Drop Dead Perfect

by Rick Murcer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 by Rick Murcer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477827734

  ISBN-10: 1477827730

  Cover design by Stewart Williams

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014957293

  To all of the hardworking law enforcement folks, who risk everything every day.

  Thank you.

  To the troops, who protect this still-great nation at immense personal risk.

  Thank you.

  To JC, Who keeps me where I need to be and is my eternal hope.

  Thank you.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Unfolding his hands, he adjusted the dark mask, then stepped toward the chair. The archaic boards of the slightly bowed floor moaned their displeasure as he made his way to her. From behind, he leaned near her ear. “Have I told you how beautiful you are? How just the thought of your name or the sound of your voice makes my heart jump?” he asked.

  Sliding his hand over her bare shoulder, he gathered the scent of Clara’s long black hair and then kissed her softly. She immediately flinched and wrenched away from him. Then she began sobbing again, louder than the last time, more desperately.

  Standing erect, he pulled away from the love of his life, puzzled. He struggled to understand her actions, her distance.

  Is she truly distraught, or is she hiding her real feelings? Is she—dare he think it—rejecting his adoration?

  Weren’t they lovers? Hadn’t they talked for hours on end? They’d laughed and confessed those deep, dark, overwhelming secrets that lovers share.

  His frown deepened. Hadn’t he done everything for her? He’d fed her. Kept her warm. Lavished beautiful clothes upon her, some of them as exquisite as anything seen in Paris. Yet she was doing it again.

  Pulling away from him at this most intimate of moments. He considered himself a patient man, but he didn’t appreciate this from her. Not at all. She knew how much he hated the incessant sobbing that had met his advances lately. He loathed it. They’d discussed that very subject at length, and she had assured him it was just a phase and that she’d do better. Only, here they were again.

  He bit his lip, fighting to contain his wrath. Exhaling, the way he’d been taught, he made a tremendous effort to focus on patience, love, and understanding. He must not react to her apparent denunciation of him. Everyone had bad days and melancholy moments, yes? Would he not be better served by exhibiting patience?

  Gently grasping her shoulders, he closed his eyes, thinking only of her face, her laugh, her sparkling, dark eyes, the curve of her lips, and the way she admired him. Good God, he was a lucky man. The luckiest—and he knew it. She was worth the effort required to control himself.

  Slowly his anger subsided. At least as much as it ever did. He exhaled. Good. He loved her and wanted her to know that. When he expressed his anger while losing control, as he was helplessly compelled to do . . . It never went well for the target of that anger. He’d learned, the hard way, that actions derived from anger didn’t accomplish anything. It was difficult to speak to others, especially to her, when his rage ruled his emotions. His therapist had been right about that, if not about everything else.

  Gazing down at her, he watched carefully as her hands opened and closed against the padded arms of the dilapidated chair. The blue velour upholstery showed the deep tracks of her fingernails, and despite his best efforts, his rage returned, then deepened. She was past anxious. She seemed angry, inconsolable, or, worse, terrified. It could be difficult, even for him, to recognize the subtle difference in anxious emotion.

  Moving slowly to the front of the chair, he kneeled and gently placed his hand on her leg. She jumped, and her head jerked away from him. He reached for her face, and their eyes met. His Clara looked at him through swollen eyes, unable to hide her true thoughts. She was afraid, no debating that. But why? Why be afraid of her most intimate friend and cherished lover? Her protector. It made no sense.

  “Please. I just want to go . . .” she began, her voice unsteady and lacking the strength of character that had been her trademark.

  “Shhh. Don’t speak. You’re upset, and you might say something you’ll ultimately regret. We’ve already talked about this. You can’t go out in public until you get a grip on yourself. I only want what’s best for you, Clara. You know that, don’t you?”

  She stared at him, a new rush of tears cascading down her flushed cheeks. Her gaze fixed on his, and he felt his heart jump. She was incredibly special . . . and all his.

  “I’m trying to hold it together, for you, but it’s so difficult when I’m like . . . this,” she said.

  He looked down as she wiggled her fingers and then her toes. Reaching, he felt the smoothness of her left foot, and then he slowly advanced to her ankle. Her skin was like nothing he’d ever felt before. How could anything match her?

  He reached the black leather straps that held her leg in place. The restraint matched the one on her right leg and the two others on her wrists. Not his first choice for his beloved Clara, but he had the strength to do what was necessary, to do the right thing, even if it hurt. Even that.

