by Mia Thompson
The girl pulled out her phone, rolling her eyes. “Dad, please stop calling. I’m almost there.” She headed for the restroom. “You’re such a worrywart. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
When she turned, Richard saw the back of her tightly fitting hoodie, featuring the University of California, Los Angles.
UCLA: Come, Your Future Awaits.
It was a sign. Destiny was telling him not to give up, urging him to continue on his mission.
“Pancakes,” the waitress said, putting his plate down.
“On second thought, I’ll take them to go,” he said.
Richard Martin would head for California, to once again seek out the Serial Catcher. He smiled, filled with a strong comforting sense; this time he would find her.
He grabbed his pancakes and moved toward the restrooms with a renewed pep in his step, off to meet his new travel companion.
* * * * *
“A job?” Sapphire muttered as she pulled into the gas station. Who was Father O’Riley kidding? What could she possibly put on her resume? Rich, spoiled, bagged eight serial killers? Nobody would hire her.
She got out, slamming the door. She grabbed the nozzle and stuck it in the Volkswagen as she watched the small TV above the pump.
“Thursday night,” the female reporter stated. “A young woman was brutally murdered in a parking garage after leaving her shift from the downtown Los Angeles strip club, the Golden Mirage, around 9 p.m.”
Sapphire was hooked.
“To her fans and coworkers, the exotic dancer was known as Amber,” the reporter continued, “but her real name was Jennifer Stark and she is the third young dancer that has been killed from the establishment in the past few months. At the moment, the LAPD is not making any statement about the man dubbed the Stripper Slayer…”
Sapphire was absorbing every detail, photo, and image. This was it. The colors and sounds around her faded as she focused on the TV screen.
This man—this serial killer—was hers.
Her gaze shifted from the TV to a guy at the opposite pump. He was rudely gawking at her: mouth open, eyes popping.
Creep.
Sapphire gave him her best stink-eye, then looked down and realized what he was staring at. She hadn’t let go of the handle and the gas was pooling around her feet.
“Crap!”
She yanked the nozzle out and clamored back into the car, mildly embarrassed but extremely excited.
Since she got stalked last year, Sapphire had, despite serious effort, caught no serial killers whatsoever. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Not even one little rapist.
Now Sapphire felt the familiar rush. Her senses sharpened. Her mind focused. The stress of the wedding faded, disappearing to that sector where less urgent matters went.
For the first time in months, she veered off toward Beverly Hills with a smile. Sapphire would do everything in her power to save the girls at the Golden Mirage. She would take his aim away from them and put it on herself. She would become his next target.
Sapphire had done a lot of things to get her killers: put on weird wigs, worn outlandish clothes, and faked accents.
Never had she gone this deep undercover.
Father O’Riley was onto something, after all.
Sapphire Dubois, the Beverly Hills heiress, was about to get her first job.
Chapter 4
“NEIN!!!”
Sapphire halted with one foot in midair at the entrance of the kitchen.
Berta Braun, their new housekeeper, was pointing down at the wet floor, then at Sapphire’s feet. A slew of German curse words followed.
“Sorry-sorry-sorry,” Sapphire pleaded, skipping to one of the stools.
Julia, the mother of all things good, had been replaced by this big-boned German woman who ate two pounds of cabbage a day, farted blatantly while mopping, and yelled NEIN whenever she disagreed with someone’s behavior, which was most of the time.
Everybody was terrified of Berta, especially Sapphire’s mother. So terrified, she didn’t dare fire her.
Sapphire didn’t care. Berta scared the living crap out of her, but she also made sure to take good care of Sapphire’s paraplegic stepfather, Charles. Though Berta’s tone was never sweet like Julia’s, it wasn’t as harsh when she spoke to him.
“Good morning, Charles.” Sapphire gave her stepfather a habitual kiss on the forehead.
“Merk,” he tried as Berta gave him a second helping of a weird-looking porridge made of cabbage.
Sapphire began hoarding the newspapers as Vivienne entered in her pink robe and high-heeled slippers. It was clear that she was not only hungover from the day before, but was still drunk. Vivienne had been “still drunk” for about four months.
Their already impaired relationship got worse that night, the night Vivienne went from classy alky trophy wife—a common breed in Beverly Hills—to incoherent drunk, whom the other trophy wives gossiped about.
“Who is my father?” Sapphire had asked that night, watching as Vivienne set down her cocktail glass on the deck’s flat railing.
Her mother’s hands had been shaking and her demeanor was full of angst. But it was as if she’d awaited the question for years.
