by Mia Thompson
Stalking Sapphire
A Sapphire Dubois Mystery
Mia Thompson
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004
New York, New York 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2013 by Mia Thompson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition April 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62681-005-1
Chapter 1
The forest lay still beneath the dark California evening sky.
The wind blew through the leaves, creating music and eventually a song, joined by the drip-drop of the rain. For many it was a great night to stay inside, cuddle up in front of the TV, and spend quality time with loved ones.
A perfect night to kill, Richard Martin thought as he watched the young woman in front of him run for her dear little life. A perfect night indeed.
Her dark hair glimmered in the moon’s light, illuminating the path leading him toward her. She was in high heels and ran very poorly over the patches of moss and dead twigs. He didn’t even have to pace; it was actually more of a brisk walk. Plus, he liked giving them some space; it usually seemed to give them a sense of hope, which in turn led to an even more surprised expression the moment before the big event. The Grand Finale.
He gazed at the young woman’s short skirt and her exposed thighs that he would soon cut open, precisely twenty seconds after he slit her throat. That was always a need. A need so deeply imbedded in Richard’s mind that it seldom left him much choice. He had to do it.
Slit the throat first.
Oddly enough, he related it to what had seemed like an insignificant event from his childhood in the Park Avenue apartment where his nanny had fed him gummy bears while they watched Sesame Street. She told him only once, but it had lasted a lifetime.
“Bite the heads off first,” she said. “That way they don’t suffer as much.”
He had loved her as if she were his own mother, and since his actual mother was off somewhere getting her nails done or gossiping with the girls at the country club, it had worked out perfectly.
Seeing the two together, most would assume the nanny was his older, slightly slutty-looking sister, but to Richard she was his mommy. That was, until she met a man, got married, and had a son of her own. She left Richard behind in an instant.
The thought of tracking her down crossed his mind. It would have been the grandest finale of them all. A nice bookend.
Killing the nanny would have been great and rewarding on so many levels, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. For some reason, random was his cup of tea.
It wasn’t like he minded killing people he knew—he would have loved to—but it just didn’t work. Richard tried killing his own secretary at Smart Tec, but as they lay in bed and he reached for his knife to slice her delicate neck, Richard froze. If he killed her, who was going to do all his side work the next day? Who was supposed to file away his paperwork using the blue sticky notes like she did? It had taken him three months to train her, and he certainly didn’t have the energy to go through stacks of resumes, interviews, or even interns to find the right fit. The thought turned him off so badly, his penis went soft.
“What’s wrong?” she had asked.
“You’re too fat,” he had answered and got off her, disappointed in himself and his impotence.
Ironically, she quit the next day. Apparently, being called fat was frowned upon by the mentally sane. He tried another time with the local grocery sacker but all in vain. If he killed her, who would sack his groceries? The pimply 15-year-old boy with the braces and sweaty palms? Who knew where those hands had been? Richard had been 15 once and he knew exactly where those hands had been, and he did not want them touching his fresh produce. Therefore, the girl lived to see another day.
He sped up; his victim was getting too far away for his liking.
He studied her as she began to wheeze, out of breath, straining more and more.
She was probably in her early twenties or so. Originally, he had his eyes on a different vessel, but there was just something special about the girl running a few feet ahead of him screaming.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
She awoke his carnal being when she sat down a couple of chairs away from him in the bar. Alone and just the right age. Her brightly colored scant clothing shouted to him:
“Come. Take me.”
She looked like she was waiting for someone. But after two and-a-half drinks that someone still hadn’t shown up and she was getting annoyed and impatient. She walked over to the door and just as she was about to leave she turned her sweet face and glanced back over the room, biting her lower lip.
“I want you to follow me,” her voice whispered to Richard, or so he imagined.
He granted her wish and shadowed her for five blocks before he allowed her the acknowledgment of his presence. At first, she started jogging, looking over her shoulder—scared. Then the jog escalated to a full-fledged run, which made Richard’s face break out into a wide smile.
She’s heard of me.
Even if she didn’t pay that much attention to the news, the idea of him was in there somewhere. Implanted in her subconscious mind by the media.
“Please leave me alone,” she managed to get out between the tears and gasps for air.
By now, she was truly exhausted. Her hands reached out to the trees to give her the support she needed to continue her escape. This only excited Richard Martin more; he could almost hear the silent crack the skin made when the knife penetrated.
A couple of yards ahead of him, the girl suddenly stumbled and fell. She held her ankle in pain and cried out in fear like the pitiful creature she was. Richard slowed down but let her know he was coming by allowing his black boots to crack down on the fallen dead twigs. As he came toward her, she looked up at him, pure fear in her eyes. Each and every step he took was one less second she had to live and he could tell she knew it.
“Wonderful,” he whispered as he pulled out his friend, lover, and companion, Walter—the double-sided blade.
“Please…please,” she cried.
