Her moans of “Oh God’ fed me, and the desk rocked and the half-filled whiskey glasses clanked as I slammed into her.
Was I hurting her? I didn’t know. But until the second of fulfillment, it didn’t occur to me. Exasperated, I fell onto her. We both breathed heavily.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I asked.
“No. Not at all.” She tried to catch her breath. “I need a drink, though.”
“Me, too.” I reached down for my pants.
She handed me a drink. “Are we done?”
I brought the glass to my lips. “It depends.”
“On?”
“If you’ll do me a favor,” I spoke breathlessly.
“What is that?”
“Take off your dress, go put that coat on, and walk back through the door.” I gave an up of my head and finished my drink.
She produced an ornery smile, set down her glass, and walked to the door, lifting her coat as she did. “Give me a second.”
My mouth was dry and I hurriedly had another drink as I made my way behind my desk. Sitting there, waiting.
She knocked.
“Come in.” I said.
She stepped in wearing the coat. “I’m not late, am I?” she asked seductively.
“Absolutely not. Have a seat.”
“I think I’ll have my session on the couch.” She walked over, lay down, and lifted her leg while relaxing.
She had taken off the dress. I could see that. Smiling and grabbing my notebook, I pulled a chair over and created a reality of one of my many fantasies.
Was it a mistake? Absolutely. My mind justified it as my illness getting the best of me, and I just didn’t care.
Chapter Thirty-One – Sharon
My reasons for throwing myself and seducing the good doctor were not purely sexual. They were about control. If I had him in the palm of my hand, then I was able to control him. Sexual chemistry is a powerful thing. I strived to attach that to Desmond.
He was easy. Too easy. He played like putty and folded with my first touch. Perhaps I was right in my assumption that he was attracted to me.
There was something especially kinky about Desmond Andrews. I knew playing that card with him would make him vulnerable. He liked sex. He thrived on it more than any man I’d ever encountered and had a teenage enthusiasm and seemingly insatiable appetite.
I handled it.
I needed to know about Pam. What they spoke of, where his thoughts were. I needed him under my spell of lust to control him, implant things in his mind, and make him turn on his own patient.
That was my plan.
I didn’t intend to be his plaything for several hours. It was if he had this cabinet full of fantasies waiting to unleash and I was the ‘dam breaker’ and he gushed forth … in more ways than one.
Would I meet him again?
Absolutely. Not because the sex was mind blowing. It wasn’t. I had better and I had worse. I’d meet him again as his reward for unknowingly giving me information.
It happened the second time he had me bent over his desk. The first time the office was too dark, he was rough, getting out that first round of ambition. Plus he hovered over me.
The second time, though, he was too busy examining my posterior. I was bent over; he was on his knees probing with his mouth and hands. I squirmed for the effect, wiggled some to keep him down there, because in his haste he didn’t realize he left a folder on his desk. One of the few items that didn’t fly to the floor.
The folder had Pam’s name on it and inside were printed sheets of news stories. He had little sheets of paper tossed in there as well. I smiled. One of them was Justin’s phone number and a name written. Stacy. I knew that name.
I had to encourage him to continue until I was done looking. “Keep going, baby, that feels so good.” I quietly flipped a page.
“God, I’m ready to take you again,” he said.
“Just a little more. It feels …” Fuck! I stopped talking when I saw it. Richie’s father’s address. Why? Why was it there? Rich, Justin, Stacy, murders and deaths of people I knew and could be connected to. Was the good doctor finally seeing the truth about Pam and putting it all together? I could only hope. I tried to make heads or tails out of the scribbled handwritten notes, but it was difficult. Desmond took my sudden silence as a sign of pleasure.
I was so engrossed in what I read or tried to read, I hadn’t a clue what all he was doing down there. He was having fun and staying busy, out of my way.
With his groan of, “I can’t hold back,” I quickly shut the folder, moved it aside, and ‘bucked up’ for the ride.
I let Desmond do what he needed to do to me, but the whole time I was poised there, I thought of what I had to do.
Chapter Thirty-Two - Pam
There were two reasons I went to Vito Electronics. They had a sale on computers, and it also was the former body shop that was below Marion Blake’s apartment.
“So you think this price will be good next week?” I asked the salesman.
“Yeah, this is the normal price. In fact, we may be having a sale on a different model.”
“That’d be wonderful. I …” Paused and pointed upward. “I saw the apartment upstairs is for rent.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Couldn’t get me to live there if it were free.”
“Why is that?”
He looked around the store. “A woman was murdered there years ago. People say it’s haunted. Hell, I know it is. There are times I hear footsteps and I know no one is there.”
I shivered with a chill that I got from his story. “Maybe she isn’t resting in peace.”
“They never caught who did it. This store used to be an auto body place. But they moved right after the murder because of the stigma. It really hurt their business.”
“At least they didn’t go out of business,” I said.
“No, they’re actually a few blocks down the road.” He shrugged. “It’s a real interesting story. You ought to look it up on the Internet.”
