auburn-haired attorney obviously had some bi-polar issues. Lange snuggled down deeper into the cushions, thankful to have missed the brute force of her latest swing.
The final message was from the same woman who had called earlier in the week, the one with the soft, breathless voice. With his eyes shut, it was easy to imagine screen legend Doris Day on the other end of the line. But he had never heard his favorite movie star from the silver screen speak with a quiver of fear in her voice, as this woman did.
“Mr. Sterling, I-I need your help. I’ve called before but seem to keep missing you. I prefer to speak with you in person, so I’ll come by your office in the morning, about a quarter till nine. I hope you’ll be there, this matter is urgent. Thank you.”
Lange moaned in protest and opened his eyes just wide enough to consult his wristwatch. She would be here in thirty minutes. He fished his cell phone from his pocket and set the alarm, hoping to see the tiny numbers correctly through his sleep-depraved eyes. Then he settled back to claim twenty glorious minutes of sleep before the mysterious woman arrived.
***
He was dreaming of daisies. Doris Day was running through a field of them, warning him not to eat the daisies. He could hear her soft, gentle voice, he could even feel the petals of a flower brushing against his face. They tickled.
He awoke with a start, realizing he was not alone. A woman stood over him, her face bent close as she peered hesitantly at his inert form. Her white blonde hair fell forward, tickling his cheek, and he felt the warmth of a summer breeze flood his senses. It was something in her scent, something in her sky blue eyes. Something in the brilliant smile that was beginning to spread across her gorgeous face.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she said.
It was her, alright; Doris.
“Uh.... yeah,” Lange muttered. Was he really awake, or was this a dream? He reached out a hand and touched her. She pulled away from his touch with a small gasp, her big blue eyes widening.
Lange didn’t know which hit him first – the realization that he wasn’t dreaming, or the feel of her skin. It was softer than anything he could possibly dream up. Somewhere in his befuddled mind he knew he should be fully alert now and moving, but all he could do was lay there and stare.
“Are- Are you sure you’re alright?” the woman asked in genuine concern.
Snapping out of his trance, Lange swung up from the couch in one easy, fluid motion. As he pulled himself to his full six feet, three inches, the woman straightened with him, until she had to tilt her head backwards to peer into his face. Lange stared down at her, fascinated by her strawberry red lips, still wondering if she was anything more than a figment of his imagination. Before he reached for her a second time, he controlled the impulse to touch her by running both hands through his hair.
“I came at a bad time,” she said with sudden realization.
“No, no, you’re fine,” Lange insisted, smoothing his dark hair down. “All-night stake out,” he said by way of explanation, stretching away some of the fatigue.
Her eyes followed the rippling muscles along his shoulders, traced the denim shirt which strained under the expansion of his chest. A flash of appreciation sparked in her eyes before she hastily lowered them.
In spite of himself, Lange grinned. So, the little daisy wasn’t quite as innocent as she first appeared. Remembering his manners and, more importantly, his career, he extended his hand and made a formal introduction. “Excuse my manners; Lange Sterling.”
She placed her small hand into his and met his gaze as she smiled and said, “Ashli Wilson.”
A thought vaguely registered on his mind, how he never knew until now that sunshine had a given name. Her hand was small and soft and smooth; his was big and rough and callused. Somehow the feel of her crept up his arm, across the general area of his heart, and down to regions known only to man.
All this from a handshake? Hell, he was more exhausted than he thought.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Wilson?”
“I’m in need of your services.”
“So I gathered. Exactly what did you need?”
Ashli glanced around the room and spied the desk and chairs behind him. “Could we sit down, please, to discuss it?”
“Certainly.” He waved toward the chair absently, his hand still warm from holding hers. When she simply stood beside the seat, waiting, he realized she expected him to get the chair. Masking his irritation, Lange pulled the chair out for her while murmuring an apology about his lack of manners.
Shoving papers
aside to prop one lean hip on the edge of the desk, Lange returned to business. “So what is it I can do for you, Ms. Wilson?”
“It’s Miss,” she corrected him in that whisper-soft voice. “And I need to hire you to protect me.”
“Protect you?” He went on full alert. “Are you in some sort of danger?”
