Sentencing Sapphire

by Mia Thompson

  Sentencing Sapphire

  A Sapphire Dubois Mystery

  Mia Thompson

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Mia Thompson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  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.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition October 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-454-7

  Also by Mia Thompson

  Sapphire Dubois Mysteries

  Stalking Sapphire

  Silencing Sapphire

  Chapter 1

  The first time it happened, Bennett Rivers told himself he’d never do it again.

  This was a lie. He was hooked the second her life surged through the blade and into him. It just took him a while to accept what he was.

  Bennett took his eyes off the road that snaked through the California vineyards. He beamed at the girl in his passenger seat. She smiled back—warm, sexy, and innocent all at once.

  It had been a lovely first date. She’d been giddy all night and had made this cute, shy titter whenever Bennett took her hand. She was into him. Too bad for her, there wouldn’t be a second date.

  “Are we almost there, Josh?” she asked, bringing a curly lock behind her ear.

  Josh. He had picked a good, trustworthy name on Match. He’d chosen a girl from Christian Mingle a few months back and picked the wrong name on his profile: Jude. It must’ve reminded her of Judas, which automatically made her think he was up to no good. She’d run, but Bennett was faster.

  “Not much farther now.”

  He turned off the main road lined with streetlamps and into the darkness of the graveled country path. “Just a few miles up.”

  “Jeez, it must take you two hours to get to work.”

  “God no, the mall is just off the freeway.”

  Her head cocked. “But your profile said you work at IKEA. The closest IKEA is in Sacramento.”

  Fuck. She was right. He’d made up so many profiles to keep the cops off his trail that he’d mixed up his latest one from Match with one from OkCupid. “Right, I just started a new job.”

  “Oh…” He wasn’t sure she believed him so he switched the conversation to get her mind off the slip, until he pulled up to his cabin.

  “Home sweet home,” he said, helping her out of the car.

  “I don’t know if I’d dare live out here by myself.” She shivered and nodded to the dark crops. “What if a psycho was lurking out there?”

  “I can guarantee you there’s no psycho lurking out there.” Bennett put a protective arm around her shoulder. I’m right here.

  They went inside and he made the tea he’d invited her over for. He didn’t blame her, or any of the others, for coming home with him on the first date. Like most people, they wanted love and they were scared to lose out on the opportunity of a soul mate. Bennett wasn’t particularly good looking, but he fancied himself the type of man a woman could settle for.

  Bennett poured her the tea then excused himself to the bathroom. He grabbed his straight razor, waited a minute, then flushed to make his absence sound legit. He returned to find the kitchen empty and panicked. Had she gotten suspicious after all and bolted the second he closed the bathroom door? That’s what happened with the girl from Christian Mingle.

  He spotted her by the living room window, gazing at the full moon. He exhaled and held the razor behind his back as he approached.

  “The moon looks so much brighter away from the city lights,” she murmured.

  He pushed himself against her back and stroked her full, curly hair. Her hair was the reason he picked her among hundreds of profiles. She, and his other girls, had the same thick, curly hair Jessica Mitchell had in eighth grade.

  Bennett the Degenerate she’d called him. The name still made his blood boil.

  Bennett was a small kid and hadn’t hit his growth spurt until he was sixteen. Until then, Jessica Mitchell, a girl, had beaten him, ridiculed him, and trapped him in too many lockers.

  She once tossed him to the ground with a smirk and shouted: “Look, Bennett the Degenerate pissed his pants!”

  He hadn’t. His soda spilled when she took him down, but it didn’t take long until the rest of the hallway joined in the ridicule. He sat alone at lunch after that day, watching his bully. He fantasized about taking a straight razor to the hair Jessica Mitchell loved to flip so much. After he graduated, the fantasies grew into something else.

  Bennett pushed his nose into his date’s hair, anticipation filling him. He certainly wasn’t that small and tormented boy anymore.

  “Yes, the moon is brighter out here,” he agreed, clenching the razor.

  She sniggered, eyes still on the moon. “You know, when I was a kid my mother used to tell me, ‘Nothing can hurt you as long as the moon is watching over you.’”

  He grinned. Her mother was obviously wrong.

  “My mother was obviously wrong.”

  “Mhm.” He pushed her hair out of the way to kiss her neck and expose her skin for the straight razor. “I bet your mother has the same beautiful hair as you.”

  “She doesn’t… and actually, I just got the perm for you.” Her tone turned cold. “It is the way you like it, isn’t it?”

  His lips pulled from her neck. “What?”

  She turned and Bennett Rivers buckled from the sudden pain in his stomach. He struggled for breath as his eyes drew down. The knife stuck out and blood gushed around its sides. The room swirled around him as Bennett stumbled backwards. His legs gave out and he crumbled to the floor in agony. He felt his life drain away as she stepped over him.

  “Wh-who are you?” Bennett wheezed, losing control of his bladder.

  She watched him in his puddle of piss and blood, her smirk reminiscent of Jessica Mitchell’s.

  “The Serial Catcher.”

  • • •

  “Merde!” the serial killer yelled in French.

