by ANDREA SMITH
Once inside, my emotions are off the charts. I knew it would be difficult stepping into the place that I’ve only visited through my journey as Cece, but I never expected just how much it would affect me. My hands are shaking and I resist the urge to turn and get the fuck out of here.
“Are you okay?” Marco whispers softly behind me.
I nod, trying my best to hold it together in front of these deputies. I recognize the surroundings; they haven’t changed much in forty years. Despite the layers of dust, I can see that the furnishings are the same as what was here back then. When Cece was brought here against her will.
“Where do you want to start?” Deputy Gillespie asks.
“The closet underneath the stairs,” I reply, not waiting for Marco to respond, because I know that’s where the evidence will be if Marshall hasn’t already disposed of it. I point over towards the huge staircase. “There should be a fairly large wooden chest along the back wall of it.”
The deputies look at one another and then to Marco, who smiles and shrugs. “Let’s start there.”
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until after Deputy Martin pulls the chest out of the closet and flips the switch to provide more light. I slowly exhale and feel my heart racing. Marco goes over and I watch as he pulls on a pair of latex gloves and proceeds to open the chest, pulling out items. Someone has placed a stack of old magazines and newspapers inside and Marco lifts them out, setting them on the wooden floor as he delves deeper.
I close my eyes, praying that those items Marshall had saved are still inside the chest. There has to be some resolution for Cece…and for Angie.
“What have we here?” It’s Marco and his voice gives me hope. I open my eyes as he pulls out the bright yellow t-shirt from the 1974 Battle of the Bands that had belonged to Angie. He places it in a plastic bag.
Keep going. Please God!
Next out is the Carly Simon 8-track tape with Erik’s scribbling on it. Marco places it in a different plastic bag and seals it. He’s nearly emptied the chest by this time, pulling out a ball glove, cleats, bat and a couple of softballs. I recognize the 8-track player that Marshall had taken from Cece’s car. The last item is a sealed white envelope. There’s nothing written on it, so Marco opens it and shakes the contents into his gloved palm.
Cece’s silver ring.
The one with the two hearts that Erik had given to her their last Christmas together. The one that Marshall had removed from her finger shortly before she died. He looks up at me and I nod, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes. He drops it into another plastic bag and seals it up.
One of the deputies is making a list of items Marco has placed in evidence bags to take from the premises. I finally go and sit on the dusty sofa, the same one that Cece had sat on all those years before, at the mercy of her psychotic murderer. I bury my face in my hands and let the tears flow. I’m crying for Cece—and for Angie, as well as the loved ones they both left behind.
I realize my actions seem strange to the two deputies who haven’t a clue as to where I fit into all of this, but Marco understands and he briskly moves the search to the rest of the rooms where I can be of no help.
Finally, a little over an hour later, he’s finished. Martin takes a video of the evidence bags; Marco signs off on the manifest of items being removed and announces we’re ready to leave the premises.
Once we’re on the road, headed away from Ogden, the tightness in my chest starts to abate. I can breathe a bit easier and my tears have dried…for now.
“I’m in awe of your gift,” Marco says softly. “You’ve made a believer out of me, Parrish, and trust me when I say that’s no small thing.”
I turn to gaze at him and I find that I am in awe. He is so gorgeous, so hard-shelled on the outside, however inside, he’s a different story. But still, I want nothing from him but raw, no-strings sex, because he can fuck seven ways from Sunday and, right now, as far as my life is going, I need to be fucked! Not fucked over, not fucked with, just fucked with the expertise that he has shown me.
“Marco?”
“Yes?”
“I need you to fuck me. And I need it rougher than before.”
“I see,” he replies, glancing over at me and there’s no amusement in his expression. I think he really gets me. “Well let’s see what I can do about that, mia caro.”
