by Mia Thompson
When the trapped serial killers started showing up across Southern California three years ago, Aston was hooked. Sure, the cases intrigued him, but in the back of his mind he knew that bringing down the Serial Catcher could get him a foot in the door with the FBI.
They’d already turned him down twice, even before his leg got jacked. That damned leg was what took him out of action-packed downtown L.A. and landed him in Beverly Hills.
The FBI’s excuse was Aston’s supposed “lack of social skills.” It didn’t make sense; he had been on his best behavior. He only called the psychologist evaluating him a perverted mind-fucker once. Twice, tops.
If Aston bagged the Serial Catcher, they wouldn’t be able to turn him down, bad leg or no.
He wasn’t sure if news of the Serial Catcher had reached the FBI yet. The media knew nothing. The guy existed only by word of mouth. It was an embarrassment. A vigilante who caught murderers before the police even had suspects. If word got to the media before the Serial Catcher was caught, it would be a freak show of superhero fanatics and copycats, dying for their fifteen minutes of fame.
Bringing in the Serial Catcher would be a career boost to say the least, but Aston didn’t give two shits about the media attention that was sure to come along. He just wanted to catch the fucker so that he could move out of Beverly Hills and into Quantico.
“Screw it,” Aston said and lit a cigarette. He preferred to smoke by the window, but he was too sapped to roll off the bed.
It was one in the morning, and he had had a long-ass day. They had spent the day re-watching Rath’s interrogation in Thousand Oaks and the night with beers at another one of Capelli’s strip clubs, Kitty’s Cave. He had gotten home, ready for a good night’s sleep, but was still wide awake.
Aston puffed on his cigarette, trying to remember the last expression he’d seen on George Rath’s face. The man had been a godsend to Aston and Capelli: a serial killer caught by the Serial Catcher himself at their full disposal. Rath had just started talking and then…
Somebody knocked on Aston’s door.
He pulled on his jeans, leaving his upper body bare. Who was the idiot coming over at this hour? Aston yanked the door open.
“H-hey,” he said, taken aback.
Sapphire stood in front of him in a short dress, wet hair clinging to the sides of her face, dark makeup smeared under her eyes and on her cheeks, her bare feet covered in grass strands and dirt. Needless to say, she looked hot!
“Hi…”
They stood in comfortable silence. He didn’t want to look down, but he had to. His eyes drew to the big ugly diamond that was still on her fucking finger.
She followed his gaze and her hand clasped to cover the ring.
“Sapphire, what are you doing here?” he asked, acting as though he hadn’t driven by her house at least thirty-six times in the past few months.
Looking down, she leaned into the door frame, her body inching closer to his. Involuntarily, Aston closed his eyes to take her in. She smelled really nice, but also like dirt and grass.
“I…”
“Aston?” A woman’s voice called out.
Fuck.
Sapphire quickly looked up, surprised, her gaze landing on the woman Aston knew was standing behind him.
He had forgotten. It slipped his mind.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Officer Moore asked.
“Um,” he tried, “this is Officer Moore.”
“Angelica.” Moore leaned around Aston to shake Sapphire’s hand. She was wearing panties and his old Dodgers t-shirt, her hair still wet from the shower.
Sapphire’s eyes shot back to Aston. He knew he looked as guilty as he felt. Not that he had any reason to feel that way. She was the one who was engaged. He, by all means, was free to sleep with whomever he wanted.
“Ah…hi. Sapphire.” Sapphire’s face grew a few shades redder as she stared at Officer Moore’s lack of attire. “I’m sorry for interrupting you guys…I didn’t know.”
“It’s not—” Aston started the lie.
“No worries,” Officer Moore cut in. “Just be glad you didn’t come twenty minutes earlier. Then you would have interrupted something.” She laughed and elbowed Aston playfully in the ribs. It kind of hurt.
There was a long uncomfortable silence.
