by Mary Birk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Quote
SATURDAY, APRIL 4, 2009
Chapter 1
SUNDAY, APRIL 5, 2009
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
MONDAY, APRIL 6
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
TUESDAY, APRIL 7
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 8
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
THURSDAY, APRIL 9
Chapter 40
FRIDAY, APRIL 10
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
SATURDAY, APRIL 11
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
EASTER SUNDAY, APRIL 12
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
MONDAY, APRIL 13
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
TUESDAY, APRIL 14
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
THURSDAY, APRIL 16
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
FRIDAY, APRIL 17
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
SATURDAY, APRIL 18
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
SUNDAY, APRIL 19
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
MONDAY, APRIL 20
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
TUESDAY, APRIL 21
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
WEDNESDAY. APRIL 22
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
SUNDAY, MAY 10
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
TUESDAY, MAY 12
Chapter 97
FRIDAY, MAY 15
Chapter 98
Author’s Note
About the Author
Terrence Reid Series
THE FIRST CUT
MARY BIRK
*****
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2015 by Mary Birk
eISBN: 978-0-9903277-2-1
Cover Design by JT Lindroos
The first cut is the deepest.
CAT STEVENS
SATURDAY, APRIL 4, 2009
Chapter 1
Glasgow, Scotland
ON THE LAST DAY OF HIS LIFE, Richard Ramsey slid his shiny silver Mercedes to the side of the deserted lane and killed the engine. The sudden stillness made what he was doing startlingly real. He sneaked a nervous glance at the tantalizing woman seated next to him. Tonight he had taken the first step down a forbidden, but unbearably enticing, path. The kind of path every man knows he shouldn’t go down, but the kind of path few men can resist.
She tilted the bottle of whiskey to her mouth, then grinned, a grin that flashed a hint of wickedness so devastatingly delicious his chest hurt. She slowly flicked her tongue around the bottle’s rim in a teasing dance and a throbbing, aching sensation flooded his groin.
“Why here?” He loosened his death grip on the steering wheel and drew his hands along its contours, wishing it was her supple body he was touching. He wanted his hands on her more than anything he’d wanted for years, but he wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed. He had not done anything like this since—well, ever. He had never before been unfaithful to Barbara in the nearly eighteen years they’d been married, quite an accomplishment, especially through the past few years.
He wasn’t sure why he’d remained faithful until now. His colleagues didn’t hesitate to take mistresses or just get a bit on the side. It wouldn’t have been difficult—money had a way of making any man attractive to most women, but he hadn’t wanted a woman who wanted him because of his money.
This woman didn’t want his money. She wanted him and, God knew, he wanted her, wanted her with a hunger that had become all consuming. Right now, with the night wrapped protectively around them, it was like they were the only two people alive.
Dark hair swirled around her neck as she shrugged, passing the bottle back to him. “No one can see us. The road’s been closed for a month.” She pouted with soft pink lips so full they looked almost swollen.
It was those lips that had tempted him, those lips that had filled his dreams, and those lips that had finally convinced him. She’d made it clear that she wanted him, hinted she wanted to use her mouth and that agile tongue on him. He couldn’t remember the last time his wife had done that; generally, by half seven she was passed out, sloshed as a sailor.
He took a swig of the whiskey, firmly capped the bottle, and let it slide down to the car floor. A glance out the window convinced him she was right about the place being private. Silhouetted trees hid the road from view on one side, and although a short expanse of rough grass lay between them and a double set of railroad tracks, access to the other side was blocked by heavy brush and a chain link fence that glinted in the moonlight. No need to be nervous, he told himself.
“Here it will be, then.” He leaned in to kiss her. Her smell intoxicated him—fresh, clean eucalyptus and something else, something earthy sweet. “You look so incredibly sexy like this.”
“You like it?”
“Love it.” He threaded his fingers through the dark silken strands of her wig, then fisted a handful of hair to pull her closer. He crushed her lips with his, pried her mouth open with his tongue, felt her teeth against his own. She tasted of warm whiskey and wanting and woman. Waves of desire flooded him.
She pulled away slightly, using her hand to loosen his hold, and alarm gripped him. Was she having second thoughts? Surely not. Surely she wouldn’t back out now. He had to have her. Then he realized what she must be thinking.
“Not to worry.” Fumbling, he took a condom out of his pocket. “I brought this.” He’d actually brought several from th
e box he’d bought as soon as she’d agreed to meet him, but he didn’t want to look too presumptuous. Just in case, though, he had the extras stashed in the glovebox.