Richard let out his standard laugh followed by his routine:
“Shh, now; don’t cry.” He stepped onto an odd collection of moss and twigs. Time froze momentarily as Richard looked down at a big X, spray painted in bright red beneath his feet. Then the ground around him collapsed, and Richard tumbled downward.
Confused, Richard looked around at the man-made dirt hole. Its four walls had been meticulously smoothed out, so that nothing—no one—could escape.
The pit almost resembled an old-fashioned animal trap but without the spears. Spotlights hanging from the trees suddenly turned on, all directed right at him. Richard squinted, looking up at the girl hovering over the edge of the hole like a ghost.
She smirked at him as she played with a black ring hanging around her neck in a chain.
“What…what…what…” he stuttered.
“What…what.. what; you gonna cry?” she imitated in a taunting and childish voice.
Richard started to panic. He jumped as high as he could to grab onto something…anything…his heart pounding in his chest. The girl laughed at him. Yes, she laughed at him. That bitch! Richard stood still, watching her silently, wondering why his seventh wasn’t covered in her own blood at that very moment.
The girl pulled up an electronic device and pushed it to her throat, then grabbed a bright pink cell phone. She dialed a number as she g
azed down at him.
“Cozy down there?” she asked with a deep, dark voice, giggling as if she were Satan himself. The device was masking her natural voice. Her face turned serious. “I’ve found something for you in a pit seven degrees south of the community pool in Garrison Forest.”
She hung up and began packing her things, glancing down at him like he was a penned animal. “The police should be here soon. I’d love to stay, but—” she paused for effect, “—I really don’t want to.”
Richard searched for Walter maniacally, but to his disappointment, found her dangling the knife over the pit.
“Oh, I think you dropped something,” she mocked.
Richard Martin jumped for the knife like a dog leaping for a bone, knowing he’d never reach it.
The girl let out another amused laugh and placed Walter close to the edge, but still out of his reach.
“Good luck to you,” she said and waved as if they’d been lifelong friends now parting ways.
As he heard her disappear into the woods, Richard fell to his knees.
“FUUUUUUCK!”
* * * * *
Sapphire Dubois smiled as the man’s scream echoed between the trees. She let the mist of the pine scent fill her lungs, enjoying the sweet taste of victory in her mouth, as she moved quickly, not wanting to be anywhere near when the cops got to the scene. Other than that, she had no worries. He wouldn’t mention anything to the police. To be outsmarted by a victim was deeply embarrassing and interfered with the sense of power they usually got from killing. A man who had spent his entire adult life murdering and raping the “weaker” sex would never admit to it.
Sapphire zipped up her jacket; the Beverly Hills evening wind had kicked up. She stood in front of her mother’s mansion for a little while before sneaking through the front yard. She never had to worry about her mother, who took sleeping pills powerful enough to knock out an elephant. Julia, however, would wait up if she noticed Sapphire was gone.
Climbing the vine leading to her room, she gracefully slid in through the window, closing it carefully behind her. She took off her cheap clothes and slipped on the four hundred dollar silk pajamas, her mother’s personal shopper had given her for Christmas.
Scooping up the cast-off clothes, she climbed onto her dresser, reached over the velvet canopy, and opened the flap leading to the attic.
Up in the attic she found her folder filled with newspaper clippings and neatly placed a “Seven” sticker on the front. A bittersweet feeling came over her, as it always did when she finished a case, like reading a really good novel where you longed for a happy ending, but felt almost melancholy once it was over. She patted the folder and shoved it in with six other identical files.
Sapphire had started her little hobby two years ago and felt she was making headway. This one had been different, though, much harder than the other six. She had had to hang out in too many bars and wear too many cheap outfits before she finally stumbled onto him.
She closed the flap, climbed back down into her room, and crawled into her giant, fluffy pink bed filled with stuffed animals, ready to dream about what and who the coming day could bring to indulge her hobby. Her unusual fascination.
Sapphire Dubois raised her hands up in the air and clapped the lights dark.
* * * * *
Shielded by the trees, he stood at the top of the hill and looked down at Sapphire as she disappeared into the darkness. He hummed his most precious song, feeling the excitement and power knowing what would soon take place. Soon Sapphire would know that she wasn’t alone and that someone was watching her every move.
Chapter 2
Sapphire woke to the sound of escalating moans alternating with thick pounding slaps. Her mother’s shrill voice reached a peak and ceased, the sounds of a man following her lead. Then it stopped. They were done.
Thank God. Sapphire thought about going back to sleep but the embedded image of her mother getting pounded in the gym adjacent to her room—by God knows who—was too nauseating. Maybe it was Sven, her mother’s new aerobics instructor. He had no idea that anyone who engaged in sexual activity with Vivienne was sure to be fired within a day or two. Poor bastard.
Sapphire jumped in the shower, letting the water awaken her cool memories of the previous night. Hopefully, she’d find another one soon. The sooner the better. She would go crazy if it took her more than a week or two to find the next guy…or girl. Sapphire wasn’t one to discriminate.