“I don’t know. I hope not. I don’t intend to be, if you’ll help me.”
Trying to digest her three answers to his one question, he finally came up with another. “Who do you want me to protect you from?”
“That’s just it, I don’t know.”
For all her beauty, she seemed to be a bit shy on brains. Slowly, as if speaking to a dull witted child, he asked, “Then why do you need my protection?”
She reached up to push an errant lock of hair from her forehead. “I think someone is watching me,” she replied.
His eyes - and his mind - were still tangled in the blond strands she pushed away. Damn right someone was watching her; every red blooded male in Richmond, including himself.
Seeing her tiny frown, he wondered if he had voiced his thoughts out loud. “What makes you think that, Miss Wilson?”
“Well, it’s more a feeling than anything else,” she admitted.
“A feeling.” Oh, hell, she was worse than he thought!
“You know that funny little feeling you get when someone is watching you? The hair stands up on the back of your neck and you can just feel their gaze on you.” She used her hands to illustrate her words. “Well, someone is definitely watching me.”
Lange stared at her for a moment in silence. The woman wanted him to protect her because the hairs were standing up on the back of her neck. He interrupted his nap for this?
Trying to control his growing irritation, and generously overlooking the fact that she answered simple questions in the most unusual way, he took a steadying breath before speaking again. “Miss Wilson, have you ever considered the fact that most men like to look at beautiful young women? What you’re describing is just a part of human nature.”
“Mr. Sterling, I’m hardly a model. Men don’t look at me like that.” She sounded completely sincere as she discredited her own beauty. “But even if they did - which they don’t - I’m not talking about normal oh-there’s-a-pretty-girl kind of watching. Someone is stalking me.”
“There’s a big difference in someone watching you and someone stalking you, Miss Wilson.”
“And I hate to use the word, because it sounds so sinister. But I don’t know how else to describe it. There’ve been a dozen little odd instances. For one, someone went into my office, scattered the mail across on my desk, changed the stereo to an oldies station.”
“A prank by a co-worker.”
She continued as if he had not spoken. “Someone gifted me a lifetime membership to the ASPCA and a magazine subscription for dog lovers, even though I don’t have a pet.”
“Hardly a crime.”
“Someone was watching me at the grocery store, even though I never saw them. When I went to check out, an employee brought over a bottle of wine. Someone had purchased it and left it for me.”
In spite of himself, interest flared in his eyes. “Maybe a little odd,” he admitted. “An admirer, probably. Did you get a description?”
“The employee was an older woman, one of those retirees that works as a greeter. She described him as a ‘delightful young man in a yellow shirt’.”
“I don’t suppose you remember seeing anyone in a yellow shirt?”
Blonde tendrils danced across the tops of her shoulders as she shook her head. “A few days later, I was followed through the mall. I thought I might could duck inside a store and watch through the windows, see if I recognized anyone as they passed by.”
“And did you?”
“No. After a while, I must admit I got side-tracked.” Her sheepish grin caused his heart to tap out a crazy little pattern. “It was one of those great big beauty supply stores, and I’m afraid I got absorbed in shopping. Because of my light hair color, some products give it an odd greenish tint, so I have to use a very specific kind of shampoo and conditioner.” She twirled a lock of purest blond around her finger. No green now, just rays of sunshine. “When I went to check out, someone had left me a purchase. It was a bottle of shampoo, the exact brand that I use.”
“Could have been chance, someone with a background in beauty products. Did the clerk give you a description?”
“The teenager at the register described him as an ‘old dude in a yellow shirt’. I was a little rattled, so I stopped at one of the restaurants in the mall and treated myself to dinner. My tab was picked up anonymously.”
“Let me guess, a man in a yellow shirt?”
“I don’t know. It was shift change, and the cashier who took the money had already left.”
Lange processed the various bits of information. “Okay, so someone leaves you random gifts in public places and buys you dinner. Witnesses say the man is either young or old. It could be a difference in perspective, or it could be two different men, both who happen to own a yellow shirt.” He released a heavy sigh. “I need more than that, Miss Wilson. Do you know what kind of car he drives? Has he directly contacted you in any way? Have you had any harassing phone calls, any e-mails, anything of that nature?”
