What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 5)

by Cathryn Fox

  Walking out into the living room, he saw her arms filled with her clothing. He moved silently toward her. For whatever reason, he didn’t want her to leave. Not yet. He should.

  He had already assessed Cameron wasn’t one of those sophisticated women who juggled sexual relationships like they handled their hair appointments. No, she would be complicated…

  He should have wooed her, dined her, plied her with gifts, but the moment he held her in his arms, he had only one thought in his head. The same thought that surged through him watching her maneuver through his home in only her panties. He clicked the light on. Startled, she dropped her belongings out of her arms.

  Oh, good Lord! He couldn’t take his eyes off her. No, she wouldn’t be going anywhere except back to his bed.

  She quickly began picking up her clothing. He leaned down to help her, reaching for her hand. Then in a quick motion, he pulled her to him. He kissed her, a long, deep intense kiss.

  “You going somewhere?” he asked in a low, husky voice.

  “I…have…to go home…”

  “At this hour? I’ll take you home, Cameron. I promise. If you insist, now, but I think we could wait…awhile. Don’t you?”

  His hands swept over her body. He felt her tremble with his touch. Looking into her eyes, he saw them well up. He reached up and wiped back a tear. He kissed her again.

  “Don’t, Cameron,” he said. “Don’t. This has been wonderful. I don’t want it to end. This is on me. I should have been patient. Followed the rules of etiquette and waited, but, Lord, woman, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  He paused to kiss her neck, her shoulders, and then her breasts. Even as his tongue teased her breast, his hands slipped between her legs. She surged against him.

  “Darren,” she said in a whisper. Her hands pressed against his chest. “I do have to be home…early.”

  “But not yet,” he said huskily.

  “Not yet,” she agreed.

  He laughed. Then, in a bold move, he swept her in his arms and carried her to his bed.

  Chapter Three

  Three o’clock in the morning. Rey Caputo took another swig of his bottleneck beer. It was late and he was bored. His mother had complained again about his activities, or lack thereof. Since his semester at Framingham State ended, he hadn’t left his room in the basement. He had gotten the letter that placed him on academic probation that afternoon. His mother hadn’t seen it…yet. It was only going to lead to another confrontation. He didn’t feel like dealing with it.

  He pushed his blue baseball cap off his forehead as he clicked the mouse of his computer and relaxed. He was well aware that most girls considered his dark hair and blue eyes attractive, not to mention his lithe athletic body. He had always run, had run track all through high school, never lacking for attention when it came to the female gender. The problem lay in that his attraction didn’t lie with the female persuasion.

  Rey spent the night, and now the early morning, online. His finger twitched on the keys. He caught himself; he eased up to continue his conversation, slightly surprised at his assertiveness when he got behind the computer screen. It wasn’t like him to rush into anything. It had taken him years even to consider he might be gay, although he had always known he was different. He hadn’t wanted to be…just was.

  The computer allowed him the comfort of being himself. That confidence had not reflected in his everyday life. He couldn’t bring himself to admit to the world who he really was. No, that wasn’t the truth; he hadn’t come out because of his mother. It would kill her.

  So he hid—hid behind the computer screen. He wanted to shout it from the rooftop, but wasn’t at that point. He couldn’t. Online, Tony said he lived in the Middle Ages.

  “Times have changed, man. It’s nothing. You live in fuckin’ Massachusetts. They accept everything as normal.”

  Rey sighed as he shook his head. Maybe Massachusetts would accept him, but Tony hadn’t met his mother. He couldn’t do it to his mother. He loved her too much…the thought would kill her.

  God bless her. Italian Catholic, his mother had long clung to her beliefs of the world through the eyes of the church. His hardworking mother had sacrificed so much to raise him by herself after his lowlife father ran off with his whore. She would be devastated. To her, he would be condemned to hellfire. She had been through enough in her life. He didn’t want to add to her misery.

