“I’m not touching. Just looking.”
“You did see his pimp suit, didn’t you?”
“There’s something about the way he styles that goatee,” Zahera said as she ran her fingers through her silky bed of hair. “He looks…naughty.”
“And you want to give him a spanking.”
She giggled.
“Why is it that every guy who has a dick picks up some type of pheromone thing from you?”
It was a rhetorical question, of course. Zahera looked like a Middle-Eastern goddess, even boasting a Cindy Crawford-like mole on the side of her cheek. Her hourglass figure was complemented by her six-figure salary, along with her designer clothes, swanky condo, and a red sports car. She was every guy’s dream. Or woman’s, for that matter. Despite my obvious inadequacies when compared to her, I still loved her. She was a strong person and had been a dear friend ever since I stepped into her office and she put my legs in stirrups.
She lifted her shoulders. “I can’t help it.”
I bumped her arm. “I’m just playing with you.” My eyes followed Detective Moreno as he pulled up on our side of a white van owned by the Bexar County Medical Examiner’s Office that was blocking most of the activity around the body. A short, uniformed officer ran out from behind the van. He reached the concrete wall of the garage just as he heaved his stomach contents over the edge.
“Gross,” Zahera said.
He wiped his mouth, then removed his cap and let the breeze cool his face. Something had turned his stomach. My thoughts went straight to the murder victim. I slowly shuffled to my left, hoping to see the actual crime scene. A hand in my face stopped me. “Excuse me,” I said to the uniform by the tape.
“Miss, you’re not allowed inside the tape.”
“Do you see me trying to get inside the tape?” I put both hands on my smallish hips. “I’m just looking, if that’s okay with you.”
He adjusted his hat and stuck both thumbs in his belt loops, but our eyes stayed on each other.
“Ivy, I need you over here.”
I started walking toward Stan’s voice, but the cop and I were in a stare-off. He finally turned away as I joined Stan and Zahera, who had moved over next to a pillar away from the crowd.
As I sidled up next to Zahera, Stan was pocketing something in a wrapper as his mouth chomped on something chewy. Without asking, I knew it was a candy bar. That was his weak spot, especially when he felt a bit of pressure.
“Who’s the vic?”
His beady, brown eyes met mine. “Now you’re talking like a detective.” He tried to hand me his notepad, but I held up two hands.
“I find missing kids. Homicide is your turf.” I leaned back and spotted a technician taking pictures of an object on the garage floor. “But since Z and I were both in the Tower Life Building yesterday evening, I’m wondering if there’s a chance—”
“That’s why you’re here,” he said, his eyes moving from me to Zahera.
Bringing a hand up to her face, Zahera reached out and grabbed his arm. “Please tell me it wasn’t one of the women attending our function.”
His bushy mustache twitched. “I’m sorry, but it appears that way. Her ID was on her, and we matched it with the sign-up sheet from the seminar.”
“So it wasn’t a robbery?” I looked back over to the crime scene, where the photographer was now taking pictures from a different angle near the ME’s van, but I couldn’t see what he was shooting.
“Doesn’t appear to be, no, not unless she had been wearing an expensive piece of jewelry that we don’t know about.”
“Are you thinking she might have known her killer?”
Zahera tilted her head and looked at me. “Why would you ask that?”
Stan held up his hand. “Ivy’s about to quote some statistics about the likelihood of homicide victims knowing their assailants, but we’re still gathering facts. We’ll talk to everyone she knew. So far, we’ve heard she’s only lived in this area for a couple of months.”
“She has a name, right?” Zahera reminded us.
“Eileen Tadlock, age twenty-six.”
Zahera tapped her finger to her chin. “Doesn’t sound familiar, but we had over two hundred ladies in attendance. Can you give me a description?”
“Short, wavy hair, about Ivy’s height—”
“What was she wearing?”
“A gray skirt, the kind that hugs the body.”
“A pencil skirt. I remember her vividly. Quite the sharp dresser.”