We go to his hotel and, I’m not gonna lie here, Marco dazzles me with his expertise. He gauges my mood perfectly and knows just how to deliver. He is rough, but accommodating. Anything he does that isn’t considered “vanilla sex” he makes sure I’m down with, constantly asking me if I am okay or asking if what he is doing with me at the moment feels good. His language is as filthy as anything I have ever heard on porn films.
And I totally dig it.
Yes, I admit it. Ryan and I used to watch nasty XXX porn but, this night, I am living it. And I am living it with Marco, my Italian Stallion extraordinaire!
Now I would fill you in on the details, but I need to move along here to bring this story to closure because, right now? Yeah, right now, we are reaching the climax of this story.
So pardon me for fast-forwarding a bit, but after that day (and our night), Marco has a lot of things going to grease the wheels of justice. You see, what we have is all circumstantial.
Yeah, he has sent the gathered evidence from the search of the Rydell home in Ogden to the FBI forensic lab in Quantico to capture fingerprints and any possible DNA that had been left on the items, but even if that pans out, there are a hundred ways the defense can label it as non-credible. Bottom line? Marco says we need a confession.
How in the hell is that gonna happen?
Chapter 36
Okay, so Dad knows something’s going on between Marco and me and, I have to tell you, he approves.
I can tell. He doesn’t question me, he just smiles when I tell him I’m hanging out with the FBI and gives me the obligatory, ‘Be careful’ or ‘We’ll see you later then’.
Though, I might venture to say that if he knew what Marco and I have going is just raw fucking every chance we get, he may pull some of that old-fashioned Italian disapproval shit on me.
I don’t stay with Marco. We fuck, he brings me home or I borrow Sheila’s car and go to his place where we fuck and then I drive home. I mean, we share meals and stuff occasionally but, mostly, we exchange bodily fluids.
I mean, we had to figure out some way to kill time while waiting on the forensic lab reports to come back. It’s been three days now.
My cell rings as I’m doing my laundry up at Dad’s house. Sheila and I went grocery shopping together earlier and she’s got a pot of chili going in the kitchen that she’s asked me to watch while she runs down to the office to help Dad.
“Hey,” he says, “Guess what just came over the wire?”
I totally love when he says that instead of guess what I got in my email; or what was faxed over—it sounds hotter the way he says it.
“What?” I ask, my enthusiasm ramping up.
“The lab was able to pull one good print of Marshall Rydell’s from the ring; several from the 8-track tape; some strands of hair were found on the t-shirt, but nothing can be done with that until I get with Angie Linton’s next-of-kin to see if they’ve got anything left in the house that belonged to her that might give us some DNA for matching. But, the good news is that the forensic analysis done on the muscle and tissue samples taken from Cece’s remains tested positive for trace amounts of succinylcholine.”
“Okay,” I reply, feeling my brow furrow. “And what is that exactly?”
“That,” he replies, “is exactly the muscle relaxant Dr. Rydell used, along with general anesthesia when operating on large animals in her practice. When used without general anesthesia, and if injected in a large enough dosage, it causes neuromuscular paralysis within minutes. In other words, it’s what killed Cece and probably Angie as well. It’s been referred to as the nearly perfect murder weapon because it’s
undetectable under normal tox screening.”
“So then it proves murder, right?”
“As far as we’re concerned, yes. The cause of Cece’s death will be changed to murder due to succinylcholine poisoning but, again, we can’t directly tie that to Marshall Rydell. Everything is still circumstantial.”
And now? I’m pissed. “That’s so much bullshit!” I cry. “How can he get away with this?”
“Calm down, mia caro, no one said anything about him getting away with it. I’ve got a call into the BAU in Quantico and I’m going to see if I can enlist their assistance with strategy on this.”
“BAU?”
“Behavioral Analysis Unit. I take it you don’t watch Criminal Minds?”
“Of course I do,” I reply, bristling. “I just thought they, you know, dealt with serial killers.”