She wrinkled her adorable nose. “I hate those. I want to feel you, not a nasty rubber.”
He couldn’t believe his luck. “I just thought . . .”
“And they taste awful.”
A shudder of excitement ran down his spine, and he dropped the packet. She was going to use her mouth. His heart thudded against his chest as he tried to think what he should do next. Should he suggest they get into the backseat right now? Or maybe he should kiss her again, get her ready first, then suggest the move to the backseat?
To his surprise, she took control. “Let’s do it outside.” The mischievous tone in her voice both thrilled and terrified him.
“Bit cold for that, isn’t it, sweetheart?” The early April weather in Glasgow was cold and damp, not making for an ideal shagging venue. He wanted to convince her to stay in the car, but she had already opened the door, reaching around first to the backseat to grab the tartan blanket he kept there. He took off his fedora and threw it in the back; his bald head would be cold without it, but it seemed ridiculous to wear a hat under the circumstances.
“I’ll warm you up.” Her smile held a promise of pure pleasure that made his heartbeat accelerate wildly and his cock twitch like he was in his twenties again.
He got out of the car, and followed to where she was laying out the blanket. She carefully arranged what was to be their bed, sat down, then motioned for him to join her. He hesitated, then decided why the hell not? He couldn’t remember when he had last done anything so wild. He’d wasted so much time, but not anymore. He wanted this passion, this excitement, this vitality in his life again.
Kneeling down beside her, he found her mouth with his own and took her in what he hoped she would think was a tender kiss. He caressed her breasts through her soft red sweater, felt her nipples peak. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling the rich, spicy perfume that clung to her skin, slipped one hand under the neckline of her sweater, and shuddered at the satiny soft feel of female flesh. Ah, this is what had led him here. Worth it. It was all worth it.
He felt himself swell; his desire and his potency were still there. At sixty-four, he had just needed something to catch his interest again, and this beauty with her nipples hardening under his touch was just the thing. He could tell how much she wanted him. Why had he waited so long?
He swallowed, easing his other hand under her skirt, skimming his fingers up between her legs. The feel of the smooth skin of her thighs sent the blood rushing to his head. Yes, she was exactly what he’d needed.
She reached to unfasten his belt, interrupting the progress of his hands on her body. Hard as it was to not feel frustrated when his fingers had been so close, he was also gratified. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with a woman who was so eager. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.
She flicked her nimble tongue around her lips, her eyes half hooded with desire, and pushed her index finger against his chest. “Down.”
Obediently, he lay back on the blanket. From far away in the background, he heard the low vibrating rumble that signified the advent of a train. He strained his neck slightly to see the tracks. “Shouldn’t we get back in the car? We’ll be giving them a bit of a show, won’t we?”
She shook her head, teasing, playful. “Those trains go by so fast they can’t see anything. Not at night, especially. Or if they do, they won’t be able to see who we are.”
He nodded. He sure as bloody hell wasn’t going to do anything to dissuade her from doing what they both wanted her to do. How had he let himself miss out on this all these years? There were women out there, beautiful women, who really wanted, and liked, sex. Women who wouldn’t lie there like a dead trout when a man wanted her.
She unzipped his pants and his cock sprang toward her, seeking. A frisson of anticipation rippled through his body at the possibility of strangers getting a glimpse of this beautiful woman with her mouth on him. The thought of them being seen like that both excited and terrified him. The cold air hit his skin, but the warmth of her tight grasp quickly protected him.
She moved her fingers along the shaft, appraising him with a catlike intensity. He was glad he’d thought to see his doctor beforehand. Stay hard, he instructed his cock, hoping that the willful bastard would listen for once. He heard her inhale, with what? Lust, anticipation, desire? He prayed it wasn’t disappointment. Stay hard.
“You’re so big, so thick.”
Pride inflated his chest like helium filling a balloon. “It’s all yours, sweetheart.”
“Lovely.” Her delicious pink tongue circled her mouth again. “I’ll take you as deep as I can.”
He chuckled, his old confidence in his virility returning. He’d never had a woman complain, had he? “Just take what you can.”
He closed his eyes, waiting in breathless anticipation for the clasp of her mouth around him. He braced himself. Waited for her soft, warm mouth to take him in. Soon, it would be soon.
Nothing happened.
What was taking her so long? He should be feeling those tenderly voracious lips by now. He felt her move closer, her hand still holding him, and he groaned in agonized anticipation.