  “Darling Clara. I have to keep you like this until you can learn to act like the woman I fell in love with. You were so carefree, so full of life. You drove me wild with—”

  “You’re crazy. You know that, right?” she said in a venomous tone he hadn’t heard her use before.

  “You’re not thinking straight, Clara, my love. You need rest.”

  Tw
isting away from him, trying to rid herself of his touch, she exploded. “I’m not your love, you delusional monster. We’d never met until you—”

  “That’s enough,” he said quietly. “You aren’t allowed to talk to me like that. No one is. Do you understand me?”

  He wanted to convey patience and trust, but he could no longer quell his anger. His rage welled from deep inside where it knew no master, demanding only sweet release.

  Why is this so hard? Love should be joyful, happy, and easy.

  “Perhaps you need another lesson in manners,” he suggested.

  Clara’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward with defiance etched on her face. “You’re pretty brave when you have me tied up. You won’t even remove that hideous mask. Coward. Let me loose, you son of a bitch, and then we’ll see who gets the lesson. You won’t get away with this. You need help, you sick prick.”

  Then she spit in his face.

  Before Clara could lean further away from him, he moved swiftly so that he stood behind her. He caught her head in his hands, one on each side of her chin. She’d gone much too far.

  “Wait. Wait. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “Shut up, Clara, my dear. Do you understand?”

  He felt her head move up and down in his hands. Her sobbing began again.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with the women in my life. I give them everything, and they treat me like rotten meat,” he said, whispering through his teeth. His grip tightened, and she yelped.

  His anger flared at the sound of her renewed sobbing. Enough was truly enough. But he had a solution, for both of them. He’d thought long and hard about the best solution to their little quandary in the event they were unable to take care of her mental deficiencies to his satisfaction. As sad as that reality was, it was obvious to him they’d reached that point. She no longer wanted him. He was lovesick, but no fool. Who wants someone who doesn’t want them in return?

  “All right, my love. I’ll release you to whatever life you desire, but I want you to answer a question for me first. Does that meet with your approval, darling Clara?”

  She nodded subtly against his grip.

  “Splendid. Here is your question: Who loves you more than I?”

  Relaxing his hands, he awaited her answer.

  There was a minute of prolonged silence. He felt her body shift in her chair. Truth could be an elusive riddle. He wondered if she’d recognize it.

  She inhaled. “No one, my love. No one loves me more than you.”

  Stepping back from her, he stared at the woman who could have made the rest of his journey on this planet a magnificent one.

  “Enchanting answer. Fantastic answer. I love how that makes me feel. You’ve done well.”

  He quickly moved back to her and then snapped her neck with a powerful flick of his hands.

  Kissing her on the cheek, he stroked her hair.

  He smiled.

  “But it was the wrong one, my love.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Ellen Harper looked at her French manicure, removed a speck of dirt from a nail, and sighed. She hated meetings like the one she was waiting for. And God knew she’d had more than her fair share of them. People were just too damn sensitive these days. Her best friend—survivalist, preacher, gun shop owner, and right-wing zealot Kate Mortimore—always said that people in this country should learn to toughen up and not take things so personally, especially if they’ve asked someone to be honest. Although she and Kate had their differences, her friend was basically right about that. People didn’t care so much for that “the truth will set you free” line of thinking. That’s why Ellen was here, about to get another dose of butt chewing. One question, one honest answer, and two punches had landed her in yet another meeting with the boss. Hell, she hadn’t even swung first this time.

  Ellen reached up and gingerly touched the light bruise on her jaw. Apparently the answers to some questions came with “don’t be honest, make me feel good” conditions. How was she supposed to know that Sanchez hadn’t wanted an honest answer but just an answer that made her feel good? How in hell was she supposed to know the difference? People, particularly women, beg for honesty from everyone, then get their panties in a knot when they get just that. No wonder men are clueless when it comes to saying the right things. If she were a man, she’d need a manual, too.

  “Be real, my ass,” she said.

  That ugly, sequin-covered red dress not only showed too much boob but also really did make Detective Bella Sanchez look fat. Really fat. No self-respecting woman of that size should be caught dead in such a monstrosity designed by some skinny-assed designer for size-two women—sickly women, in Ellen’s mind. She didn’t think Sanchez’s left leg would fit into a size two. Maybe not even a six. Never mind the whole titanic breast thing. Sanchez hardly needed to have half her cleavage showing to make the point that she was stacked.