“Actually, there are four distinct units within the BAU. They assist federal, state and local law enforcement with anything from cyber crimes and counter-terrorism to crimes against children and adults. I’m certain this falls into some applicable category. I’m waiting to hear back from an agent.”
“In the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I’m going to gather more information from the witnesses available. I’ve got an appointment to talk to Kim Benton. Would you care to come along? I might need your assistance from your, uh...recollections?”
“Sure,” I reply, “I’ve got some questions for that girl, myself.”
“Let me do the asking, Parrish.”
“Whatever.”
Chapter 37
The following morning, both Marco and I are sitting in the drab kitchen of Kim Benton’s farm house, sipping coffee and watching as she nervously takes a seat at the table with us.
Her hands are shaking just a bit as she pours cream into her coffee mug, lifting it to her lips, taking a sip. “I don’t understand how you think I can help you,” she says, peering over the top of her ceramic mug.
The years haven’t been kind to the former cheerleader and member of the popular clique at Washington High School back in 1974. Her face is lined and puckered wrinkles are evident around her mouth telling me at some point in time, she smoked cigarettes. Her hair is cut short and has turned mostly gray, just hints of the dark brown still present in it these days. I notice her face is void of make-up.
“Mrs. Benton,” Marco says, “we’ve just recently uncovered Cece’s diary. Some of those entries mention interaction between the two of you. You were best friends back then, right?”
“I guess. It was so long ago,” she replies, her eyes lowering to her hands. “What was in her diary about me?”
“What were you trying to tell her that day at school?” I blurt, ignoring Marco, “Something about Marshall Rydell acting bizarre after Angie Linton’s death?”
She nods. “Well that—it hit all of us hard, you know? I mean, when you’re that age, you just have no conception of why someone would commit suicide.”
“Do you really think it was suicide?” I continue, feeling Marco’s foot nudge mine under the table.
“Well sure, I mean, what else could it have been?”
Marco takes the opportunity to regain control of the questions. “Mrs. Benton, you clearly wanted to share something with Cece then. You didn’t want your boyfriend—”
“Keith,” I supply.
He gives me a glare and continues, “Keith,” he repeats, as if I hadn’t tossed it out there first, “to know what you wanted to share with Cece. Now, let’s cut to the chase here. There is something you know. Something that’s haunted you for years about this whole situation, not only the conversation you never got to have with your best friend about Angie, but also what happened the night Cece died. The night you and Keith had to pick him up on some country road and drive him to the family home in Ogden, Utah.”
Her head snaps up and it’s the first appropriate reaction I’ve seen from her. “How did you know about that? How could you have possibly known about that?”
Marco gives her a grim smile. “Because a witness has come forth with some information about that night, but now we need you to fill in the rest. Isn’t it time you cleared your conscience? Don’t you owe it to Cece to let justice be served?”
Tears immediately spill from her eyes; she grabs a paper napkin from the holder and starts dabbing. “God, yes,” she sobs, “I thought over the years those memories would fade, but they haven’t. I can’t get the thought of her out of my mind, but I can’t provide you any proof, only what I observed that night. And what Keith told me.”
“Let’s start there,” Marco replies, “Do you mind if I record this interview?”
I can hear the gentleness now in his voice, he speaks almost soothingly to her and I have no doubt she’s gonna spill everything she knows about Angie, Cece, Keith and Marshall.
Good job, Agent Trevani.
Two hours later, Marco and I are on the road, having gotten detailed information from Kim about that night. It’s good information according to Marco; details on where they had picked Marshall up that night, after he’d pushed Cece’s car over the cliff, along with a confession from Marshall to Keith about what he’d done to both Angie and Cece right before he’d gone into rehab. Keith had forbidden Kim to speak of it to anyone. He’d told her one night he and Marshall had been tripping on acid and that’s when Marshall spilled everything on what he’d done to Angie and Cece. But the confession was useless.
Keith is dead. So it’s all hearsay.
“Then now what?” I halfway snap in frustration.