“You sound as if you don’t believe me,” she frowned, immediately put on the defensive with all his questions.
“I didn’t say that. I simply have to know the facts if I’m to help you. You can’t very well go to the police and ask them to arrest someone just because the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.”
“I’ve already been to the police, thank you very much. They practically laughed in my face,” Ashli Wilson said with an indignant sniff. Their casual handling of her complaints still smarted.
“Surely you told them more than you’ve told me, or I can understand why they would be laughing.”
“I hardly find a Peeping Tom a laughing matter, Mr. Sterling. The police felt it was a waste of the taxpayers’ money to help me. I came to you because I’m willing to pay for the help they denied me.”
“Hold on, here. What Peeping Tom? Why didn’t you mention that to begin with?”
“I told you, someone is watching me.” Now it was her turn to speak as if to a dim-witted child.
“But you’ve never actually seen this person?”
“Not exactly. But I know he’s there.”
“Do you have a former husband or boyfriend who’s harassing you?”
“No, I’ve never been married.”
“Any old boyfriends that may be jealous over a current relationship?”
“No, none.”
“No jealous ex-boyfriends or no current relationship?” he clarified.
“Neither.”
Lange rose and walked around to the other side of the desk. He refused to acknowledge the little flash of relief he felt when she admitted she was not currently in a relationship. He had more important things to worry about. For instance, if she was really as batty as she seemed, or if she truly had someone stalking her.
He realized she was waiting for him to speak again. “Tell me about the Peeping Tom incident,” he finally said.
“It’s happened several times. I’ll get the strangest sensation that someone is watching me. Once, I saw a flash of white when I glanced up from my desk at work; another time I heard a noise on the balcony and found an overturned pot plant. I reported it to the police, but they dismissed it as a stray cat.”
“Isn’t it possible it was a cat?”
She met his gaze without hesitation and answered in that soft, breathless voice uniquely hers.... and Doris Day’s. “Yes, of course it’s possible. But cats don’t wear white shirts. I know someone is there, Mr. Sterling. Especially after last night.”
“What happened last night?” He was almost afraid to ask. She had come in complaining of being watched, then revealed someone stalking her. Almost as an afterthought she m
entioned the Peeping Tom. What next, he wondered?
“I received this note,” she said, reaching into her purse and withdrawing a sheet of paper. “I had gone out to dinner with a friend, and when I got home, this was taped to my door.”
Lange inspected the note thoughtfully, studying the careful lines of each letter. It almost appeared as if a child had written the note..... Or an adult trying to disguise their writing as a child’s.... Or a demented mind not capable of anything but childish scribble. It was the last thought that sent a chill of foreboding racing down his spine as he read the words, ‘I’m watching you.’
“Who all has handled this note?” he asked.
“Myself, of course. And my next door neighbor. And maybe a friend of mine, I’m not sure.”
He rolled his eyes skyward and sighed. “Did it ever occur to you that you were destroying whatever hope we had of lifting a set of fingerprints off here?”
“No.”
He released another weary breath and pulled the note closer, trying to gain some clue from it. “Did you call the police?”
“No, I called you.”
“Who was the friend you were with? Did he or she pick you up or drop you off? Is it possible they could have seen whoever left this, or did a neighbor, perhaps?”
“No, I’ve already asked everyone. I drove myself to and from dinner, where I met a friend named Mitch Greenway. I asked my neighbors, but no one knew anything about a note.”
“This Mitch Greenway... you’re not involved with him?”
“Just friends. We work together, actually.”
Again feeling that same rush of relief, he asked another question, “Ms. Wilson...”
“Miss,” she interrupted. When she flashed him a smile, he remembered why he had been smitten in the first place; her smile was like the sunshine, warming him all the way to his toes.
“Miss Wilson, can you think of anyone this person might be?”
“No one.”
“Is there anyone who has been making unwanted passes at you, anyone who seems to be obsessed with you?”
To his surprise, she actually laughed. “Obsessed? With a little squirt like me?” There was genuine humor in her eyes as she leaned back in her chair to afford him a better view, palms held upward for full effect. ‘Squirt’ was exactly what her two younger - and much taller - brothers called her. “I hardly think so, Mr. Sterling.”
He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not Page 1