“I should go,” Sapphire said. “I should…go. Nice to meet you, Angelica.”
“You too.” Officer Moore smiled. She went back inside and Sapphire started walking down the hallway.
“Sapphire…” Aston called after her. She pretended she didn’t hear him. She didn’t stop or turn and was soon on her way down the stairs.
Aston stepped back inside, shooting Officer Moore a glare. She stood in the small kitchen of his studio, eating his All-Bran cereal from his breakfast bowl.
“She was nice. Who is she?” Moore asked and rubbed her eye hard.
“She’s…no one,” Aston answered, one hundred percent honest, convinced she was no one to someone.
He probably shouldn’t have said that, he realized. He didn’t want Moore to think their arrangement was leading somewhere it wasn’t, like so many women before her.
They had slept together three times in the past month, not counting their quickie when he first transferred to Beverly Hills. He’d been working late, and Sapphire had been on his mind an excruciating amount. He realized there was only one thing he could do to smoke her out of the corner of his mind where she had nested.
Aston feared he’d never be able to stop thinking about Sapphire. He needed to move on. A palate cleanser. And Moore had assured him several times that she just wanted some fun. Nothing serious.
“She looks young. Wish I still had her skin.” Officer Moore chuckled as she finished her bowl of cereal.
“Twenty-three…just turned,” he said, pissed about Sapphire’s surprise visit. So pissed that he thought about letting Officer Moore spend the night. Surely Sapphire would be running into the arms of her little rich boy. The imagery shot through Aston’s mind like a repulsive slide show and settled any doubts he had. He would let Moore spend the night.
“Ooops.” Officer Moore shook the cereal box over the bowl. “You’re out of cereal.”
“Get out.”
Chapter 3
An elderly woman burst out of the confessional, bawling into her handkerchief. Sapphire looked after her and stepped into the booth, feeling her nerves settle by just being in his presence.
She should never have gone to Aston’s. She went against her own rule and now the image of Beverly Hills’ most attractive female cop in Aston’s shirt was burned into her mind. It had sent Sapphire running to her confidant, to the only person who knew she collected serial killers like her contemporaries collected songs on their iPods.
“Holy crap! Did you go to town on the Hail Marys with that lady or what?” she asked Father O’Riley as she sat down.
“Can you try to make it five seconds before you fire off the blasphemy, Sapphire?” he responded. “I may have told her there was a chance she’d burn in hell for all eternity.”
“For what?”
“You know I can’t tell you that…but I wasn’t really listening anyway. Same old stuff. Unclean thoughts about the mailman. Envy over the neighbor’s award-winning peach cobbler…yada-yada-yada.”
Sapphire frowned. She’d never heard him talk this way. He was one of the kindest people she knew and his congregation meant more to him than he meant to himself.
“So what’s on your mind?” he asked. “No wait, let me guess. Unwanted marriage. Wanted cop. And, as always, the main course: serial killers.”
“Well yeah, but do you have to be such a sourpuss about it?”
“I have problems, too. Does anyone care? No. Why am I always the one who has to listen to everybody else’s problems?”
“I’d assume because of the whole priest thing.” Sapphire pushed her nose against the net. “What’s up with you?”
He bowed his head
, remaining silent.
“Tell me it doesn’t involve her and more boning. You know what they say, bone me once shame on…”
“Please stop saying bone.”
Father O’Riley had slept with a woman in his congregation the year before. He had broken it off but had been plagued by Catholic-priests-shall-not-bone guilt ever since.
“Sapphire, I’m curious. Why are you so compelled to capture these men?” Father O’Riley asked harshly, changing the subject.
“Would you ask a painter or a chef the same question?” Sapphire couldn’t mask her defensiveness.
“Okay, let’s put it this way,” he offered. “What do you want most at this very moment?”
“Kind of want you to quit being rude. Other than that, I guess, my next killer.”
