"All of them here?"
"Yes."
"And before that?"
"Patrol cop."
John nodded his head.
"Do you like it?"
Megan was about to finish her coffee, but lowered the cup to the table. She opened her mouth to answer and couldn't find the right words. She knew she had an answer, but exactly what it was, she couldn't say. If she'd asked herself the same question while staring in the mirror, she'd have no reservations. She hated it. But how do you convey that without actually saying the words? And how do you tell the man who wants access into your world, and whom you want access to, that you hate the whole process? How do you do that without somehow disqualifying yourself in every way?
"It's all I know," she finally said, then picked up her cup and finished her coffee.
Megan dropped her purse onto the edge of the tiny sink of the library bathroom and pulled out her pill bottle, shaking two pills into her palm. The more time she spent talking to John the more she became distracted. She excused herself just to get away—but now she was staring ahead at her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at her, the Bad Girl, gave her a, What are you looking at? stare. Megan, the Good Girl, knew better than to argue. The girl looking back always got her way. Once her mind began to wander, the Bad Girl would push until it was a fait accompli. No going back.
"Take 'em," the Bad Girl said.
Megan grabbed her hair in one hand, tossed the pills into the back of her throat, dropped down to the faucet, and drank. She rose back up and caught the Bad Girl staring back at her again. She reached up to her blouse and popped open another button.
CHAPTER 26
"You a wine drinker, John?" Megan called from her bedroom.
"Not really," John said.
"If we're going to keep talking about murder I need a little wine, and I hate drinking alone."
"Whatever you say."
After their evening meeting at the library, Megan asked him to come to her place where they could formalize their new partnership. It seemed like a strange request, but John had begun to understand that she was not your typical lady. Whatever would help seal the deal to get him on the inside of the investigation—at least enough to learn as much as he could so he'd have some sort of understanding of serial killers and how these cases are actually investigated. All he knew at the time was what anyone knew from watching hour-long detective dramas on TV. There was another part of him that was very suspicious of the detective's intentions, but he told himself to go along with anything as long as she agreed to keep talking to him. That was key. Keep her talking.
John took a seat at her kitchen table, part of what appeared to an IKEA remodel, white pine with glass cabinet doors revealing the dishes inside. The rest of the place, however, was sparsely decorated. It didn't look lived in, as opposed to John's place which always looked like a Boy Scout camp after a three-day jamboree. He liked it.
A moment later, she entered the kitchen and John knew he was in trouble. She was no longer Detective Ash, maybe not even Megan. She had changed into a red dress. No bra. What the hell was she doing? He suddenly realized it was a big mistake to agree to come here, but at the same time, he couldn't deny his attraction. He was never what he would call a ladies' man, but John had learned to read the signs and the hardened nipples pushing against her dress were announcing that she was making a move. He looked into her eyes—gone was the serious homicide detective, replaced by a vibrant, sensual woman. She's a chameleon.Think John, what do you want to do?
It had been a year since he'd been held, since he'd made love. He had a very good relationship with Paulette. Lovemaking came easy for both of them.
Would this be cheating?
He knew it was a dumb question—but still. Megan walked to John, smiled at him, then slinked by heading for the silver double-door refrigerator. John watched her as she moved past, noticing her hips once again. The dress really swayed. She opened the right door, bent over keeping her knees locked, and removed a wine bottle. Then she pulled two wine glasses down from the cabinet, filling each half way. Megan approached him, holding the glasses, and nodded toward the living room as she walked past.
"It's much more comfortable on the couch," Megan said.
Even with the alarm bells ringing in his head, John stood and followed.
"How long have you lived here?" he asked.
"Twelve years," Megan said, turning at the end of the vinyl, taupe couch and holding out a glass for John. He took it and they both sat down—Megan at one end, John at the other. They sipped their wine and stared at each other over the top of their glasses. John could feel his heart thumping. Something about this woman was driving him crazy, and it wasn't just the way she looked or the way she dressed.
Was it her flirting?
Or was it just your basic, reptilian-brained lust?
He had to keep his head about him. He was here to learn about the case. There was no room for…what? Sex? Could he really be thinking about that? With a four-inch bandage on his face and one black eye? Talk about Beauty and the Beast. Don't be stupid, Randall. Your track record isn't too good right now. Just ask her some questions. See how much more you can learn. Then get out.
They set down their glasses on the coffee table at the same time, and John saw Megan's dress strap fall off her right shoulder, revealing more of her right breast. She made no attempt to fix it when she sat up. John pretended to look around the room.
"Twelve years, huh," he said.
"I'm not here that often. Doesn't make much sense to fix it all up. Maybe someday. I'd like to have more time to really do something with it. Make it a home."
John nodded.
"Tell me more about the killer."
Megan let out a slow sigh as if this were the last thing on her mind.
"Okay," she said, and leaned forward to adjust her dress. She leaned back, keeping her eyes on John the entire time, and pulled her right leg up, followed quickly by her left, and she scooted her legs up under her on the couch. This was an innocent enough move, John thought, if you're wearing panties. She wasn't. As she had lifted her legs, she allowed them to open just enough for John to see.