I looked at Zahera, then back to Stan. “How did she die?”
He put a hand on his waist as he glanced at his notepad. “It’s ugly, Ivy. The worst I’ve ever seen.”
Zahera and I traded stares. “Gunshot to the head?” I asked.
“That would have been a much easier way to go,” he said, running his hand down both sides of his mouth. He flipped a couple of pages in his notepad and cleared his throat. It was obvious this murder had impacted Stan in ways I’d not yet seen.
“It’s okay, Stan. We’re not the press.” I couldn’t imagine what had happened, but my empathy was equally matched by my curiosity.
He stayed quiet for a moment, then inhaled a deep breath as if fortifying himself for what he was about to say. “A rat basically ate right through her neck.”
Zahera’s hand grasped my shoulder as I attempted to wrap my mind around what Stan had just described.
“What? How?” Zahera asked in a breathy voice.
“A burlap sack was tied around her neck with a hungry rat trapped inside,” he said, shaking his head.
A zap of electricity pinged the base of my skull, seemingly scattering shards of shrapnel throughout my core. I closed my eyes and rubbed the back of my neck, but it didn’t help to eliminate the anxiety rippling through my bloodstream, or the questions pounding my temples.
“She was tortured.”
I could barely choke out the words, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Zahera and Stan staring at me with curious expressions.
I cleared my throat, gathering myself. “How long did she live?”
“The ME isn’t certain. He’s guessing maybe ten or fifteen minutes. The rat gnawed at everything it could reach.”
Zahera brought a hand to her mouth as she put her arm around me. “How can something like this happen, Stan? What kind of person is walking the street that could do this to another human being?”
A single tear slid down her face, and we quickly switched roles. I put my arm around her.
“I wish I could say.” Stan looked away, then slowly shifted his gaze back to me, questioning.
I knew what he was waiting for. I huffed out a sigh and said, “The moment you said the words, I wondered if it was possible that this guy was the same person who had kidnapped and tortured me.”
“Moreno and I…that was our first thought when we hit the scene. Because if it’s not, then we’ve got to accept the fact there’s another crazy fucker walking the streets.”
I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry. “In a general sense, I can see why you’d go there. But other than that, it’s hard to draw a correlation.”
“How can you say that?” Zahera asked. She swiped a finger under her eye to clear away the tear stain. “Maybe this is the same twisted freak.”
Stan picked up where she left off. “Your kidnapping essentially had no crime scene, since he dropped you off at the same place he took you. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some actual evidence here that intersects with your life somehow.”
I knew Stan and Zahera were trying to give me hope, but I couldn’t open up that bucket of memories. Not in a public place. “It’s possible, I suppose. But there are a lot of differences. For starters, we don’t know if it was a man who killed Eileen Tadlock.”
“We’re checking the garage cameras,” Stan said, tapping his pen to his notepad.
I nodded. “If we’re to assume it was a man, he did this in a public place, even if the garage was dark and lone
ly. He actually brought a sack and a rat with him.”
“It shows intent and planning. That could be said about the crime committed against you as well.”
He had a point. “The methods are very different, though. No drowning, electrical, or freezing methods. And I’m assuming no carving?”
“He likely cut her neck to draw blood and start the rat’s feeding frenzy. Maybe he has some type of odd cutting fetish, and he took it to the extreme with the rodent.”
Zahera wrinkled her nose.
I felt my phone buzzing in my purse. Pulling it out, I found a text from my one and only ECHO employee, Cristina.
Got a new customer. Wants to talk to the boss. That’s u. Can u meet?
I thumbed a quick response.
I’m tired of smoothies. Let’s meet at my place in thirty mins.
“Anyone important?” Zahera asked.
“Cristina. Might have a new client. I need to run off.” I had another reason for wanting to get to my apartment as quickly as possible, but I kept my thoughts to myself. “Keep me in the loop?” I asked Stan.
“Of course. I’ll share everything I can.” He pulled out his candy bar and bit off another chunk. “If you’re nice, I’ll probably share more than I should.”