  He took another sip of his beer…beer, his mother would overlook, because boys would be boys. His experimenting with drugs would be a different matter, but it made it easier to cross that line. A line he had crossed last month at Rob’s house party. Since then, he had been searching for that feeling again. Suddenly, an instant message popped up on Facebook…his new friend.

  His new friend had been pressing Rey to meet up with him. He wanted to meet tonight. An intriguing proposal, one, after another sip of beer, that sounded more and more interesting. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a small container with a pill, swallowed it down with his beer and turned to his computer.

  He sat in the car waiting…preparing. He learned long ago to be patient. There was no need to rush. Humming to himself, he put his gloves on his hands, tight and snug. He checked his belt buckle to ensure it was secure.

  He glanced at his watch. Almost time. His heart raced with anticipation. From the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of a movement. He smiled. A silver Audi pulled into the parking lot, exactly where they had agreed. He ignited his engine and slowly pulled in behind his new friend.

  He opened his door and stepped into the brisk night air. Straightening out his coat, he briefly thought the city seemed unusually quiet. An absolutely perfect night for a rendezvous. Unhurried, he walked over to the passenger door and tapped lightly on the window.

  He heard the door unlock. Excitement assaulted him. He loved this part…the look in their eyes. He opened the door and slid in beside the kid. The kid didn’t even have time to contemplate his fate.

  He gripped tightly to his instrument of death. The kid screamed, but quickly went silent as the shiny metal knife plunged into his heart.

  Saturday, 7:01 a.m. Brophy drove the unmarked Crown Victoria down Mass Avenue. The sun had barely edged over the horizon when his beeper woke him. Not long after, Captain Centrello called and wanted his unit to head up this homicide. It had the same MO as two high-profile murders in the area.

  The press had been all over the other two murders: one in Cambridge, the other in Dedham. Hadn’t been one in the Boston jurisdiction until now. Young men, college kids, violently killed with a single knife thrust into the heart.

  Crossing over 93, he turned in to the South Bay shopping mall. He made a mental note. The location gave easy access to three major arteries of the city in a matter of minutes—meaning a quick escape.

  “Jesus,” Brophy muttered as he turned in to the parking lot. Media had already swarmed the area, choking off the back roads leading to the lot. Cops had barricaded the scene, containing the onslaught from the media.

  He didn’t need this. His head pounded. He hadn’t gotten any sleep…not exactly. He hadn’t gone to bed last night. He kinda passed out in his recliner. The closure he had sought hadn’t materialized in the bottle of Jack. He had come to the conclusion that the guilt that gnawed at him over Lauren would not ease overnight.

  Dodging the flashing camera lights, Brophy drove his car onto the curb. He parked on the side street beyond the media vans, got out of his car and popped a couple of Motrin. Promptly ignoring the line of overexcited reporters, he ducked under the yellow police tape. Badge in hand, he walked toward the crime scene.

  Surveying the area, he saw the parking lot sat empty for the most part. An old white van parked alone on the far side by Best Buy, a Ford Focus, a few rows over. But under a broken light sat a silver Audi sedan.

  The morning sun broke through the haze, giving an eerie glow to the objects. It was a cold one. The frigid temperatures of the night before seemed to
have dropped further.

  “Brophy!”

  Brophy caught sight of his partner, Albert Waters. Wasn’t hard to find him. Waters stood over six three. His presence demanded attention. Brophy supposed his partner would be considered handsome by most. African-American, he had an athletic built and eyes women swooned over, and swoon they had. Waters had shuffled a multitude of women in his prime…that was, until he married.

  Waters had been his partner for the last three years. He was good…reminded Brophy of himself at his age. Driven by his job, Waters was relentless in digging for the evidence to convict, didn’t like to lose, and didn’t take no for an answer. Great data cruncher.

  Bostonian through and through, Waters had been born and raised in Mattapan. A standout, not only in football at Dorchester Academy, but in school as well. He had graduated salutatorian and had played linebacker at Boston College until he had blown out his right knee.

  “Ever think of picking up your phone?” Waters asked with a hint of impatience in his voice. “It’s fucking cold out here. Captain wouldn’t let anyone touch anything until you showed up.”