“So, you can’t break off the engagement with the man you don’t want to be with because Beverly Hills will think you’re a nutcase. And because you capture serial killers you can’t have any negative attention aimed your way.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re pining for a cop, who you can’t have because he’s after the Serial Catcher. Which would be you.”
She knew where this was heading. “Can we talk about something else? How ‘bout them Dodgers, eh?”
“You do realize that all your problems can be solved by simply removing serial killers from your life, right? By stopping. But the only thing you can think about is finding your next catch.”
Sapphire scoffed. “I can’t just stop.”
“Why?”
“Because someone needs to stop them, that’s why!” Sapphire was getting flustered.
“The cops handled it long before you came along. Ever ask yourself why you’re unable to stop doing something that is not only dangerous, but also the culprit of all the problems you whine about?”
Sapphire grabbed her purse and stormed out of the confessional, slamming the door behind her. She felt sick when she reached the parking lot. Having her trust turned against her was something Sapphire expected from the people in Beverly Hills, not Father O’Riley.
She gave the door to her old Volkswagen three kicks and a knee. It responded to the code, allowing her to open the door. She sat behind the wheel, the car’s Febreze-resistant scent of decomposing Cheetos filling her nostrils. To Sapphire this stench was the calming aroma of independence; it barely made her gag anymore.
A knock made her jump. She rolled down the window, the lever coming off in her hand.
“What do you want?” She tossed the lever over her shoulder, where it joined the other dead parts in the backseat.
“I’m sorry, kid.” Father O’Riley smiled. “I haven’t been myself since the ordeal with the…you know…”
“Boning,” Sapphire filled in.
“Woman,” he corrected, then braced his elbow against the roof. “You know, I still meant what I said, but I shouldn’t have pushed something I knew you weren’t ready for.”
Sapphire clenched the wheel.
He watched her for a moment, then waved his hand. “You know what, forget what I said. I have a solution for you.”
“Oh yeah?” Doubt it.
“Why don’t you leave? Beverly Hills, I mean. It’s not what you want in life, and the whole serial killer bit is, so just go.”
“Yeah right.” Sapphire tilted her head. “I get a weekly allowance from my mom, all my actual money is tied up in Charles’s will, and I have nowhere to go.”
Father O’Riley mulled it over. “Why don’t you come live with me until you get a job and place of your own?”
Sapphire looked at him, surprised. “Thanks, but…well, for starters I can’t leave Charles alone with my mom. And, as much as I don’t like it, being a Beverly Hills heiress has its benefits in the Serial Catcher department. I have the perfect cover. Why would I give that up?”
“I hear excuses,” he said, softly. “I think the big bad Serial Catcher is scared to leave the comfort of a society she doesn’t even like.”
“I think the priest is so scared to deal with his own issues that he’s pushing everybody else’s. You’re obviously not happy here anymore. If it’s so easy, why don’t you leave?”
Father O’Riley searched for words, conceding with a nod. “Well played.”
“I learned from the best,” she said, putting the car in drive. “See you next week?”
“Right…” Father O’Riley gazed off into the distance, lost in thought.
Once she was on the freeway, the news came on the radio. She turned up the volume using a screwdriver, hoping for a new killer.
“A series of car-nappings have been reported. The latest in Colorado…”
Sapphire smacked the radio off.
If it wasn’t California, she couldn’t do anything about it. Even before the wedding chaos started, Sapphire was never able to leave without people noticing. Not to mention the paper trail that would come from flights and hotel stays. She was as chained to California as she was to Beverly Hills.
She tried to focus on something else, but with the radio off, Father O’Riley’s interrogation was ringing in her ears.
It wasn’t the question of why Sapphire had the strong need to go after murderous men that turned her stomach; she had asked herself that more than a few times.
It was the answer that scared her.
* * * * *
“What do you think, will it rain today?” Richard Martin peered at the gloomy gray clouds through the windshield.
She remained silent.