I was counting on it.
4
Slowing to a light jog, I glanced over my shoulder. I strained to look through the thicket of trees lining the western edge of my apartment complex. No sign of the tall, athletic man in the white ball cap. I’d first seen him crossing the street when I climbed into my two-door Civic back at the parking garage. Then, when I pulled up to my apartment complex and found the lot full, I had to park down the street. As I climbed out of the car, he was lurking by the bench in the park across the street.
Breathing at an accelerated pace, I looked over my shoulder every other step as I walked into the apartment parking lot. As I walked between two parked cars, a dog lunged out of one of the car windows, clamping its jaws on my upper arm. I startled, both feet leaving the ground, as I yanked my arm away. All I could see were sharp teeth and drool as the German shepherd exploded with a flurry of vicious barks. With my back pressed against the door of the neighboring car, I finally saw that he was restricted by the small opening in the window. Even as he jabbed his snout out the window, he couldn’t get his full body through.
I pumped out rapid-fire breaths, my eyes blinking even faster. The dog wouldn’t hush, despite me asking four times. He was as freaked out as I was. Each bark was like a nail being driven in my skull. I flinched with each stabbing yelp. I had to get away.
Pushing off the car, I lumbered up the steps to my apartment building and, before going inside, glanced over my shoulder. Had that been the same man from the parking garage? I blinked twice, but didn’t want to stick around and wait. I scampered up the steps and tore through the front door. Breathing heavily, I felt perspiration at my hairline. I craved water.
Jogging through the lobby, I spotted a woman reading a book. She looked like she’d fallen asleep. I took the far hallway, peering over my shoulder every few steps. It was empty. Had he somehow already been in my apartment?
“Zorro,” I said out loud. I took off in a sprint, racing to the end of the corridor. I smacked the metal bar on the door that led to the stairs and vaulted up them two at a time. Three floors later, my lungs begging for air, I bolted into my hallway and stopped. Hands on my knees, I looked in both directions. All clear. As I jogged the last fifty feet, I couldn’t help but wonder if my lazy, furry roommate was okay. A couple of months earlier, someone had broken into my place and planted two cat paws under my couch, making me think, at least at first, that he’d dismembered my lovable cat. I had every reason to believe that same someone had been my kidnapper. Fortunately, I’d found Zorro stashed away in my pantry, wrapped in a…
“Burlap sack,” I murmured, inserting my key into the deadbolt I had installed after my kidnapping.
I hopped inside, locked the door, and emptied my lungs. I felt something rubbing my leg, and I looked down to see Zorro begging for attention. I picked up the black Persian cat and leaned my back against the door. I tried to draw the calm of his loud purr into my body.
I thought more about the man in the white ball cap. He was the same guy at both the parking garage and in the park across the street, right? I knew he was following me up the street to my apartment. That much was certain.
Or was it?
5
A fist pounded the other side of the door so hard my head bounced off it. Zorro dug his claws into my chest.
“Shiiiit,” I said, hopping around, trying to peel him off me. “Hold on a second.”
I finally pried the cat from my body, and he hightailed it into the bedroom. I took a quick peek through the peephole and then opened the door.
“What’s all the yelling about?” Cristina marched in, heading straight for the sink.
“You scared the crap out of me and Zorro. He thought I was his scratch pad.”
“Your doorbell doesn’t work.” Another girl, smaller in stature, meandered inside. She dragged a backpack alongside her leg. A chain hung from her jeans pocket. Cristina started running the water over her arm. “Damn dog in the parking lot lunged out the window, had my arm for lunch.”
“He got me too.”
Cristina didn’t turn around, but I showed her friend the scrapes on my arm, which had a red glow, but no blood was oozing out. “I’ll get us some bandages and Neosporin.”
I slipped into the bathroom, grabbed the bandage kit and returned to the kitchen in no time. Cristina was muttering something as she cleaned off her wound. Given her demeanor, it was more than likely a string of four-letter words that would make a sailor blush.