  Brophy shrugged. “Wasn’t planning on working this weekend.”

  Brophy stood beside his partner. He recognized that he was not the physical specimen his partner was. In reality, Brophy doubted he impressed many with his appearance: a tad overweight man of forty-one, already starting to bald. His face had begun to crease with lines. His shirt collar and the cuffs of his sport jacket were frayed, and his tie showed evidence of frequent wear. As of late, most days his trousers needed to be pressed. But Brophy realized that despite how he looked, he was considered one of the best detectives within the Boston Homicide Unit.

  “So what do we have?”

  “The victim is a young, Caucasian male, twenty years old. Five ten, hundred and seventy pounds. Driver license says Rey Caputo,” Waters stated in a rush. “Discovered in his car earlier this morning. Looks like our guy. He left his calling card along with a black Milano stiletto in the heart.”

  “Same one as the other two.”

  Waters nodded. “Seems that way.”

  “Who found him?”

  Waters nodded to the side where a uniform officer stood with another group of cops. “Officer Thomas Bentley was on patrol. Thought someone had left it parked for the night. Shined his light inside and saw the kid. He called it in immediately after he checked for a pulse. Said the kid was already cold. He didn’t touch anything.”

  “Do we have any idea when he died?”

  Waters shook his head. “Bentley found the victim around 5:35. Before that, he had rounded the area a little after three. No one was here. So that would place the time of death without the ME between three and five thirty. That is, if he was killed here.”

  Brophy reached in his back pocket for latex gloves before he reached the silver sedan. Brophy eyed the area, unconsciously making mental notes. His gaze moved in a wider circle, surveying where the young victim would have entered.

  The kid must have been meeting the assailant. Wouldn’t have been here if he wasn’t waiting for someone. At the very least, the attacker knew the victim.

  “I don’t suppose we have any witness who saw another car?”

  “We’re still canvassing,” Waters answered, walking behind him. “Nothing yet. Where he’s situated is outside the camera range. I’d guess it was chosen for a reason.”

  Brophy shook his head. “The kid’s car might be outside camera range, but that doesn’t mean that the assailant’s vehicle wasn’t picked up on another camera in the parking lot.”

  “Going to look into that,” Waters agreed. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote in his handheld notepad. “If this is the same guy, it’s odd after taking such pains not to be photographed on the other two murders and he just drives away without a thought that his getaway car has to be on tape.”

  Brophy didn’t answer, but continued up to the crime scene. He squatted by the open door. The victim hadn’t been moved. Careful not to touch anything, he crouched over the body. A baseball cap lay on the floorboard. Probably fell off due to the intensity of the blow.

  He looked down. Sure enough, it was there on the floorboard…the bastard’s calling card. A vintage baseball card. Brophy didn’t touch it, but could see it was a Tom Seaver card from the 1969 New York Mets. The bastard wanted them to know it was him.

  Blood splatter indicated the assailant had attacked from the passenger seat. Brophy studied the victim: his gray face drained of blood; his eyes frozen open with a look of sheer terror. The kid had been caught by surprise.

  To get a better look, he walked around the car to the passenger side. Before he opened the passenger door, his sharp eyes caught sight of blood droplets in a pattern leading from the car.

  Brophy stood back silently for a moment, reviewing every detail in front of him. In his mind, he replayed the scenario, walking through the motions.

  “Do you see it, Waters? A straight trail. No hesitation. He didn’t pause,” Brophy said without turning to his partner. He stared out as if he were watching a car exit. “The sonofabitch casually got out of the car afterwards, and walked back into his car. The guy didn’t stop to take off any of his clothing or gloves.”

  Brophy glanced back at Waters. “The goddamn psycho didn’t care. He got back into his car, dripping in blood. Either he’s stupid as hell, or he doesn’t think we have a shot in hell of catching him.”