* * * * *
Detective Aston Ridder glared at the narrow apartment. He wondered how the hell such a clean, bright, newly-remodeled place could be all that, and yet a shithole at the same time. His old apartment downtown had been three times the size and three times cheaper. Six hundred and fifty a month compared to this claustrophobic dungeon for close to three grand.
Aston opened the window to light a smoke, fighting the urge to call his old boss and beg to be transferred back. What use would that do? Old Wendell’s mind was made up. Now Aston wasn’t worth jack. Visibly he was just fine, but he couldn’t chase anymore.
Aston had been pursuing two relatively insignificant drug dealers up to the rooftop of a two-story crack house. He had just made them drop their knives, kick them over, and was right in the middle of reading them their Miranda’s when it happened. Like a good cop, Aston kept his eyes on the perps while walking backward to pick up the knives. It was somewhere right in the middle of: “You have the right to consult an attorney before speaki—” that Aston took one step too many and stepped right off the building.
He fell two stories and cracked his leg in three places. The perps got away, and Aston hadn’t been able to handle heights since. Whenever he got near them after that day it was the shakes, cold sweat, dry mouth: the whole shebang.
In his day, Aston had chased an excruciating number of true criminals, gang members, and a fair share of murderers. He had lived through gunshots, knife wounds, and death threats from people whose own mothers feared them. Yet, because of one simple misstep he had now become someone who couldn’t keep up with the downtown criminals anymore. Chief Wendell wanted him off the street for a while, until the leg healed. Except there was one tiny problem: the damned leg never healed properly.
Even though all his colleagues nodded to him in sympathy, he knew they all made jokes behind his back as he had become the famous cop-who-stepped-off-a-building.
The day the chief called for him, Aston already knew what was coming. He was being transferred. To where, was the question? Burbank? Hollywood? No, too much action. He knew it would be somewhere calm, where grandmothers played bridge, where children played in safe clean streets without a worry in the world, and where the American dream still lived. Just the thought made Aston sick to his stomach.
When he sat down in front of his boss, the chief had hummed, trying to sound as casual as possible. His plan was obviously to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, hoping that Aston would feel the same way.
“Um…” the chief had started tapping his fingertips together. “I have some great news for you.”
“Do you? Do you really?” Aston made no attempt to hide what he knew. The chief ignored him.
“You’re gonna be a detective, Officer.”
Aston’s face dropped. Had he said detective? No, not possible. Aston caught a glimpse of himself in the window behind the chief, realizing he looked like someone who’d just had a stroke and half his face was paralyzed. “Say what?”
“You’re gonna be a detective,” the chief repeated.
Aston had been wrong. He stood up just to sit back down, just to stand back up with a wide smile. That was until the chief added a faint mumble, “In Beverly Hills.”
Aston stared at him for a long time in complete silence. There it was, just as he had expected: the transfer. Aston had no idea how long he had stood there in silence before the chief opened his mouth again.
“You okay there? You haven’t taken a breath for over two minutes,” the chief said holding a prec
autionary finger over the intercom in case Aston would snap.
Aston filled his lungs with air, letting the oxygen reach his brain. “You transferred me.”
“I might have, yes.” The chief cautiously watched Aston who sat back down.
“What excuse are you using, huh? My desk work not good enough for you?” Aston stood again and paced. “I’m off the street. I’m not a liability for anyone, am I?”
“No, but quite frankly, Officer, you’ve always been a bit of an ass.” He made sure he had Aston’s attention before continuing. “And nowadays, you’re pretty much a major ass.”
“Of course I’m an ass. I’m stuck at a desk all day, while you got people like the we-share-one-braincell-brothers out on the street!” Aston motioned to the twins sitting at their desks—frozen—staring at Aston and the chief as he hurried over to close the door.
“The door was open, you know,” the chief said with a sneer.
“I’m sure they already know they’re stupid. They’ve been idiots since they were born; it shouldn’t come as a shock.”
The chief sighed and sat down on his desk in front of Aston. “This is just how it is, Aston.” He put a hand on Aston’s shoulder. “And trust me when I say, you’ll be happier up in Beverly Hills doing nothing on the street than being here doing paperwork for the rest of your career.”
The chief stood up and held his hand out for Aston, somewhat hopeful. Aston stood and shook the chief’s hand firmly.
“With all due respect, Chief…screw you.” With that, Aston was gone from the only life he’d ever wanted.
Aston kicked the fridge shut as he opened a beer, letting his eyes sweep across his Beverly Hills studio.
“Fuck me,” he sighed and took a swig of the most expensive bottle of domestic beer he’d ever had. He noticed a pigeon sitting on his new windowsill, bobbing its head, cooing at him.
“Fuck you, too,” he added, figuring the pigeon knew it was a Beverly Hills pigeon and probably thought higher of itself than all other pigeons in L.A. County.