  She glanced at her own chest. She wasn’t small, but she was no double-D like Sanchez.

  The two of them weren’t the best of friends exactly, but they’d gotten along well. Forensic techs, especially supervisors like herself, worked with all the detectives, so the two of them had spoken a few times without any issue. But when Sanchez had walked into that ballroom—more like waddled—and asked Ellen the question of the ages–“Does this dress make me look fat?”—Ellen thought she was doing Sanchez a service by not letting her embarrass herself. It was the least she could do for a colleague. Ellen would have expected the same. Maybe she could have used a different word. Huge, in hindsight, had been a bit harsh.

  A roundhouse punch to Ellen’s chin and a responding right cross to Sanchez’s eye later, she was in deep trouble and the detective wasn’t. How in hell does that happen? Just because Ellen had been involved in one or two of those so-called conflicts before didn’t mean she was a troublemaker, did it? The guy in the bar had it coming. Maybe it wasn’t his fault he looked like her ex, but he’d crossed the line by touching her ass, and she’d had every right to deck him. So she did. And the snippy parking enforcement aide had no business speaking to her like that. Ellen had only wanted the woman to show some professional respect for one of Chicago’s finest.

  The heavy wooden door to her left opened. Captain Harvey Patterson stood in the doorway. His jowly face was red, as usual, but this time the beet color extended past the big man’s thinning hairline. Not good.

  “Harper. Get your ass in here. I don’t have all damn day,” he said.

  Getting up, she brushed the lint from her blue sweater, flipped her long auburn hair from her face, and crossed the threshold into his office—the gates of Hell, she thought.

  Three steps in, she stopped and then jumped as he slammed the door. She could already feel a chunk of her ass somewhere between his teeth.

  Big Harv Patterson rumbled to his desk and sat in his high-back leather chair, motioning for her to sit in one of the matching meeting chairs directly in front of him. She did and then waited. He shuffled two files, then restacked some CSI reports, unstacked them, and slid one pile to one corner of his desk and another stack to the opposite corner. He piled them all on top of each other, moving them directly to the middle of the desk, and then back to separate corners. All without speaking or looking at her. She crossed her legs nervously, the denim of her jeans making the only sound in the large office overlooking the Chicago skyline.

  A double-stack move like that was a rare and surefire sign he was as upset as his face advertised. Another not good thing. He’d been pissed at her before, but this might be the top of the mountain.

  Suddenly the files exploded from one corner of the desk, scattering in the air to her right. The multicolored papers looked like large pieces of New Year’s confetti as they fluttered to the floor. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to leave. She didn’t scare easily—she never had—but she’d be lying if she said Big Harv hadn’t co
mmanded her complete attention with one sweep of his meaty hand.

  He stared, frustration reflecting in his big brown eyes, but still he said nothing. She stared back, hoping to appear braver than she felt.

  After sixty more seconds of the stare from Hell, she couldn’t take it any longer. Sitting like this reminded her of waiting for her divorce to go through. She’d felt helpless to stop that process, being forced to settle for whatever Joel had dictated she accept after ten years of marriage. And now she was at another man’s mercy, this time regarding her professional life.

  Her anger roared back before she could stop herself. She swept the other stack of files off the desk and watched the confetti show repeat itself.

  She leaned over the desk, two feet from Big Harv’s face, never flinching. She was tired of being the scapegoat in these situations. Yeah, her anger had gotten the best of her a time or two over the last fourteen months since the “incident.” But she wasn’t the only person to get their nerves jangled in this business. As her old man had always said, it took two to roll in the mud.

  The big man furrowed his brow, intensifying his stare.

  “Feel better?” he asked softly.

  As quickly as the rage appeared, it left. That’s how this beast growled. She hated not being able to harness her temper, but how do you control something that you don’t know is coming? Somehow, Big Harv’s words helped.

  “Yeah, I do. How about you?”

  “Don’t get flip, smart-ass,” he said. “And no, I don’t. I’d feel better if I didn’t have to see your butt sitting in that chair every few weeks because you can’t control your tongue and that damn temper. It gets old, Ellie, really old. You’re the single biggest reason my blood pressure’s up.”

  “This wasn’t my—”

  “I didn’t say you could speak, did I? I know what happened. Lucky for your ass, there were witnesses. But that doesn’t excuse your reaction to her. I told you the same thing when you punched that parking cop for writing you a ticket.”

  “Hey, Detective Sanchez put her hands on me first. I don’t like that and don’t—”