  Sitting in the passenger seat, Cameron said nothing while Darren drove her to the hospital. She had told him she could take a cab, but he insisted. She wished she could make engaging small talk, but all she could think of was escaping the man. His mere presence unsettled her. She needed time to contemplate her actions.

  Cameron wondered how she was supposed to act after a one-night stand. It seemed rather awkward in the morning light…waking up in the arms of a stranger. The truth be told, her actions horrified her. How could she have lost herself in wanton desire! Perhaps her surrender to Darren was nothing more than an unconscious effort on her part to silence the echoes of her past…except the night had been heaven.

  She stole a look at Darren when he turned onto Deaconess Road. He caught her eyes and smiled.

  “You sure you want me to just drop you at the hospital? If it’s only for a report, I could wait and drive you home afterwards.”

  “I’m fine. I left my car in the parking lot. Meghan picked me up after work yesterday,” she assured him.

  He stopped at the curb in front of the West Campus of Beth Israel and cut the engine. Cameron reached for the door handle. He halted her progress.

  “Not so quick. Are you forgetting? You promised me your number?”

  Cameron nodded nervously. She said her number slowly, watching him enter it into his phone. The next moment her phone rang.

  “Now you have mine.”

  He leaned over and pulled her back to him. “You don’t think I’m just going to let you go so easily, do you?” He kissed her, a long, deep, promising kiss. “Tonight. Dinner. Do you like Italian? I know a great place down in the North End.”

  “I love Italian,” she answered, certain her face beamed her joy at his words. She didn’t care whether he knew.

  “I’ll call you later,” he promised. He kissed her again.

  She glanced back at his departing car as she entered the hospital. Oh, good Lord, I feel like a giddy teenager.

  Cameron swiped her ID and entered into the transplant unit. She had left Meghan’s gift in her locker. She needed only to retrieve it and make a quick exit. Immediately, she noticed activity surrounding her patient, Brenda Harris, a fifty-one-year-old mother of three with a concerned husband.

  Diagnosed with end-stage biliary cirrhosis, the patient had received a liver transplant less than a week ago. She had been doing so well. Complications must have arisen.

  The poor thing had already gone through so much. The disease had gone undetected for years. The symptoms she had displayed had been exp
lained away by other issues. Looking back on her health history, the chart confirmed that her thyroid and gallstone problems had been symptoms of her underlying disease.

  Mrs. Harris had learned to live with her arms and legs itching and the fatigue. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until she developed jaundice that the cause was determined. By that time, her liver had been damaged beyond its ability to heal.

  “Problems, Liada?” Cameron asked one of her co-workers at the nurses’ station.

  “Afraid so,” Liada answered. “Been working on her all night. Labored breathing, ph dropped, pCO2 rose, lactate increased back up to over six. Dr. Levine’s afraid she’s going to crash. Probable blockage.”

  Cameron watched the patient being wheeled out. The pale, frail woman, barely conscious, struggled to speak. Her face constricted with fear, whispering, “Not yet. Not yet.”

  Cameron had been her nurse long enough to read her concern. “Liada, you have her husband’s number?”

  “He’s already been called. He’s on his way in,” Liada answered.

  “I know. I know,” Cameron said, quickly dialing up the number. She rounded the desk with her phone in hand. “Just a sec, guys.”

  Talking quickly into the phone, Cameron placed it to the patient’s ear. “Mrs. Harris, you don’t have time to wait for your family to get back down here. They wouldn’t want you to wait. I have your husband, George, on the phone. Don’t worry if you can’t talk. He’s going to talk to you. Okay?”

  The surgical tech helped hold the phone to the patient’s ear. Cameron watched as the stretcher disappeared down the corridor. She sighed. She needed to get what she came for and leave.

  “Didn’t think you were working today,” Liada said. “Did Peggy call you in? It’s been off-the-wall busy.”

  “No, I’m off until Monday. I left Meghan’s present in my locker. Just picking it up.”

  “Sure you don’t want to work? Yvonne called in sick. She was supposed to work a double tonight. Think she’s worried about the forecast. Nor’easter.”