She did that on purpose. Didn't she? He cleared his throat as Megan reached for her glass again.
"Tell me about the killer," he repeated.
She took a sip, pulled the glass back with her, and held it on her lap.
"He's large."
"I know that already."
"He uses rope to kill them."
"Why rope?"
She reached to set her glass down and her shoulder strap dropped again, then she sat back up. She left it there, hanging limp off her shoulder. She kept her eyes on John.
"Why?" John asked again, quickly shooting his eyes to her nipples, more prominent than ever, if that was even possible.
"Why don't I ask a few questions? We'll take turns," she added, not waiting for his response. But John didn't respond. Megan looked John in the eyes and asked, "Have you had any dates?"
"Dates?
Megan nodded. "In the past year."
"No," John said. "Why rope?"
"It's common. Cotton thread. Not easily traced. He might be someone who works with his hands. He chooses a tool to assist in his killing."
At that moment her face froze. Her eyes fixed. She sat there like that, unmoving. Somewhere else.
"Detective?" John said.
"What?" Megan said, snapping back. She looked across the couch at John and smiled. Detective Ash was gone now. John sensed he was in the room with someone else entirely.
"John…" she said, as she reached over and lifted the spaghetti strap on her right arm back up to where it belonged, as if she were taking that away from him.
"Do you miss sex?"
"Why are you asking—"
"Because I want to know," Megan said.
John looked away. There was no denying now where this was going. The question was, would he break off as soon as
it got started? He hadn't had sex in a year. And she was going to make all that go away.
Right here.
Right now.
"Sometimes," John said as he reached for his wine. He took a long sip and set the glass back down on the table. He gathered himself up and asked, "Do you have a profile?"
"White male. Mid-thirties. Blue collar. Construction worker or warehouse maybe. Married or has a girlfriend."
Megan lowered her left leg flat out in front of John, keeping the other one bent. Her red dress slipped down her legs and scrunched up around her thighs, exposing…
Everything.
"Your colleagues speak very highly of you."
John heard Megan speak, but the words didn't register. He felt himself grow stiff as he peered between her legs.
My God, she's really doing this.
But then John heard her voice and looked away.
"Is that a question?" he asked.
"Please…look again."
John didn't look, but kept his eyes on hers.
"Please…" she said.
John looked down, slightly.
"Lower."
His gaze dropped lower, Megan lifted her left leg up onto the couch, and swung both legs wide, like butterfly wings.
"Why…why does he kill them?" John asked, holding his stare between her legs. Megan lowered her legs over the end of the couch and stood. She walked the two steps it took to stand in front of John and lifted her dress up. She reached her hand out and laid it upon the top of his head, gently pulling him forward.
"He feels inadequate around women. That's not you, is it John?"
Megan leaned forward and John kissed her lower abdomen. She moaned softly. She dropped and straddled John, gently bringing her lips to his mouth, taking care with his cheek. He brought his arms around her, cupping her firm ass. His tongue touched hers, and they moved as one, allowing each other to explore. Slowly. Softly. They held their breath, touching and tasting each other until Megan pulled away and looked into his eyes, her lips parted, her chest heaving. John reached his hand below and touched her and she squeezed his shoulder, arched her back, and moaned again.
They kept going…long into the next morning.
CHAPTER 27
John woke to the sound of bacon sizzling in a frying pan and the warm smell wafting through the bedroom doorway. He sat up and surveyed the room, forcing his mind to remember where he was. The smell of bacon—how long had it been?
At least a year.
He threw the covers off, noticed the wet spot on the sheet, and ran his hand through his hair. God, what a night. He felt at once drained, yet at the same time, so alive. He reached up with his hand and touched the bandage remembering he'd winced in pain when his face was hit or grabbed during the passion of sex. That was the best way to describe it.
Passionate.
He rolled off the bed and planted his bare feet on the wooden floor, pulled his clothes on, and ambled out of the bedroom to the kitchen where he found Megan flipping strips of bacon with one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other. Another pan held scrambled eggs. She wore a long nightshirt that barely covered her well-rounded butt. Her hair was mussed up and like the night before, from the angle that she was standing, he could make out her left nipple pushing against the shirt. He stood there watching her, trying to let it all sink in. When she turned and saw him, the smile that peeled across her lovely face was enough to make him smile back.
How long?
At least a year.
If asked at that moment what he was smiling about, he couldn't really say. It was more than just, I had sex again. Because that's all it was…sex. But it felt like so much more.
"Good morning," John said.
"Good morning. I hope you like bacon and eggs."
"I'll eat anything. I'm starved."
"I know.” Megan giggled. "I'm sorry, that was bad."
John could only smile and nod his head.
"Sit. Coffee?"
"Black," John said.
