Fatal Intimacies (Romantic Suspense)

by Ali, Isabelle

  “No, no husband. Two foster kids that I’m hoping to adopt one day.”

  “Really? I didn’t picture you as a foster mom.”

  “Why not?”

  “That purse is Gucci. At least a thousand bucks. Your shoes are Valentino Rose. At least twelve hundred. People that wear twelve hundred dollar shoes don’t typically take in foster children.”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “I just have an eye toward making sure I know where people are coming from. Keeps me protected.”

  “And how, out of curiosity, do you know what Valentino Rose pumps look like?”

  “My fiancée is a connoisseur.”

  “Really?”

  “You sound surprised. Turn left up here.”

  The car came to a stop at a red light and Jessica had to wait for a truck to pass before taking the turn. “Well,” she said, “let’s just say that people that marry people that wear twelve hundred dollar pumps aren’t usually cops.”

  He grinned. “It’s an… odd pairing. I’ll give you that. Her father told me he wants me to go to law school or business school so he can hire me in the family business. He doesn’t want a cop as part of the inheritance line.”

  “Ouch.”

  “What can you do?”

  “So are you going to do it? Law or business?”

  “It’s not me. I belong here. On the street. It’s where I grew up. Where I feel the most comfortable. It’s that building right there.”

  Jessica parked out front and stared up at the structure. “This is where my sister ran in?”

  “No, this is where the man lives. Mark said he was visiting his sister, who we’ll need to speak with too. You should wait here.”

  “I’d prefer to come.”

  He looked out to the road, trying to suppress a grin. “Okay. But try not to say anything.”

  They got out and walked into the apartment building. It was situated on top of a hill overlooking Seattle below and the Pacific beyond. They had to be buzzed in by the manager and went up to the second floor to find the apartment for a man named Randall Fullmer.

  Garcia knocked on the door and no one answered. Then he rang the doorbell. A few seconds went by and he put his ear to the door.

  “What is it?” Jessica asked.

  “I hear… damn it.”

  Garcia dashed for the stairs leading down. Jessica stood motionless a moment, unsure exactly what to do, and then followed him as best she could without sprinting. As she came outside, she saw a man racing down the street. Right behind him, Garcia was shouting for him to stop.

  Jessica jumped into her car. She turned it on and pulled out, following behind the two men. The man Garcia was chasing, who she guessed was Randall Fullmer, turned on a dime like some NFL wide receiver and ran into an alleyway between two buildings. Garcia sprinted after him.

  Jessica spun the car around and zipped down a side street. She came out on the other side of the buildings and pressed down the gas, the car jolting forward. Passing through a red light, her heart pounding like a drum, she saw Randall dash out of the alley. Garcia was nearly to him. Jessica sped in front and slammed on her brakes.

  Randall flipped over the hood of the car and crashed onto the pavement. He tried to get up but Garcia tackled him. They rolled over on the pavement several times before Garcia got on top of him. He had him in an arm lock and pulled out cuffs, slapped them on, and stood up. Randall was on the ground, his hands cuffed behind his back, spitting out a slew of obscenities.

  Garcia looked to her, huffing breath like a track athlete, and smiled.

  13

  Jessica waited outside the interrogation rooms. She sat in a chair and sipped coffee. Randall had been placed inside and there was some activity with a detective that went in for a few minutes. Garcia explained to her that the other detective read him his Miranda rights. When he came out, he nodded to Garcia.

  “I’ll be right back,” Garcia said.

  He went into the room and shut the door behind him. The adrenaline of speeding her car down the road and having someone plow into it was still coursing through her. The last thing Jessica felt like doing was sitting there and waiting. She got up and went to the door, glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention. She put her ear to the door but couldn’t hear anything.

  Across from the interrogation room was an office. She looked in and saw a monitor. Once inside the office, she shut the door and flipped the monitor on. It was a view of inside the interrogation room. Though black and white, the picture was good.

  Garcia sat across from Randall and offered him a soda. Randall couldn’t take it because his hands were still cuffed. Garcia unlocked the cuffs and handed him the drink.

  “You good?” Garcia said.

  Randall didn’t say anything.

  “Randall, I know what it’s like to be single in a large city. Trust me, I know. That’s why it’s hard to blame you for her death. Was it an accident? Is that what happened? You two were making love and she just got you so upset you couldn’t control it? Because if that’s what it is, you’d be amazed how much that happens.”

  Randall placed the soda down on the table. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Michelle Barlow.”

  “That girl that was kidnapped? I called you guys on that.”

  “You telling me you don’t know that she was killed?”

  His eyes went wide and he didn’t blink for a few moments. “That’s what… you think I killed her? Are you kidding me?”

  “Look,” Garcia said calmly, “I know the stress of being your age in this city. It’s monstrous. The bombardment of sex. It’s everywhere. Every billboard, every TV show, every magazine… it gets to us. We’re not meant to see it that much.”