  Sapphire Dubois leered down at the man she’d chased from France to Italy. She’d gotten lucky; she didn’t even have to dig most of the hole this time. It was a grave yet to be filled. The ancient cemetery lay in darkness, but the glistening city below the hill gave her the light she needed.

  “Who are you?” he yelled. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “That’s funny, Monsieur,” Sapphire said in her best French. “I’d bet my last baguette that’s exactly what the women asked you right before you killed them.”

  He glared up at her with a look of guilt that lacked regret; the look of a sociopath. “Are you a cop?”

  “Ha!” Sapphire slapped her knee, then turned serious. “I’m much worse than a cop, Monsieur. I’m… your toaster oven.”

  His head cocked. “Huh?”

  Sapphire scrambled for the French dictionary on her phone. “Ah crap! I totally meant to say ‘your worst nightmare.’ This app sucks.”

  The man didn’t seem to care about the rating of her app; he was more concerned with getting out of the deep grave. Self-centered creatures, serial killers.

  “Save your energy, the cops will be here to take you out in a bit. I’m sure even Interpol is eager to get their hands inside you.”

  His face twisted in revulsion.

  “I mean of you. No, hand
s on you… damn it. I swear I’m usually good at this stuff.” Sapphire’s years at Winchester Private Academy had made her semi-fluent in French. Had she studied text books as much as she’d secretly studied the psychology of serial killers, she may have been fluent.

  Sapphire’s high heels dug into the dirt as she walked over to the bush and grabbed the barbed wire and a boom box manufactured in the Jurassic period.

  As the Serial Catcher—the name the American police had given Sapphire—she would have dropped an anonymous call to give the cops the whereabouts, but she couldn’t stick to her routine. The cops back home had kept the Serial Catcher on the DL from the media. She wasn’t sure Interpol would, and she couldn’t have the news get back to a certain cop in the States. Though she was sure he had no idea Sapphire Dubois—the heiress he’d slept with—was the vigilante he’d been searching for, he knew the Serial Catcher’s M.O. better than anyone. Sapphire had led him to believe she was in Dubai by placing her cell in someone’s luggage at the airport, and that’s what he needed to keep believing.

  “This look familiar?” She showed the killer the barbed wire then placed it so it’d be the first thing the cops saw.

  “Merde.” He stared at the bundle. Of course it looked familiar. He’d been using it to cut women’s heads off all over Europe for the past six months. The British papers had dubbed him the Barbed Wire Butcher.

  “You like heavy metal, Monsieur? Or are you more of a Kelly Clarkson type of guy?” Sapphire didn’t wait for an answer. She pushed play and the song Serial Killer filled the cemetery. “Fitting, isn’t it?”

  “You’re crazy!” He shouted in French.

  “Said the serial killer in the hole.”

  It’d be easier to just kill him. Sapphire froze at the thought. She stared at the killer pacing his pen. It would be easier. Sapphire had trained in Mixed Martial Arts for years. She could take him out then dig deeper down in the grave. A casket would be placed on top and nobody would know there was a second body in there. It would be safer for her; she wouldn’t have to worry about potential exposure.

  Sapphire shook her head to silence the thought. She turned the volume to max and picked up her prepaid phone to make an anonymous noise complaint to the police using her limited Italian. She hung up, then took in the view. The Leaning Tower of Pisa looked magnificent in the distance and made her smile. The summer had been amazing. The life of the old Sapphire—the Beverly Hills heiress who secretly captured serial killers and pined for the cop chasing her—felt like decades ago. That life had been complicated and full of duties she hated. She’d led a double life. She’d faked, fibbed, and sipped champagne at the country club by day, then hunted murderous men by night.

  The new Sapphire didn’t have to lie. She’d chased the Barbed Wire Butcher around Europe, on and off during the summer, and not a single person had asked where she’d been or what she’d been doing. She had ultimate freedom, a dream life.

  She’d connected the dots in Spain where she saw that a few of the victims had Liked and Favorited Moga: mobile yoga for people on the go. Two had mentioned a certain instructor they had the hots for. It was a classic case of Moga groupies. Sapphire found the French travelling Moga instructor’s schedule and raced ahead of him to Pisa. She went to eight of his classes and acted like a super-groupie, wearing short shorts and sports bras. She’d twirled her hair and giggled at whatever he said. By the time he’d asked her out on a “date,” she’d gotten pretty decent at Moga. It was a win-win.

  “I’m afraid I have a train to catch.” Sapphire looked at the time. “But I’m sure you’ll love prison, plenty of barbed wire there for you. And, oh…” She put her palms together and bowed. “Namasté.”

  She jogged through the cemetery as the music and the man’s scream streamed into one. She’d stared at the leaning tower for too long and now had to haul ass in high heels and a mini skirt to catch the train back to Paris.

  The dark gravestones panned by in her periphery and she decided to take a shortcut. An icy claw dragged down her spine and she picked up the pace. She knew it was just her imagination, but the cemetery was suddenly a menacing reminder of the ghosts of her past. She raced to the moss-covered wall and scaled it. When her feet hit the ground and the cemetery was behind her, the creepy chill eased and the warm July wind wrapped itself around her.

