by CP Smith
“I’m sorry I’ve been MIA, Kasey. It seems I got lost in fiction. But I swear I’m turning over a new leaf as of today. From now on, I’m going to experience life as much as I write about it.”
“Baby steps, Nicola. You’ve been living in a cave for a while, you might need to adjust to the light first,” she laughed. “Just show on Tuesday and all will be forgotten.”
“I’ll be there, you can count on it. Why, a rugged Highlander couldn’t keep me from coming,” I vowed.
“Right, we both know that’s a lie,” she laughed.
Ha, she knew me too well.
“Ok, short of a kilt-wearing Highlander coming forward in time to throw me over his shoulder, I’ll be there.
***
“Vaughn! Get your ass in here.”
Detective Dallas Vaughn looked up from his desk and smirked at his partner, Bill Reed.
“Guess he heard,” Reed chuckled.
“Guess so,” Vaughn answered.
Vaughn rose from his chair, grabbed his gun, and shoved it into his holster as he made his way toward his lieutenant’s office. The lieutenant’s door was closed, further indicating how pissed off he was, seeing as they had been able to hear him bellowing from behind closed doors. Vaughn knocked and then entered before Lt. Dan Cross had a chance to answer.
“You wanted to see me?”
Lt. Cross was a huge black man with a big bald head that sat on top of a squatty neck. A former linebacker for the University of Tulsa, he kept his bulk while moving up the ranks. He had a degree in criminology and a sharp mind, but he also had a temper.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep your fuckin’ distance from Hernandez?”
Vaughn leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his wide chest. At six foot three, Vaughn wasn’t a small man, but he was leaner than Cross. Lean, like the former wide receiver he had been for the University of Oklahoma. Vaughn also had a degree in criminology. However, unlike his boss, he had no desire to work his way up the ranks. He preferred hunting down the bad guys to administrative duties.
“It was just a coincidence that I happened to be invited to a party at his next-door neighbor’s house.”
“You don’t have any friends, Vaughn. How in the hell did you get invited to the Assistant District Attorney’s house?”
“Tickets to next year’s Oklahoma—Texas game.”
Cross narrowed his eyes at Vaughn, and just when Dallas thought his boss would blow his top, a slow grin pulled across his mouth.
“Are you telling me you bribed the ADA so you could sit in his backyard and watch his scumbag, wife-murdering neighbor?”
Vaughn’s lips twitched, but he held his smile. “No, I offered to give him my Oklahoma—Texas tickets because I heard he was serving hamburgers. As for Hernandez,” he growled the name, “he’s an innocent until proven guilty scumbag, wife-murdering neighbor.”
Hernandez, the owner of Hernandez Plastics, was under indictment for the murder of his wife. According to Hernandez, she slipped while holding a knife and it somehow managed to bury itself into her heart. Originally, from Honduras, he was a flight risk and they all knew it. Vaughn had been keeping closer tabs on Hernandez than the law allowed, according to the restraining order Hernandez had filed against Vaughn.
Technically, he stayed far enough away from the man. However, when Hernandez willingly came into Vaughn’s space in the ADA’s front yard, the restraining order was null and void. That’s how Hernandez ended up with a black eye and a busted lip. Vaughn was just defending himself, per the witness statements.
“Were the hamburgers good?” Cross asked.
“Rare, just like I like them,” Vaughn replied.
Both men grinned at each other for a moment, but Cross lost his jovial attitude quickly.
“All right, enough about that scumbag. Get your ass out of my office and go find me that goddamned Shallow Grave sonofabitch.”
Vaughn’s eyes went blank at the mention of the killer. Dallas had had to notify the family of Stacy Lynn White-Cline when the dental records came back as a match this afternoon. He was itching to find that bastard. Dallas could still hear her mother’s wailing in his head.
“I’ll find him,” Dallas vowed, “then I’ll send him straight to hell.”
“What you’ll do is find him and hand him over to the DA, am I clear?” Cross bit out, leaning across his desk.
