On to the next one. “Six years served for sexual assault of a minor,” I said out loud. My pulse raced as I clicked on his name.
Current residence: Las Vegas, Nevada.
His mug shot told me he was the guy. While he could be in Vegas, I also knew the information could be outdated. Possibly many years old. I adjusted my search to focus on any Jesse Steeles living in Vegas.
It only took me another ten minutes before I hit pay dirt.
“A Man of Steele Flaunts his Johnson.” This was the blurb on the cover of a porn video released just a month ago. Jesse Steele’s likeness was just above the description. The name of the movie was Steele Johnson: The Legend Grows.
“Huh. The child molester can finally make a living at being a pervert,” I said out loud. After getting past the disturbing and criminal behavior from years ago, I could picture Zahera nearly doubling over with laughter at the name of the movie.
“I might need to figure out a way to share this one with her, Zorro,” I said as he rubbed his ear against my leg.
But how would I go about doing that? Zahera was inquisitive and sharp. She would pepper me with questions, I’d have to create some type of bizarre web of lies, or just spill out the truth.
I wasn’t ready to tell her yet.
Putting a hand to my chin, I slumped in my chair, thinking if there were any way Jesse could be a killer. And not just a killer, but THE killer. Would he have blamed me for his foolish behavior? It was possible, at least in his warped mind. But it was Maggie who had called the cops, made sure he was punished for his acts. She had been the vindictive one. I was nothing more than a clueless kid.
Leaning forward, a yawn escaped my mouth. I typed in a note next to Jesse’s name to call his so-called Vegas production company to try to get an alibi for the times that both murders took place.
I strummed my fingers across the table, and Zorro quickly hopped up and licked my hand. He thought I was summoning him to give him a treat. “Fat boy, you need a diet not a late-night snack.” My foot touched one of his toys, a small stuffed rabbit, its pouch filled with catnip. I picked it up and tossed it across the room.
Zorro hopped off the table, paused to stretch until he quivered, and then meandered over to the rabbit. He was tired. So was I.
As I grabbed the lid of the laptop, my eyes picked up the name of Kim Wheeler from my list of PALs. “Hold on, Zorro.” I bit into my lower lip and pushed the lid back open, forcing myself to play out the exact scenario that led to the end of my stay in Kim’s home.
Smoker’s breath. That was always my first recollection of Kim. I could smell her coming from fifty feet away. In fact, her dependence on cigarettes was how our so-called partnership started, me creating a diversion to lure store clerks away from the front counter and then Kim stealing as many cartons of cigarettes that her oversized coat could hold.
But her addiction to nicotine was the least of her issues—and since I was her foster daughter, mine as well. She would host wild parties with an assortment of drugs available for anyone to use, including kids. At age twelve, I wanted no part of the drugs or the party scene in general. But I was told to be a nice, helpful host and do what she and the adults asked. If I complied, she and her husband would let me stay up late for the next week, eating junk food.
The behavior of the adults scared the shit out of me. I watched people snort cocaine, put needles in their arms, then use the same needle over and over again. They smoked anything that could be rolled up, and then they ate like pigs after their bodies were ravaged by drugs. One late night, Kim gave me a twenty and told me to run down to the corner store and pick up every bag of Funyuns I could find. She said I could buy chewing gum with any leftover money.
In the store I found ten bags of the oniony snack. It took me two trips to carry the bags up to the front. There were so many on the counter, one bag dropped to the floor. When I leaned down to pick it up, a plastic baggie of weed fell out of my coat pocket. Before I could slip it back into my pocket, a cop who’d just come through the front door, snatched it off the floor and held it to the light. I’ll never forget his scowl—his eyes drawn so closely together I thought he only had a single eyebrow. A monobrow.
I had recalled putting the baggie of weed in my pocket just before I left. One of Kim’s friends had asked me to bring it to him, but I’d gotten distracted and left the party with the baggie in my pocket.
I uttered a four-letter word to the cop and tried to run out of the store. He caught up to me and made me take him back to my foster home. That was when it got real ugly. The cop called for backup, and then Kim went ballistic, saying I’d purposely found the cop to ensure she was arrested and sent off to prison. Even with handcuffs on her wrists, she berated me in front of everyone and vowed she’d come find me once she got out.
“There you have it,” I said. “Motive.” I made a final note next to her name, along with an action item for the next day to look up her current status in life. Had she learned her lesson and was now focusing her energy to help those around her, or was she huddled under a bridge doing meth with three other addicts? I realize I’d purposely avoided the obvious third option. She could be behind this killing spree, working to methodically shatter my life. Until she killed me. But I was almost certain the person who’d kidnapped me was not Kim. She had the figure of a refrigerator, a strong grip, and a good mean streak. But the height difference was significant. Vendetta Man was probably six-four or six-five, while Kim was no more than five-five.
Could she have hired someone to do this for her?
That unfortunate thought only ignited an endless stream of questions, which led to a splitting headache. I curled up on my bed, covered my face with two pillows, and tried to drown out all of the voices fighting for supremacy in my mind, including one that wondered what Saul was doing at that very moment.