“I’ll have to do that.” I didn’t tell him that I had already looked into it, that he aided me with the information that I needed.
The story printed about Marion Blake told about her body being discovered by the downstairs auto body man long after she had been killed.
He had noticed he hadn’t seen her. He thought at first something had happened with the pregnancy, but after she missed paying her rent and the landlord asked the guys to keep an eye out for her, the auto body guy, Leon, went to check.
Ironically, he was the number one suspect because he frequently made late-night trips to the garage to work. In his testimony, he said that one night he heard arguing. Women arguing. He didn’t think much of it. He recalled the date because of the car he was working on and that led them to accuse me.
The article didn’t mention me by name, but it said that they couldn’t make the charges stick.
I wondered if Leon was still working for the auto body place; it was worth a shot, and during the short walk a few blocks down the street, I came up with my reasons for seeking Leon.
At first I asked if it was the same shop that was previously located down the street. When they said it was, I took a shot in the dark and asked if Leon still worked there.
He did.
The manager called Leon to the front. He was in his fifties, a little gray. He wanted a cigarette, so he gladly stepped outside with me. I told him I was glad he still worked there; he said he had job security because his brother owned the shop.
I gave a fake name, Lola, and said I was a writer working on an unsolved murder book and came across the one from years ago.
Immediately, he grew skittish and stepped back. He stared at me.
“No, listen, I’m not here because you were at one time a suspect.”
“Okay,” he stated. “Then why are you here?”
“Witness.”
He smirked, and his lips fiddled with the cigarette. “Yeah, well, my witness testimony didn�
��t mean squat now, did it?”
“Why do you think that was?” I asked.
“One, because I was accused, and two, I was always drunk back then. No one took me seriously. That girl that was killed was a really nice girl. Very nice.”
“I’m sure she was.”
“She was,” he snapped.
“They said you heard voices and arguing?”
He nodded. “Women, yes. I was under the stairs outside having a smoke and beer. Hiding, you know, in case my wife drove by. I saw the woman. I saw her. She walked up the steps to Marion’s apartment.” He nodded again at me. “All dolled up, high heels, short skirt, big hair, and I could smell her perfume.”
“Did you give this description to the police?”
“Yep, I did.” He tossed his cigarette. “But I didn’t know what was said when she knocked on the door, because I went back inside. The arguing was loud and then it stopped. I didn’t hear any screaming. If I had, I would have called the police right away. In fact, I vowed I would call the police if I ever saw her again.”
“It’s been years. Do you think you would recognize her?”
“Absolutely, without a doubt. I looked up those steps. I saw her face. She was hot. I’d recognize her.” He winked. “What did you say your name was?”
“Lola. Lola Andrews.”
“You live around here or you just passing through town?”
“I just moved here.”
“Well, maybe you can stop by again.” He winked. “You and I can go out.”
I smiled politely. “I may. You’ve been helpful. Thank you.”
“No. Thank you.”
We shook hands; he held on to mine a little longer. And I walked away. He seemed like a hard working and nice enough man. Maybe after it was all said and done, after Sharon was away for good, then I’d take him up on his offer.
He deserved it. He was a key witness that no one took seriously, and he said he’d recognize her anywhere.
I needed him to see Sharon. I needed him to indentify her to authorities. I was so close, I just had to figure out how I was going to get her to the auto shop or get a picture to show Leon.
It would happen. I was determined.
Chapter Thirty-Three - Desmond Andrews
In the time I had seen her at the institute and post release, Pam had shown no true enthusiasm. She lacked the energy to produce excitement. But when she came to my office that day, if I hadn’t known better I would have sworn she was on some sort of drug.
Exuberant and bouncing, she could hardly contain her glee.
My day, however, before she walked in, was quite interesting. My thoughts were consumed with the events of the previous nights with Sharon. So much so that I had my receptionist clear most of my schedule. I felt it unfair to be in the wrong frame of mind.
I made at stop at the hospital to check on Miss Possession. Incidentally, there wasn’t a brain tumor, and she still continued to thrash about, spewing obscenities, but despite the fact that she was helpless, bound, and most of the time exposed, not a single arousal or fantasy hit me about her.
I was stuck on Sharon.
It was good and bad for me.
I went through several phases, guilt, sadness, remorse, but anytime the night popped into my mind, the guilt went out the window. Several times I started to call James, but I stopped.
Pam would be the test.
I was sitting in deep thought, looking at my desk where the polish had been slightly removed in the shape of an ass. I reviewed the night in my mind and wondered if anyone would notice there was an butt mark there. Two perfect cheeks.
My fingers glazed across the blemish, and just as I started to grow aroused, Pam knocked on the door and entered.
Suffice to say, I remained seated.
I was worried that I couldn’t clear my mind, then she started to gush. Her words were like an instant high dose of saltpeter.
“You’re not going to believe this. I found him. I found him. I found him.”
“Slow down,” I beckoned her. “You are obviously very excited. What’s going on?”