Dallas’ jaw tightened, and he nodded once. Turning on his heels, he gritted his teeth, trying not to think about the single mother and the way they’d found her two nights earlier. He knew from experience, after six years in homicide, if you didn’t leave that shit at the office you’d burn out quickly. Unfortunately, for him, he never listened and burned a candle at both ends.
Vaughn was a bit of a maverick and did what he had to do to solve a case. If it meant long hours, so be it. All he'd ever wanted to be was a cop. To catch the bad guys and make it safe for law-abiding citizens, no matter the means. He was thirty-four and had a failed marriage under his belt because of his dedication to the job, that, and because Brynne couldn’t keep her legs closed to other men. Most days he was tired, frustrated, and needed a vacation. However, he had no reason to go home and the world was getting sicker by the day, so he kept working.
With another body in the morgue, and the only evidence they had being the fact that the first two women frequented dating sites, according to their families, and traces of crude oil were found on their bodies, the trail was stone cold on the Shallow Grave Killer.
Making his way back to his desk, he searched for Sian Davies, a rookie detective, needing her help. Dallas’ mood was as gray as the walls in their office. Every officer in his division was in a bad mood with the discovery of a third victim and wanted in on the case so they could nail that sonofabitch to the wall. Dallas and his partner, Bill Reed, were the lead investigators on the case, but half his division were out running down all possible leads.
Catching Sian at the coffee pot, Dallas called out to her. “Sian, I need you to call over to Missing Persons and ask them for a list of women between the ages of twenty and forty. I don’t trust this new computer software, since it has more bugs in it than the Kremlin. Ask them for a hard copy and make several copies when you get it.”
Nodding her reply, he watched as she moved to her desk and pick up the phone before he sat down in his chair.
“Let me in on what you’re thinking?’’ Reed asked Vaughn as he sat down.
“All three victims were blonde. Two could be a coincidence, but three feels like an MO. I want to compare any missing women that match the descriptions of our three victims and see if they were visiting online dating sites.”
Nodding in agreement, Bill Reed, a twenty-year veteran of the Tulsa Police Department and father of four, powered up his computer and stood with his coffee cup.
“Better refuel. Sounds like it’s gonna be a long night,” Reed mumbled, motioning to Dallas’ empty cup.
“I’m not drinking that shit and you know it. You pull up the files on the Shallow Grave Killer and I’ll run over to Gypsy’s.”
Reed turned back to Vaughn with a smile on his face. He knew that if he mentioned coffee his partner would cringe at the crap they served at the station.
“I want extra cream in my coffee, none of that skimmed crap either. June’s got me on a low-fat diet and I’m wasting away as it is.”
Dallas’ brows shot up at the wasting away comment. Reed was six-foot-one and pushing two hundred and seventy-five pounds. There wasn’t anything “wasting away” about the man.
“You’ll get your cream, big guy, but if you tell June it’s your head, partner. Your wife scares the hell out of me,” Dallas chuckled.
“June scares the living shit out of me too, Dallas. She makes the Shallow Grave Killer look like a kitten.”
That she did, Dallas thought as he headed for the door. He’d be tempted to put her in a room with the bastard as part of his punishment if he didn’t love the woma
n so much. Then again . . . she might enjoy it.
Two
Gypsy’s Coffee House was located in the newly renovated downtown Tulsa arts district. It was an eclectic coffee shop on Cameron Street in the historic Gypsy Oil building. The old three-story, red brick building had been renovated in 2000 to the delight of many who called downtown Tulsa home. Now it served rich, hearty coffee, great teas, delectable desserts, and sandwiches. Brick walls and comfy couches set the décor that was as vibrant as those who hung out there. Open mic nights brought in local talent, and the coffee kept my girls and me coming back year after year. We started hanging out at Gypsy’s right after we came home from college. Our new adult lives might have kept us busy, but we always made time for each other and a great coffee at least once a week. That was until I got so engrossed in my novels that I barely had time for my cats.
However, that time was behind me, I’d learned my lesson, and I now sat on one of Gypsy’s comfy couches, catching up with my friends. Relaxed for the first time in months, I laughed as Kasey read some of the messages she’d received on a dating site called Plenty of Fish or, as everyone referred to it, POF.