  Life is good, she reminded herself as she headed for the station.

  And as everyone knows, all good things last forever.

  Chapter 2

  “I can’t take this anymore. I quit!” The nurse stormed out of the room and started wailing in the hallway.

  Detective Aston Ridder kept his eyes on the TV, unfazed. He wanted to change the channel, but the remote was three feet away. He sure as shit didn’t want to press the aid button and deal with another unstable nurse.

  Duck Dynasty went to commercial, and an ad for an upcoming local segment came on. There he was, next to the host. His fucking face was on the fucking screen, and he was fucking smirking.

  Aston closed his eyes. When he reopened them, the segment was gone and Chief Anderson’s cheerful, sweaty face was in front of him. “Man, is it hot outside.”

  “I know.”

  “You went outside?” The chief sounded excited.

  “No.” Aston nodded to the TV. “But the news won’t shut up about it.”

  It was the hottest summer in fifty years, they said. Aston felt it was fitting. Life had been Hell since Sapphire Dubois disappeared and Hell was hot.

  “How’d you find me?” Aston asked. “I switched rooms again this morning.”

  “As always, I just follow the trail of crying nurses.” The chief held out a pack of cigarettes as if it was the carrot, and Aston the donkey. “I got something for you.”

  “Meh.”

  “Come on, Detective,” the chief said, dabbing the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. “You love smoking.”

  Wrong. Aston used to love smoking. He used to love a lot of things, all of them gone. During his ten years on the force, Aston had been shot, stabbed, and clocked in the mug more times than De La Hoya had. The last bullet had been more than his body could take.

  His eyes drew from the remote to his limp legs and the toe sticking out from under the cover. Aston Ridder never thought his life would end up this way. He never thought he’d be paralyzed from the waist down.

  On the up side, his bum leg—that got him transferred from L.A.P.D. to Beverly Hills—no longer bothered him.

  “So...” The chief sat down next to Aston. “What horrible thing did this nurse do?”

  “She tried to touch my junk.” He nodded to the remote. “Can you change it to ESPN?”

  “Based on the way you smell, I’m guessing your junk needed something the rest of us call soap and water. Have you even looked in the mirror lately? You look like a cross between sasquatch and something from Night of the Living Dead.”

  Aston scratched his beard, eyes on Duck Dynasty. “Seriously, I’m missing Sports Center.”

  “The remote is right there. Grab it yourself.”

  Aston turned to the chief, the sick fuck. “In case you didn’t notice: I’m paralyzed!” Aston motioned to his dead legs.

  “Detective, for the last time: You. Are. Not. Paralyzed.”

  “Not this crap again.” Aston rolled his eyes. “If I wasn’t, don’t you think I’d be walking around right now?!”

  “Detective… Aston.” The chief took a breath. “The doctors said the loss of feeling in your legs is psychosomatic. You’ve been in such a deep depression you’ve convinced yourself you’re paralyzed. They say you have problems coping with reality…”

  Aston zoned out. It was the stupidest shit he’d ever heard. He’d come out of surgery in spring, after being shot by Angelica Moore: a crazy cop who had a crazy twitching eye and a crazy crush on him. The only thing on his mind when he woke was to find Sapphire Dubois.

  Officer Barry Harry, his partner, tracked Sapphire’s phone. She had
been in Paris, then jumped a plane to Dubai. Since Aston had no jurisdiction in the United Arab Emirates and lacked the Beverly Hills Police Department’s backing, he’d gone on a tourist visa and jumped on a plane against doctor’s orders. When he landed in Dubai, Immigration found out he was a cop. Due to the fragile politics between the U.S. and the U.A.E., Aston was denied entry and shipped back to the States. It was the most depressing flight of his life; it gave him time to wonder how it all went wrong.

  There was a time Aston thought Sapphire was just a dimwitted, spoiled heiress. Ah, the good old days. When Aston and his old partner from the L.A.P.D., Detective Capelli, found out she was the infamous California Serial Catcher, it was too late. He was already in love with her. He managed to stop Capelli from exposing her, but to no point. Sapphire was untouchable in some far away land and Aston couldn’t get to her. A big fat hole materialized in his chest.

  Soon after he landed in the States the paralysis started in his toes and spread to his waist. He figured delayed internal bleeding or swelling from the operation. The doctors had nothing to say but made up words like “psychosomatic.”

  The chief stared at Aston. Aston stared at the chief.

  “You know what?” Aston looked back at the TV. “Don’t change it. I LOVE watching Duck Dynasty.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s it about?”

  “Uh, ZZ Top?”

  “Excuse me…”

  Aston and the chief turned to the uncomfortable woman standing in the doorframe. The memories associated with her washed over Aston and the pain was bad—ball-snipping bad.

  She hesitated in the doorway.

  “Can I help you?”

  She stepped in, clutching her purse, “I figured you would be the person I should tell this” she said, her accent strong. “I think… I think I know where Sapphire is.”

  “Yeah, we know,” Aston sneered. “She’s in the Middle East, but thanks.”