  Randall leaned forward and enunciated every word clearly as he said, “I did not kill anybody. Especially that girl. I don’t even know who she was. She ran in to my sister’s building and was crying. She was outta control. She jumped on me and was screaming. She said she was kidnapped and I called the cops.”

  Garcia leaned back in the chair. “Let’s say I believe you. Why’d you run?”

  “I got warrants. Drug charges. I thought that’s why you guys were there.”

  Garcia ran his tongue over his lip. “I want a sample of your DNA. If what you say is true, that’ll clear you.”

  “Fine. Yeah, man. Whatever. Have it.”

  Garcia kept his eyes on him a while, and then rose and walked out of the room. Jessica quickly opened the door. She wanted to get back to her seat and act like she hadn’t moved. But it was too late. Garcia’s eyes caught her as she stepped out. She shut the door behind her and didn’t say anything.

  Garcia didn’t mention it either.

  “Brad,” Garcia called out. A young man of maybe twenty peeked around the corner. “DNA swab on one H. Now.”

  “Got it, Detective.”

  Garcia looked to her. His brow was furrowed, his hair messy from the exertion of the chase. His three top buttons were undone, revealing the upper muscles of his chest. “It’s not him,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “A hunch. He offered his DNA too quickly. I don’t think it’s going to come back a match. It’s not him,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Well, maybe he knows something?”

  “Yeah, maybe. It’s going to be a long day, Jessica. Maybe you should head back to your hotel? I’ll give you a call when I finish up with him if he has anything important to tell us.”

  “I’d like to stay.”

  He shook his head. “Not on this. Just interrogation and paperwork. I promise I’ll call you if there’s anything. And the officer just out and to the right can take your statement about what happened with Randall.”

  “Okay. Call me if you find out anything.”

  “I will.”

  As she turned the corner, she glanced back and saw Garcia run his hand through his hair and sigh. She wondered if he took ever
y case this personally.

  Jessica stopped by the coffee shop again after leaving the precinct. She was too wired to go back to the hotel and just watch television. Instead, she sipped a latte and listened to the conversations around her. Many of them were early twenties drama. Boyfriend this and professor hates me that. But occasionally there would be a conversation about something substantive. The direction of the country, or what the best economic model was, or whether Jean Paul Sartre was insane or brilliant.

  These conversations she missed. It felt like when she got out of college they disappeared. The few friends she had never discussed ideas, and co-workers discussed them even less. Becoming an adult seemed to somehow include the notion that ideas and their power were for children.

  After an hour or so in the coffee shop, she then drove around the city. A google search came back with the top ten places someone had to visit in Seattle and she went to a few of them. Two museums and the fish markets.

  It was evening by the time she decided to head back to her hotel. After a hot shower and changing into a robe, she flopped onto the bed and turned on the television. As she lay in bed watching a rerun of Modern Family, she realized she craved something chocolaty. She swung her legs around to get dressed and grab something from the gift shop in the lobby when she noticed something near the door. An envelope.

  She walked to it and lifted it. Something was inside. She opened the door and glanced down both sides of the hallway, but no one was there. After shutting the door, she opened the envelope. Inside was a photograph. It was Michelle.

  She was nude with blood spattered on her neck. Her face was twisted in terror and the photo was somewhat blurry from movement. She was screaming.

  It was a photograph of her sister dying.

  14

  Jessica sat on the bed. She had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. Two uniformed officers were outside in the hallway and Garcia was speaking to them. He came back inside the room and bent down in front of her so they were eye level.

  “You okay?” he said softly.

  She nodded, but couldn’t muster the strength to say anything.

  “They’re going to canvas the entire hotel. Afterward, we’re going to take turns outside your room. No one’s getting in here. Do you understand? … Hey, Jessica, look at me. No one’s getting in here.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  He exhaled and rose, glancing around the room. “The balcony’s secure. No one could climb up without being spotted. This door’s the only way in or out of the room. I’m checking with the hotel to see if they have a camera up on this floor. I think I saw one by the elevators. We’re going to catch him, Jessica. He won’t have a chance to hurt you.”

  She rubbed her arms. “That picture…”

  “I know. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  Tears came and she couldn’t stop them. “I don’t think that image is going to leave me for the rest of my life.”

  He nodded. “You’ll learn to live with it.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. But you do. I have a thousand of those images. All as fresh as the moment I saw them. You learn to deal with it and, over time, you figure it out.”

  She wiped away her tears with the back of her hands. “I have to go somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll send one of the uniforms with you.”

  “No,” she said, rising. “No, I won’t let him determine how I live. I’m going out for an hour and I’ll be back.”

  Garcia hesitated. “I think you should stay here. For now.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  Jessica brushed past him and out into the hall. Partly, it was an act of rebellion. How dare he frighten her so much? But in reality, all she wanted to do was lock the door and never go out. That’s exactly why she did need to go out. She didn’t want to be one of those people that imprisons themselves in fear. She had to go out, and go out by herself.