The blood was everywhere. There were very few spots, besides from the windshield which he had wiped clean, that weren’t covered in the dried red substance. It was even in the interior of the glove compartment; which was surprising considering it had been closed.
“I’m getting hungry; shall we stop for breakfast?” Richard asked.
The woman lay zombie-like in the passenger seat, her dead eyes staring at Richard.
It was nice to have someone to talk to, even if she was deceased. He knew she was dead; he wasn’t crazy, just a bit on the lonesome side.
Before that predator ruined everything, Richard hadn’t realized how much he’d enjoyed the human, non-killing, interactions in his life. Every Friday, he’d have lunch with his coworkers at Smart Tec; he needed them to stay sane.
It had been months now since that horrible night.
She had been sitting in one of the bars where Richard picked out his girls, dressed the way he liked. He had followed her out of the bar and into Garrison forest. She had run, pretending to be scared, then he had fallen into that godforsaken pit she’d made.
She’d stood over him with that look of superiority; then she had laughed. Yes, she had laughed at him. Richard still heard that acidic laugh sometimes, ringing in his ears like a fire alarm.
After she shredded his self-confidence to nothing, she called the cops anonymously and left. The police arrived minutes later.
When they had questioned him, he’d said nothing. It was the most humiliating experience of his life. To have his own victim turn on him was sickening.
After he was sentenced to San Quentin, he’d overheard two cops talking smack about him. They’d whispered its name: the Serial Catcher.
He wasn’t her first. She had spent years fooling and trapping murderers like him. And worse yet, the cops had kept it quiet, perhaps too embarrassed as well. Had Richard had his say, a national warning would’ve gone out.
During the transport to California’s number one maximum security prison, Richard managed to get loose. He had set the prison truck on fire, killing the guards, and escaped with a single goal in mind.
Her, the Serial Catcher.
He’d been traveling in and out of Los Angeles ever since, staying a week at a time. He always had to keep moving; he could not get caught before she was dead.
Richard pulled into the diner, insisting to his co-pilot that he should pay for breakfast. He took her dead silence as concurrence and pulled out the petty change that
was left from the hooker he snuffed in Colorado.
Richard looked around. Was he in Utah today? A few months back all the states had started to blur together. Same ever-stretching roads, same monotonous gas stations, same neglected motels, wherever he was.
He took a window booth and pulled down his ball cap to hide his face.
Not because he was hunted. The fire Richard set had spread to the fuel tank and the prison truck exploded in the vacant desert. By the time it was discovered, the guards’ bodies had been cremated into ash. Since he’d been chained inside, the police had assumed he was among them. Richard Martin was officially dead. But it was possible that someone would recognize him from the media circus of his trial. If they alerted the police that the Double Blade Killer was still alive, there would be a manhunt. Richard’s revenge mission was already difficult enough. He couldn’t allow any more obstacles.
He ordered his pancakes from a young waitress in a turtleneck. Yuck. How does she expect people to want to kill her wearing that? He gazed out the window, feeling blue.
How many times had he gone back without results? Searching for a young attractive woman without a name in Los Angeles was like searching for a single grain of sand in the Sahara desert.
Perhaps, a small voice in his head suggested, it’s time to give up and run to Mexico instead. He could spend the rest of his days in peace, drinking margaritas, swimming in the ocean, killing unsuspecting senoritas.
A year ago that lifestyle would have sounded like a dream to Richard. His kills nowadays had seemed dry, boring. Maybe he was just fed up with Americans.
He didn’t want to give up. He wanted to demolish that cocky smile of hers and extinguish her ridiculing laugh, but he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to, and Mexico was certainly looking tempting.
A woman in a deliciously short skirt stepped out of a Blue Chevy in the parking lot. A young, very much alive, woman who was much more beautiful than the dead ol’ ball ‘n’ chain in the car.
Richard’s eyes followed her as she walked in.
“Restrooms?” she asked the waitress, who gave her a key and directed her outside.