Kasey had created a profile on Plenty of Fish in the past two weeks and had messaged with a gorgeous man, who claimed to be looking for love. He’d flirted and made plans to meet her for drinks the following week after he returned from a wedding out of town. However, before that could happen, he had amped up the flirting to the point that he was asking her if she wanted to be “his girl.” The conversation gradually became more intimate in nature, which prompted Kasey to send him sexy pictures. She was thrilled to have found someone so in tune with her own passions in life, but the conversation always seemed to lead back to him asking for intimate pictures of her. Apparently, she obliged the man and asked him to reciprocate, which he did. The problem for Kasey began when she never received anything other than body shots that didn’t include his face. His profile picture showed a gorgeous blonde male with a tantalizing smile, and his Twitter profile matched his POF profile. After three days of flirting, with no new pictures of him being sent, she told him she wanted a current picture of him in the tuxedo he was supposedly wearing at the wedding. That’s when he turned from flirty—potential boyfriend material to a man who said he couldn’t handle a stage five clinger—all because she’d wanted a current picture of him.
She showed us the messages passed back and forth between the two of them, and we could tell she was crushed that he dropped her so suddenly, but didn’t have a clue why he’d reacted the way he did. It had been Janeane who first saw him for what he really was: a catfish who never intended to meet her. All he'd been after the whole time was the personal enjoyment of fooling a woman into believing he was someone he was not, and a few sexy pictures.
“Oh my God, listen to this guy,” Angela blurted out. “’Are you on birth control?’ he asked her, and then Kasey said ‘Yes.’ Then the dickhead replied, ‘Good, because I want you to feel my cock pulse inside you.’ Jesus, this guy knows exactly what to say. Too bad he was fake ‘cause that’s kinda hot.”
“’’Send me one more hot pic of you, I need to cum’,” Janeane continued reading over Angela’s shoulder.
“Tell me you didn’t?” I begged Kasey.
“I did. I know I should have been more careful, but he seemed so real,” Kasey defended. “But don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. No more sending sexy pics to guys until I’ve met them first.”
I was shocked by this blatant deception, yet intrigued that someone as smart as Kasey could be so easily fooled by this guy. Still, after reading all the messages I could see why she fell for his charming and sexy persona. He was just that good. However, now my writer’s brain had come to life and firing on all pistons. I couldn’t help it; I started plotting a book.
It’s a gift and a curse to be able to take a single conversation with someone and turn it into a book. A curse because I couldn’t shut it down. A gift because I made a living doing something I loved.
Excusing myself to the ladies' room, I continued to think about a plot incorporating a dating site like POF and men who went to considerable lengths to create fake accounts just for a few salacious pictures. I was still thinking about how that scenario would play out when I exited the ladies’ room, shaking my wet hands because they were out of paper towels.
When I rounded the corner, my head down, looking at my shoes, I collided with a solid body and sent someone’s coffee sloshing. My hands went up to stop myself and they landed on a hard chest as my forehead slammed into a solid jaw. A responding grunt made me look up until I saw a pair of gleaming honey-colored eyes. Then I froze and blinked rapidly to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.
Nope, it was him, the muse for my next book.
I pushed away quickly as my heart rate picked up. I looked up for a second time to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, but I wasn’t. It was still Detective Drop Dead Delicious in all his glory, and he was beautiful in that dark and dangerous way bad boys had. His hair was dark-brown, not black, and swept off his face haphazardly as if he’d run his hands through it after his shower and that was it for the coiffing portion of his day. His jaw was chiseled like a granite statue, covered with days-old growth, and it was set in hard contours as he clenched and released it. His eyes were the color of honey and so light, they fairly glowed like the sun. And his mouth . . . Lord, that mouth looked like it could kiss you so thoroughly you’d forget your name, your mother’s name, and the boy you lost your virginity to as well. There was a dark arrogance, born of authority, that waved off him and he was wholly masculine to the point of being beautiful. He was tall, he was broad, he was in-your-face spectacular, and he filled the space like one of my Highland warriors exuding predatory power. My knees went weak just thinking about the comparison. No, seriously, even though I wrote this shit and it sounded good in a book, it really happened . . . my knees were like noodles.