Megan poured him a cup and brought it to the table. She reached her hand around the side of his head and pulled him to her breast. John reached his hand around her leg, and gave her butt cheek a slow squeeze. They stayed like that for a long time, not saying a word. Megan finally pulled away, turned, and filled two plates with eggs and bacon. She placed the plate in front of John, seated herself next to him, and lifted a fork full of egg and slipped it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed while they both stared into each other's eyes, smiling silly smiles.
After they finished breakfast, John asked Megan more questions about the killer and the evidence. Thirty minutes later she called an end to the interrogation, and they made love one more time right there in the kitchen, then they showered, making love in the shower, and dressed and agreed to meet again soon.
On his drive home, John could not help wondering why he had let it all happen. Was it a one-night stand? If they were going to meet again, could he even call it a one-night stand? What would Megan call it? Better yet, what would Detective Ash call it? He knew what Danny would call it.
Crazy.
Stupid.
But Danny didn't understand what motivated John now. He finally had a reason for getting up in the morning. He knew it was crazy, but as he thought about it, John realized he was not sorry. The sex was some of the best he'd ever had. But it was more than that. He didn't know how to describe it. He felt normal again. Or almost normal. He was scared at first, who wouldn't be, but he soon let go of his fears and let his animal instincts take over, and once that happened, the night was all about a celebration of skin on skin.
***
Megan drove the fifteen miles to the department with nothing more than Dr. John Randall on her mind. Traffic was heavy as usual, but that gave her more time to think about the night before and held the real world at bay even longer. She'd checked her cell phone messages on the way to her car, one from Bell, and one from her kid sister Melanie, who wanted to know if she, her husband, and daughter Brittney could stay at her place a couple days on their way to San Diego.
Hell no.
She called Melanie back on the way into work and said, in so many words, “You're not bringing Brittney anywhere near this town. I'm not going to stare into her dead eyes. Just head straight to San Diego and I'll come by your hotel to visit, if time permits. Megan hated having to say that, but she saw no other way.
She loved her niece…but no way.
CHAPTER 28
After leaving Megan's place, John went home to shave, shower, and grab some clean clothes. He wrote down as much as he could remember from their discussions the night before. As he wrote, he felt the momentum that Megan described in an investigation—as witnesses are interviewed and one thing leads to another and the evidence builds. Although he didn't have much evidence, he still felt the momentum and he knew he couldn't just sit in his house and think about things, which is why he grabbed his keys and ran out the front door.
The first thing to hit John's memory as he rounded the corner of Date Avenue, for the second time in four days, was the sound of the gunshot. He could still hear the echo, like a ghost sound forever bouncing off the car interior, just loud enough for John's ear to pick up. It seemed to grow louder as he approached his former home. Most of his hearing had returned, but he suspected he had some permanent hearing loss.
John's old neighborhood had grown up without him. He'd only been gone a little more than a year, but looking around, it was as if he'd been gone ten. He recognized the street, yet it was not his anymore. Now he was a visitor on the same street where he used to live—where he'd once planned to go on living, and this thought brought his loneliness back. He'd have to learn to handle it for now.
Golden brown maple leaves laid scattered across the yards, having fallen from the trees that had grown-up with the neighborhood. The trees held less than a dozen leaves, giving off a spindly-legged, spider-like profile against the bleak grey sky. Paulette loved seeing the leaves tur
n and had more than once suggested they go east to see what she called the real thing. John pulled up to the same spot where he'd parked that night and then, at the last second decided against it, and pulled forward in front of Berry and Tina's house. But he didn't recognize the cars in the driveway.
Maybe they've moved.
He switched off the engine, turned around inside his loaner car, and looked back. It was quiet. He opened his door, stepped out and onto the sidewalk, and peered up and down the street. Someone was walking their dog on the other side, away from him. Good. John didn't want to say hi to anyone. He looked down into the gutter and spotted a piece of glass from his car window as if it was left there, just for him to find. Left there—he felt sure—to remind him of what he did, who it affected, and how his life had changed all over again by something that was out of his control. A car passed by and John watched as it turned the same corner as the killer had just a few days ago.
Where was the killer now?
Planning his next killing?
John turned and walked up the sidewalk toward the Sharp residence—a sidewalk he'd walked so many times before. He turned up the walk and stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. He peered up at the screen door, then down at the rolled up hose. Was that the same hose? Looked like it. The same crabgrass stretched out from the front planter like so many yellowish green octopus legs. It still taunted him. Welcome back. I'm still here. Where you been? As he stared at the crabgrass, his eyes shifted slightly to the right and he could see them. One thumb, a middle finger…a pinky. He pushed the crabgrass away with his right foot and exposed two tiny handprints—with Trevor 2005 written in the concrete.
"Oh, my God!" someone yelled.
John lurched backward. It was Karen Sharp. Her voice had the same shrill sound he'd heard, or partially heard, the night she was bashing his head in.
"What are you doing here?" she asked from behind the screen door. John didn't even hear the front door open.
"I asked you a question? Why are you here?" The tone in her voice suggested to John that he'd better have a really good answer. But he didn't.
The Bedroom Killer Page 10