“I can barely catch my breath. I already told Stacy and Justin. Everyone is thrilled.”
“About what?”
“I found a witness. A witness that can end this all.”
I leaned back in my chair. “A witness to what?”
She snickered. “Murder. Marion Blake’s murder.”
“I’m sorry, forgive me. Who is Marion Blake?”
The smile left her face for a moment, then returned. “Unsolved murder number three. I was a suspect in the murder, but they couldn’t make it stick. I happened to be in Hartford at the time, and I thought that was the only reason. But here, there was a witness. He heard them arguing the night of the murder. He saw the woman go into the apartment. Of course, they didn’t believe him because he was drunk and no day could be pinpointed as the day of the murder.”
“Pam, just because you happened to be in the same city as a murder is no reason to be suspect. There would have to be some sort of motive.”
“There was,” she said. “She was having an affair with Richie.”
“You knew this?”
She nodded. “But Sharon did, too. I found him today. I found the witness. I talked to him.”
“Pam, listen, this may not pan out the way …”
“He described her,” Pam interrupted me. “He described Sharon to a tee. Said he’d know her a mile away.”
“Really.” Suddenly, my attention was caught. A man witness to an old murder can remember the face of the supposed murderer? Authorities dismissed it because he was a drunk, according to Pam.
“If we can get him to identify Sharon with my testimony of that night, it can put her away.”
“What is your testimony, Pam? What do you know about the murder?”
“Nothing. But I know Sharon’s state of mind. She was upset about Marion. Wanted to find her, seek her out, and confront her. I thought she was protecting me. Had I known she was also having an affair with Richie, it would have made sense.”
“How do you get this man with the alleged photographic mind to identify her?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Without putting him in danger, maybe call Sharon out. Find her. Get her to go there? Damn it. If I only had a picture. Maybe I’ll find one. I’ll get a hold of my high school year book. Wonder if that would help.”
I muttered that it could, and she spewed forth about this witness, where he worked and his name. She talked about the case for most of our session.
I listened. I really did, and then after she left, my mind went to her quest for a picture.
It flashed back to the night before …
“Give me that.” I reached out for Sharon. I was tipsy at that moment; we drank a lot. I was dressed, putting my things in my briefcase. She of course dallied. Not even getting dressed.
She laughed, tossing back her head and pulling my phone from my reach. “This is a fancy phone.”
“It’s an expensive fancy phone.”
“I’m not looking through it, I’m …” She was sitting on my desk, bare bottomed. She rolled away from me, spread her legs, and aimed the phone between them. “Giving you a visual for later.”
“I can’t have that on my phone.” I stumbled to a sloppy stand.
She went camera crazy, snapping pictures of her breasts. Playfully teasing me and sitting in the chair. “How about this memory?” Again, legs spread wide, she took another picture. I think I heard it click three times. “How about a full frontal nudity shot?”
I walked to her, held out my hand.
She stood from the chair and hurried to my desk.
“Sharon, stop.”
I caught her and grabbed for the phone. As I pulled she followed in a seductive manner. Struggling in fun. As I gained control of my camera, I heard it snap another picture. I didn’t think anything of it; I just tossed it in my briefcase and told her she needed to get dressed.
&nb
sp; The pictures.
I had every intention of deleting them and oddly didn’t even think about them. They had to be blurry. Pulling out my phone, I opened the picture folder.
She had taken a lot.
My phone photo collection consisted of scenery, food, but there was a string of photos of Sharon.
Some of them … quite close and nice. But the one I was looking for was there. The last picture taken.
It was a clear shot of Sharon’s face. It wasn’t blurry or dark; it was perfect. Her hair was kind of tossed, lipstick faded, makeup in need of a touch up, and she held this pouty, seductive look. As much as I hated the thought of anyone seeing the picture because it clearly screamed, ‘I just fucked this woman’, it had to be seen. At least once. By one person.
Leon was the only name I had to go by and the name of the auto body shop. Granted, Leon wasn’t a common name, and I guessed there wasn’t more than one working there.
The shop was getting ready to close when I arrived just after six. In fact, the man was locking the door when I pulled up.
He looked over his shoulder with a ‘blocking out the sun’ smile and finished locking the door.
“We’re closed. If you need something you can have it towed here,” he said.
“Thank you, I will. I just need to know when Leon is available. Heard he’s the best.”
“I am.” He smiled. “I’m Leon.”
“I’m Dr. Andrews. Desmond Andrews.” I handed him my card. “Hold on to that.”
“Okay.” He read the card. “You’re a shrink. What’s up?” Then he groaned. “I get it.”
“What?”
“Bill. He’s going through that custody battle. I won’t speak against him. He isn’t crazy. He isn’t a sex addict. He had that affair because his wife is a bitch.”
I laughed. “No. Trust me, sex addiction is a common excuse when men get busted cheating. It’s more complicated than that.”
“You would know.”
I wanted to say, ‘More than you realize’, but I didn’t. “Actually,” I pulled out my phone, “I need you to look at a picture.”
Pam Page 12