I scanned his body and saw large, powerful thighs, shoulders that were incredibly broad and chest and arm muscles that bulged from beneath his white shirt. My eyes shot back to his shirt before I had a chance to finish my inspection and I froze. Thanks to my inattention, it was ruined, and he was looking down at it, scowling.
Hell’s bells.
He looked up from his chest, pointed those honey-colored eyes at me, and glared. I smiled back out of nervous habit and watched in fascination as those golden globes softened in return.
“I . . . I’m so sorry. Let me get a wet paper towel, and I’ll buy you another coffee,” I rambled as I tried to move around him unable to handle the intense stare he had graced upon me. Unfortunately, he had the same idea and moved at the same time. My hand came up as he turned his body, and I sent his other cup of coffee plummeting to the floor. He jumped back to avoid the disaster as I gasped and threw my hands over my face.
I heard him rumble, “Fuck,” as I peeked through my fingers to survey the damage. He had coffee all over his boots and splattered up his jeans. He was, quite literally, a coffee-covered mess. In addition to that, let us not forget the two wet handprints I’d left on the front of his shirt, making it appear that I had groped him.
Humiliated, wishing the floor would open and suck me into a dark hole, I did the only thing I knew to do in this situation. I kept my mouth shut; my arms and legs pinned to my body and waited until he had entered the men’s room. Then I ran to the counter, threw a ten at the man, and begged for two replacement coffees for the Detective.
I’d also like to point out that my friends watched this all play out in quiet fascination, with looks of sheer confusion on their faces, when I glanced back at them and grimaced.
I offered to clean up the mess, but the manager shooed me away, so I stood quietly waiting for the detective to return. After five minutes, my muse came strolling out of the men’s room, still a coffee-stained mess. When he saw me standing there, he stopped—a good distance away, I might add—and he stared at me. He did a full body scan, mumbled, “Not a d
rop on you,” and then saw the new coffees being offered by the man behind the counter. As he accepted my peace offering, his lips twitched into a sexy half grin. Lifting the coffees in a salutation of forgiveness he then winked at me, which sent my heart fluttering, turned on his heels and he was gone.
I watched his retreating backside while my memory played his wink, his grin, and his tight firm ass over and over. The way he had little flecks of green in his amber eyes, the way his bottom lip was fuller than the top. The way I’d like to bite said lip right before he—.
“What was that?” Angela chuckled from behind me, causing me to jump.
“What was what?” I hedged.
“That coy girl routine you just played with that extremely hot man. Even after the disaster you caused, he still checked you out and you just stood there.”
“I wasn't acting coy.”
“You didn’t rip his clothes off either. What the fuck?” she accused.
“It’s complicated,” I tried to explain.
“Uncomplicate it for me then,” Angela insisted.
Glancing back at the rest of the girls, I groaned as I made my way back to the couch.
Kasey Austin, Janeane Dee, Kristina Kozak, and Angela Shue had been my friends since we figured out that chocolate combated PMS. We’d gone to high school and college together and somehow managed to remain close throughout all of the hormones, men, and bullshit life had thrown our way, including my penchant for disappearing whenever I started writing a new book.
Angela, who was half-Japanese, half-white, but favored her father’s side except for her almond-shaped eyes, managed one of the local chain banks in downtown Tulsa. She was married, but had no children and probably never would. She was as career-driven as her husband of three years was, and they loved to travel. She had short black hair, soulful brown eyes, and a right hook to rival any man, thanks to self-defense classes.
Kasey was divorced with two small boys ages six and three. She had married barely out of college, to a man named Mark who was in the military. His constant deployments put a strain on their young marriage and they’d split up a little over two years ago. Needing to be close to her family and friends, she moved home and opened Om-klahoma Yoga studio next door to Gypsy’s six months ago. She had long brown hair, big brown eyes, and legs that went on for miles.