16
He couldn’t stop staring into the darkness, only a slice of light cutting across the edge of Ivy’s desk. He’d been pacing for the last hour, stopping every roundtrip to look into the monitor. All he saw was Ivy sitting at her desk, tapping away on her computer. Occasionally, she stopped to pay attention to her cat.
She had seemed far too calm for his liking. He’d hoped for histrionics. Sobbing so much that her nose would turn red. And then she would crawl up into a ball in the corner of the room and just tremble, with fear rendering her body useless.
Even with no audio on the two hidden cameras, it was rather obvious she wasn’t on the verge of slitting her own wrists just to avoid his inevitable return to end her life. He’d underestimated her resolve. He’d thought that once he killed her former coworker and left her body right next to Ivy’s apartment, the prissy little bitch would crash into a million pieces.
“Fuck,” he yelled. One of the rats in the cage shifted its beady eyes toward him. “Fuck you too.”
He marched into the kitchen, pulled a box of chocolate cereal off a shelf, and started shoveling the processed sugar into his mouth. Two, three, four handfuls. As cereal rained onto the floor, some of it bounced into the rat cage. Leaving a trail of cereal, he walked back over to his monitor. The lights were still out in Ivy’s apartment. She had settled in for the night. But not before spending a lot of time behind her computer.
He could feel her closing in. He could practically smell her. Images pummeled his mind, and he swung around to glance at the wall by the front door. His mouth watered once he spotted the picture of Ivy bent over, her taut body ready for the taking. As usual, his dick wasn’t able to follow through on everything his mind envisioned. Which is why he’d developed so many other methods of pleasure—all with the goal of destroying Ivy, physically and mentally.
When he’d hatched this plan while sitting in his prison cell, he had no idea the torture sessions could be so fulfilling. The planning, the anticipation leading up to each session, and then the implementation…each provided such gratification. He’d actually been able to follow through on something. It was one of
the few things in his life that made him feel proud. Killing Eileen and Joanna had left him tingling inside. He’d forgotten about the high that accompanied choking out a life with his bare hands, even if his little rodent friends were the closers.
He tossed the box of cereal on the table and began to pace the floor again, his mind composed as he thought back to the events of the day. He’d seen Ivy leave with that guy friend of hers. He must have been the one who’d sent the roses.
“Asshole trying to steal my thunder,” he said, his temper flaring again.
He forced out two breaths and refocused his thoughts. While initially he didn’t think this guy friend was worthy of his time, he now wondered if Ivy was more smitten than he’d thought. But how? He’d been close enough to see them leave earlier in the evening, but they weren’t even holding hands. And then when they returned, the guy didn’t even walk her to the door. Apparently he hadn’t been invited.
The ultimate dis.
He ran his fingers down the side of his head. A chewed fingernail snagged a greasy strand of hair, and he cursed again. He thought about how long it had been since he’d actually looked at himself in a mirror…when he wasn’t wearing a mask.
It didn’t matter what he looked like or what he’d become. The time had arrived when sacrifices had to be made. And he was willing to make as many as needed in order for Ivy Nash to pay—and dearly—for altering the direction of his life forever.
Squeaks emanated from the kitchen.
“What the hell kind of trouble have you found now?” he said as he walked back into the kitchen.
“Oh…my.” He was watching a newborn rat being eaten by its mother. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. Maybe the rats had picked up his vibe. While he was generally fond of animals, there was no stopping the natural cycle of life. Some rats ate their own. He was sure they had their reasons.
And so did he.
17
Slurping in a mouthful of warm coffee, I closed my eyes and let the caffeine do its magic.
A horn honked from behind me. “Hush,” I said out loud while glancing in the rearview to see a woman in a Lexus SUV shooting me the middle finger. I didn’t have the time or energy to deal with soccer-mom drama, so I gently pressed the gas and moved Black Beauty west on North Star Boulevard. A low blanket of gray clouds clipped the tops of taller buildings, including the largest in San Antonio, the Tower of the Americas, standing seven hundred fifty feet high. Rain drizzled against the windshield, and my wipers squawked every few seconds to clear the light sprinkle.
The coffee warmed my chest and kickstarted my sleep-deprived brain. My phone buzzed from its spot in my second cup holder as I pulled up to a light. Placing my coffee cup in the other holder, I picked up my phone and read a text from Cristina.
Forgot to tell u last night; pick me up at Palmetto and Iowa
I saw Probandt up ahead. I hooked a quick right and began to circle back to the east side of I-37. As was the norm in weather that wasn’t ideal in San Antonio, traffic sucked, and it took me almost thirty minutes before I pulled up to the curb next to a park. Cristina had a hand on her hip, her thumb over her shoulder.
“Tell me you weren’t hitching for a ride?” I asked as she slowly eased herself into the car. Before she could respond, I popped her with another question. “Ribs still sore?”
She gave me a blank stare for a few seconds, then moved on. “My thumb and all that…I was just trying to get a rise out of you,” she said with a wink. “I guess it worked. So, where are the donuts?”
“Crap. I forgot about that. We can stop and pick some up if you want.”