“No worries, mia caro, we wait on Trace Matthews.”
“Who?”
“He’s the BAU Agent coming in tonight from Quantico. He and I have discussed the finer points of this case. He’s even enlisted a Federal Prosecutor who is at our disposal. I think we can take it from here.”
“Oh, is that your not-so-subtle way of telling me my services are no longer required, Agent?”
He glances over at me and I can see that he’s irritated; I’m just not sure whether it’s with me or with himself. “I’m just saying that your special expertise has served to move this case to a point where it’s being handled.”
I start to reply, when my cell rings.
Fuck! It’s Ryan’s ringtone. ‘Moves Like Jagger’.
“Shit,” I say, reaching in my purse for the cell, “I meant to change that.” I silence the ringer, sending his call to voicemail.
“The asshole?” Marco asks.
“Yeah.”
“Is a reconciliation on the horizon?”
“Not for me. How about you and—?”
“Christina,” he replies. “Hardly.”
“So,” I say, “What now?”
Marco glances at the digital clock on his dash. “Got a few hours to kill before Special Agent Matthews gets in and I have to drop you off. Hungry?”
“Yes, but not for food,” I reply, giving him a sly grin.
“My place it is then,” he says, heading towards his hotel.
An hour and a half later, I slip out of the shower, while Marco stays in to finish shampooing his hair since he accused me of ‘hogging’ the showerhead.
We have spent a delicious afternoon enjoying one another’s physical attributes and Marco commented several times on my agility and flexibility. I have been thoroughly fucked and I feel amazingly refreshed and rejuvenated.
I have just toweled myself dry, using another towel as a turban for my wet hair, when I hear someone knocking at the door to his suite.
“That’s room service already,” I call out. “Hurry your ass up.”
I pull on the fluffy white hotel robe, tying it up as I make my way from the steamy bathroom to the door of Marco’s suite. He’d ordered a late lunch for us just before we hit the shower.
I open the door and immediately see it’s not room service. It’s Michelle, the waitress from the bistro that Marco had taken me to the first night we’d fucked.
Shit.
Her face reddens immediately, as her eyes scan the room number on the door confirming that she is, in fact, at the right suite.
“I—I, umm, Marco?” she sputters.
“Marco’s in the shower,” I reply, opening the door wider. “Would you care to come in and wait for him?”
She seems to have gathered her wits. “He and I made plans for lunch. I was worried when he didn’t show, being that he’s in a dangerous line of work, that is.”
“You have no idea,” I reply curtly. “Please, come in?”
“No…no, that’s okay,” she mutters, “Just let him know that I stopped by, will you?”
“Of course.”
She skitters down the carpeted hallway, nearly mowing down the hotel staff member bringing our room service cart. I sign Marco’s name to the room service slip, giving the guy a huge tip and then settle down on the sofa.
To wait.
Marco comes out of the bathroom, his thick, dark hair still damp, wearing black cotton sweats and a white t-shirt that might as well be couture because of the way he rocks it. He presents me with a sexy wink.
I scrunch my nose up in a cutesy, yet sarcastic smile. He’s not clued in . . . yet.
“Just in time, I see,” he says, plopping down next to me on the sofa and removing one of the silver domed lids from the plate. “Let’s dig in.”
“Actually,” I reply, “you were just a few minutes late.”
He gives me a puzzled look, biting into a french fry. “Not following.”
“You missed Michelle? Apparently, you were a no-show at lunch, and she stopped by. She was…worried.”
“Ah, shit! That’s right. I totally fucking forgot we had plans. Guess I got a little distracted,” he says with a laugh. “Is she pissed?”
I turn abruptly to face him. “Is she pissed? Seriously?”
He cocks an eyebrow, clearly confused by my tone. “What?”
Men are so fucking clueless!
“Marco, you’ve been in Salt Lake for, what, a couple of weeks? Do you hook up wherever the Bureau happens to send you?”