“I thought the city knew it had a dog problem,” she said, turning around to show me four distinct puncture wounds. Without asking, I started to dress the bite marks as she kept railing about the animal control issue. “We’ve got something like five thousand loose dogs in the city limits,” she said, then looked at the girl. “Five thousand, Anika. Can you fuckin’ believe it? They’re a nuisance. If they ever find the owners, they ought to take them to jail.”
“I’m not a fan of the sharp-toothed German,” I said, “but that dog wasn’t running loose. Pretty sure I saw tags, which means you’re probably in the clear on getting a Tetanus shot.”
Cristina went still for a second.
“Okay, I know you wouldn’t bother getting a shot anyway.”
“Where was the owner, though? The dog still bit the shit out of me. Bit you too.”
We finished dressing our wounds, and then I poured myself a water. I downed the entire glass without taking a breath.
“You can OD on water, you know.” Cristina was standing behind me, a hand at her hip. She had an attitude, but that was one of the reasons I liked her. Just seventeen years old, she’d been living on the street for almost a year. Despite my offers of assistance, which turned into pleas for her to find a more permanent home, she told me she enjoyed the freedom of the street. There was no arguing with her, that much I knew. Why? Because she reminded me of myself at that age. A rebel with many causes. She’d run away from home after being gang-raped by her mom’s boyfriend and his buddy. I’d lived through similar hellish situations during my youth as a system baby. The number of foster homes I’d lived in? Seventeen.
“Sorry. I was just thirsty.” I poured water for the two girls. “On your way up, did either of you happen to see a man over six feet tall, in jeans and a white ball cap?”
They looked at each other, then back at me, and shook their heads in tandem.
“Why?” Cristina asked.
“No reason.”
“There’s always a reason. That’s what you once told me.”
“Drop it,” I said, gesturing to the chairs around my tiny kitchen table.
I could feel Cristina’s gaze as we made ourselves comfortable. I knew she wanted to ask me more questions about what I’d seen. O
r what I thought I’d seen. And that was the point she would make—I was getting paranoid. I preferred to label it as being cautious and aware of my surroundings, like any single lady living in the city should be.
While Cristina slouched in her chair, acting like she owned the place, Anika held her glass of water with two hands, her dark eyes in sharp contrast to her skin, pale and creamy as milk.
“We don’t have many clients as young as you,” I said, hoping to kickstart the conversation.
A brief turn of her lips, and she glanced away. It almost seemed like she was hesitant to be there, and I turned to Cristina.
“Anika’s not sure what to make of everything. I think she’s a bit shell-shocked. By the way, she’s my age, seventeen.”
The girl nodded, sipped on her water.
“So, here’s the deal,” Cristina said, sitting up.
“Hold on, I’m sure Anika would rather tell me. Right?”
She nodded and set her glass on the table. Her shoulders and chest lifted as she took a deep breath, and her brow furrowed. Preparing herself. “It’s my parents. I think something might have happened to them.”
“Happened?” I said.
She leaned on the table. She didn’t wear an ounce of makeup, but I did notice a small pair of brass earrings. They appeared to be some type of musical instruments, maybe guitars.
“I think they might have been kidnapped,” she said, holding her gaze on me.
For a moment, I couldn’t determine if she was sad, angry, or indifferent. After a few seconds, her eyes glistened, and a single tear rolled down the side of her cheek. She quickly swiped her hand across her face.
“I’m sorry.”
A quick head nod, and then she interlaced her fingers, as if that brought her comfort and strength.
“I’m not sure what to say, Anika. Cristina and I aren’t really equipped to investigate active kidnapping cases, certainly not for grown adults.”
She turned her palms to the ceiling and peered at Cristina, who didn’t waste a moment to jump all over my case.
“Are you kidding me? Don’t you recall what we did to catch the man who killed two people and raped me over and over again?” Her face became flush with anger as she poked herself in the chest.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 26