“That’s okay. Probably not good for my sexy body,” she said with a chuckle. While she had attractive features, it was impossible to tell much more than that under her combination of oversized and skin-tight Goodwill clothes.
I glided away and hit all green lights until we jumped onto I-37 north. That was when I broached the topic about her living arrangements. “Did you sleep in the park last night?”
A loud exhale. “It’s just one night. The weather was fine until this morning. I like the smell of being outdoors.”
“I guess that’s a yes.”
“Ivy, I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Knowing when to get in out of the rain?” I said, raising an eyebrow with a quick glance in her direction.
The double eye roll.
“I’m not trying to call you out; I was simply hoping that you would have found a permanent residence by now. With what I’m paying you, isn’t that enough for you to at least move in with someone in a cheap apartment?”
“Maybe.”
“Are you trying to say I’m not paying you enough?”
“No, you’re being more than fair. I just…you know.”
“I don’t know. Fill me in.”
She squirmed in the seat like a five-year-old sitting on a wood bench. “I’ve been on my own for a while, and I have my own way of doing things. What can I say? I like my privacy.”
“I hear you, but safety trumps privacy, don’t you think?”
She pulled something out of her pocket and held it eye high.
“Is that a switchblade?”
“It’s not just any switchblade. It’s military grade. Can be used by either hand. The blade’s deployment button is accessible on both sides of the handle. It’s made of hardened stainless steel and only weighs—”
“You sound like an infomercial, Cristina. I know it’s smart to protect yourself, but if you don’t put yourself in risky situations, you probably won’t need to use it.”
She drew one leg up to the seat and hugged it as I veered right onto I-35 north. San Marcos was forty-seven miles away, according to the green and white sign.
“I’m not trying to stir up bad memories, Ivy, but you were mugged in the nice park right across from your apartment complex. So, shit can happen no matter how safe you feel.”
“Point taken. But it was also two in the morning. I should have known better.”
How many times had I relived that night? I’d walked through the exact series of events hundreds of times, punishing myself for every misstep I’d made. After weeks of beating myself up, leaving me weary and foul-tempered, something hit me: I could either continue to wallow in my moshpit of self-pity, or turn it into an opportunity to help other women avoid a similar fate. After reviewing the idea with Zahera, she immediately started reaching out to her vast network of women in the greater San Antonio area to look for chances at sharing my message. I was hoping that kind of real-life training and guidance could be expanded to include teenage girls, whom I considered to be in the highest risk group.
Glancing over at Cristina, I could see her lips moving as she studied something on her cell phone. She must have stored the knife back in her pocket. I realized she’d done a masterful job of shifting the narrative of our conversation from her finding a permanent residence to her new shiny object, which apparently could project a magic force field that would repel all evil people who tried to approach her.
“Do you have the specific address of the assisted care facility in San Marcos?” I asked as we hit the ten-mile mark.
“Uh…” She raised a finger, her eyes unable to lift from her phone.
“Are you already starting the search for Anika’s parents in the locations she gave you?” I said, moving around a slower vehicle.
It took a few more seconds before she lifted her eyes. She gave me a silly grin..
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?
“Every third or fourth word, maybe.”
“What’s got your attention?” I nodded toward the phone.
“I’m reading a book. And don’t look so shocked,” she said, pointing a finger my way.
“Not really shocked, just surprised. Pleasantly.”
“You don’t think I’m educated enough to read?” she asked with a zap of attitude.
“You’re bright and resourceful. Two things that most kids don�
��t have, at least not the combination of the two. Which tells me you have what it takes to go back to high school and graduate. How hard can it be?”
Shaking her head, she tucked her phone into her coat pocket. “Take the next exit.” She leaned her elbow against the door and let her chin fall into her hand, staring at the passing trees and old buildings.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“You’re good,” she said, her eyes peering at a used car lot as we zipped by on the frontage road.
Something about school made her not want to go back. Had she been bullied? It was difficult to imagine, given her rather direct, almost confrontational personality. Maybe it was a guy thing. She was so much into just surviving, it was possible she had a complex about interacting with boys her age—all the flirting, dating games.
We parked near the front door, walked in, and found the receptionist. Cristina took the lead. “I made an appointment to see Beatrice Doolittle.”
The woman behind the counter with a blue sweater clinging to her shoulders, plopped a clipboard on the counter. “Fill that out, and then I’ll see if Beatrice is ready to see you.”
“Here you go,” Cristina said, passing the clipboard to me. “I’m not into filling out forms. That’s your department.”
She meandered over to a brass sculpture sitting on a built-in shelf while I filled in the blanks. After jotting down basic information, including our names, I then had to indicate the reason for our visit. I wrote down that we were close friends of Beatrice’s grandniece, Anika, who asked that we check on Beatrice while we were in San Marcos. Sounded believable, and it was the truth…mostly.
We sat in two comfy chairs in the lounge and waited.
“Did you tell Anika we were meeting with her great aunt?”
Cristina rested the spine of a large picture book on her lap. “You know, I might have forgotten to mention that.”
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 33