  Once she was in the car, she started it and googled the nearest gun stores. The closest one was almost twenty minutes away.

  Driving there, the rain stopped. The clouds remained, giving the city a dull gray sheen. She listened to soft music on the stereo and kept it turned low.

  The gun store was one story and next to a strip club. The first thing Jessica saw when she walked in was a poster of the statue of liberty with a holster and firearm and a slogan that said, “Second Amendment: Use it or Lose it.”

  She scanned the racks of firearms. Some of them didn’t look like they could be legal. Large, black and gray weapons made for war. Passing these by, she went to the counter and looked at the handguns.

  “I need something for self defense,” she told the salesman.

  The man, older with the scent of alcohol on him, recommended a 9mm Smith & Wesson. She picked up the gun and held it in her hand. Running her fingers along the barrel, she felt the smoothness of the metal and the ridges of the grip.

  “I’ll take it. You have a firing range in the basement, right?”

  After purchasing the weapon, she got her eyeglasses. Living in Texas, everyone had a gun. She had never seen the need for one, living in the neighborhood she did, but most of her co-workers carried them in holsters at work. Some sort of badge of honor among the partners. She was comfortable around guns and didn’t feel apprehensive holding the weapon.

  As she was about to enter the firing range, a man came up from behind her.

  Garcia stood there. He looked down to the weapon in her right hand and the box of ammunition in her left.

  “You followed me?” she asked, not really surprised.

  “I had to. Have you ever owned one of those?”

  “No.”

  “If you’re going to use it, you need to use it correctly.”

  The eyeglasses were in barrels outside of the firing range. Garcia grabbed a pair of each for himself and held the door open for her. She walked in and down the flight of stairs to the actual range. Nobody else was down there.

  She picked a lane, the middle one, and Garcia came behind her.

  “Never pull out your weapon unless you intend to use it. And if you intend to use it, the chest and head are your targets. If you’ve pulled it out, that means you have to use deadly force. You fire two to the chest, two the head, two the chest until you run out of ammo, or he’s downed. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “You wanna be in the Weaver stance. Let me show you.”

  He came from behind her and bent her knees with his. She could feel his hot breath on her neck as his hands reached up to her arms and slid along them to the wrists. He straightened one arm and then loosened the other one, bringing her firing arm up to eye level. He placed both hands on her hips and a small jolt went through her. She tried not to show it, to not have any reaction, and she wondered if he’d noticed.

  “You stay loose,” he said in her ear, “but rigid at the same time. You don’t want the kickback to throw you off balance.”

  He loaded a paper target and sent it flying back against the wall with an automated pulley.

  Garcia ran his hands up from her hips to her shoulders and then down her arms again, making sure they were taut.

  “Now fire,” he said. “Two shots at a time. Chest and head, chest and head.”

  She pulled the trigger.

  The gun went off and the kickback jerked her wrists up. But she didn’t lose her grip. She fired another round, and then waited a moment before firing two more. The whole while, she could intensely feel Garcia’s hands on her hips. His touch was firm, but soft enough that it wasn’t uncomfortable. He was so close to her she could feel the tips of his hair on the back of her neck and it gave her goosebumps.

  “Good,” he said. “Reload and keep going.”

  The shots were muffled, but still loud. The spent cartridges tinked against the cement floor or the wall and she came to enjoy the sound.

  Halfway through the amm
o, she looked back to him. Their eyes met, and she knew instantly that neither of them could pull away if they wanted to. Their lips were close, no more than the width of a wine glass. She could see the long, black lashes that curled from his eyes and the smooth, olive skin of his lean face. He swallowed and looked down before taking a step back. It was only then that she realized she hadn’t breathed.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Make sure you get a holster. You can’t conceal it without a permit.”

  He appeared almost confused, like some fight was going on inside of him that she couldn’t see. She faced him squarely. To accept whatever he was going to throw at her. But he didn’t do anything. He stared at the floor, unable to bring his eyes up, and then said, “I better get back to the hotel and check for video.”

  With that, he turned and left. She exhaled loudly, sucking in breath, and turned back to the target. She had three more rounds in the clip and she fired.

  What the hell are you doing, Jessica?

  15

  Jessica went back to the hotel. She’d bought a holster but felt ridiculous wearing it outside her sweatshirt. She tucked it into her purse instead, despite what Garcia had said.

  When she returned, night had already fallen. She gave her car over to valet and then headed to her room. It wasn’t until she was stepping off the elevator that the tightness hit her chest. Made it feel like a refrigerator was lying on top of her. But she looked down the hall and saw a uniformed officer sitting in a chair, reading on an iPad, and the tightness subsided.

  “Hello,” she said.

  The officer smiled. “Hi.”

  “Um, are you gonna be here all night?”

  “We’re taking shifts.”

  “I’m fine, really. No one would try and do anything in a crowded hotel.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Detective Garcia’s orders.”

  She nodded. No use trying to argue with that. Instead, she opened her door and went inside. She looked back to the officer and said, “Good night.”