“You’re torturing me. Come on, sweetheart, get to it.”
Suddenly, a searing pain gripped his chest. God, not a heart attack out here in the middle of nowhere, with his pants open and him so ready. Not now. Not when he was so close. The pain ebbed. He opened his eyes and gingerly touched one hand to his chest, felt the wet warmth soaking his shirt.
The thundering onslaught of the train on the nearby tracks was the last sound he heard, the woman’s departing figure, illuminated by the train’s garishly blaring lights, the last thing he saw.
SUNDAY, APRIL 5, 2009
Chapter 2
SUPERINTENDENT TERRENCE REID crossed from where he’d parked his car on the road to the railroad tracks, fingering the rosary in the left pocket of his wool coat as he walked. The chill of the early spring wind slapped across his face, and his feet crunched the thinly iced dew on the grass. Neither the hopeful green of the newly leafed out trees nor the smattering of blue flowers in the grass told the truth about the weather. It might be April, it might be spring, but it was freeze-your-bone-marrow cold.
His day had just gone from bad to absolute bollocks. He’d had bad days before, bad weeks before, even bad years before, but he’d never felt so much like a failure as he did right now. Every aspect of his life, from his marriage to his career, was careening out of control. And now this. His star witness. His star bloody witness.
A glance around the crime scene told him he wasn’t the only one having a bad day. The morning sun, even filtered as it was by the typical haze of gray clouds, revealed that the newest member of his elite police team wasn’t dealing well with having to confront the battered and bloody remains of what had been a man before she’d even had breakfast.
At twenty-two, Detective Constable Allison Muirhead was still raw when it came to the business of death. She was bundled up in a red down jacket, her curly brown hair mostly covered by a white knitted hat, but underneath all that, Reid recognized the look on her face; she was concentrating fervently on not being sick. The gruesome sight of the mutilated body alone could have turned anyone’s stomach. At least, thanks to the cold air and being out in the open, the body didn’t stink yet, but Reid suspected the greasy tar smell clinging to the railroad tracks wasn’t helping Allison’s stomach any.
“A’right, Allison?” he asked.
“A’right, sir.” Allison would throw herself in front of the next train rather than embarrass herself by admitting that the crime scene bothered her. She put on a brave face, Reid thought. An oddly yellowish-green face, but a brave one, nonetheless.
Reid nodded at her, then turned his attention to Detective Sergeant Harry Ross, the senior member of his team.
&n
bsp; “You’re sure it’s him?” Even a cursory inspection of the carnage on the tracks revealed the utter impossibility of making an identification based on the man’s mangled face, and Reid allowed himself to feel a brief flicker of hope that a mistake had been made.
“As sure as we can be.” Harry’s innocent face with its sea of freckles and messy cap of ginger hair did not look like it belonged to a man who was one of the best electronic crime detectives in Great Britain. “There’s not much left of him.” Harry gestured toward a silver Mercedes sedan parked on the side of the road. “But that’s Ramsey’s car, his jacket is folded up on the front passenger seat, and his wallet was in it.”
Reid nodded, making sure his demeanor didn’t reflect even a hint of the weariness or frustration he felt. Richard Ramsey, a prominent industrialist, had finally agreed not just to act as an informant, but also to give testimony against the man Reid believed was the chief Scottish conduit in a pipeline financing a string of violent terrorist attacks on British and European universities. Ramsey’s cooperation had been kept quiet so they could make sure the noose around Walter Von Zandt’s neck was looped good and tight before bringing charges against the wealthy financier.
In the six weeks since he’d left California—since he’d left Anne—Reid had worked ceaselessly on the investigation, trying to make up for the time he’d lost by being away. Much of that time had been spent recruiting Ramsey. Without Ramsey’s help, the chances of getting the evidence needed to implicate Von Zandt were next to impossible. The chances of Reid being able to find a replacement informant in time to stop the next attacks were even worse.
Reid walked over to the Mercedes to get a closer look at the number plate. Harry was right, it was definitely Ramsey’s car. Reid was well-acquainted with everything about Richard Ramsey: his car, his family, his business, his house. He’d burned every blessed fact into his brain when he’d been trying to get Ramsey to turn informant. And it had worked, for all the good it would do now.
Reid felt a veil of depression sink over him. It wasn’t just Ramsey. It was Ramsey and Anne and California and nights spent sitting by a phone that wouldn’t ring. He fought the urge to yell, to lash out, to drive his fist through the sedan’s window. None of that would help. It never had.