“The first time I met your father,” Vivienne had explained, closing her eyes, “I was nineteen. I left your grandmother’s house to go make something better of my life, but the minute I met that man it was all out the window. He had no money, no stable job, and he lived in this nasty one bedroom in Oregon, but I fell so hard for him. I thought I could live in poverty forever as long as I got to be with him. We were happy for a long time.”
There had been a peacefulness on her mother’s face as she spoke that Sapphire had never seen before; real live emotion from the vodka-on-ice queen. Then her eyes had been overtaken in pain.
“He would go out of town on random jobs then come home to stay for a few weeks before he went back out. After you were born he would take you with him and you loved it.” She had sighed. “You and him, two peas in a pod. If he moved, you followed.”
Sapphire had mustered a smile, but it was hard to fathom being so close to someone who she couldn’t remember.
“One night, when you had just turned four, you guys came back from one of his trips. He was his old charming self, but you were very quiet, which was unlike you because usually no one could shut you up. He kissed me and said that he came to drop you off because he got a new job opportunity and you couldn’t go.” Vivienne’s eyes had filled with tears as she inhaled sharply through her nose. “And that was the last time I saw him.”
“What happened?”
“The police searched but were never able to find a trace of him. I assumed he either left me or…died. I don’t know which is worse.”
“We could try again, Mom,” Sapphire had urged. “Hire a P.I. He could still be out there.”
“No, it’s over. He’s in the past,” Vivienne had snapped at her. “There were things with your father, Sapphire. Things you wouldn’t understand. Things I didn’t understand.”
“Like?” Sapphire’s heart had raced and her palms sweated as she processed her mother’s implied accusations of something she didn’t understand.
“It doesn’t matter,” Vivienne had said, but based on the look on her face, it mattered…a crap load. “A few months after he disappeared, I met Charles. He stuck around until I agreed to marry him. His lawyer did his magic and took care of my divorce within a year. I never looked back.”
“What was my father’s name?”
“Will. Will Green.”
“So, my name was Sapphire Green. You named me Blue Green.”
“Your father thought it was cute.” Both sorrow and happiness had danced on Vivienne’s face.
Sapphire had reached for her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Mom.” For the first time in her adult life, Sapphire was full of compassion for Vivienne. “It must’ve felt horrible to—”
“Would you look at that?” Vivienne
had pulled her hand away, as if Sapphire’s touch was tainted. Her eyes transformed back to empty, like her glass. “I need a refill.”
Vivienne had gone to get another drink…then kept drinking for four months straight.
The conversation had left Sapphire feeling lost. For years she wondered who her father was and it was the hardest question she’d ever had to ask. Even when she finally got it out, she’d felt a resistance from some part of her.
After that night, Vivienne only spoke to Sapphire when necessary. Should they be in the same room for more than ten seconds, Vivienne would leave as she tossed an excuse over her shoulder.
Today was no different. She saw Sapphire in the kitchen and turned on her heel to escape.
“Nein!”
Vivienne stopped in her tracks.
“Sit!” Berta ordered.
Vivienne followed the command with reluctance and both she and Sapphire were rewarded with bowls of the strange porridge.
Charles enjoyed it, accepting a third helping with a lopsided smile, but his opinion was moot. The stroke he had seven years earlier left him lacking control over seventy percent of his body and at least half his taste buds.
An uncomfortable silence followed, interrupted only by Berta’s farts, which in turn made the whole situation that much more uncomfortable.
Sapphire finished the bowl with a mild gag, then grabbed the newspapers and headed for her attic. She locked her bedroom door and climbed up through the flap, entering her sanctuary.
She opened a cabinet and slowly ran her fingers over her files: her pride. There were eight of them now, numbered in the order in which she had caught them. She stopped on number seven: Richard Martin. The last she’d read up on him, he had been sentenced to San Quentin. She was sure they’d fit like a glove: horrible place, horrible man.
File number eight was George Rath. She’d convinced herself that he was the man who had sent her the finger in a box. It turned out he wasn’t, but at least she got the killer off the streets. She’d spotted a short article in the Thousand Oaks newspaper that said Rath had died of a heart attack before he even got to court. She wasn’t surprised; she’d been in his apartment and knew his eating habits were atrocious.
She couldn’t count the religious psycho from last year; he’d been the one stalking her. Plus, she didn’t capture him, Aston shot him.
Sapphire closed the cabinet and grabbed the newspapers.
Immersed in her routine, she cut out every article she could find on the Stripper Slayer and his three victims. She put them up in the empty spot on the attic’s wall; adding to her one-of-a-kind serial killer wallpaper.
The articles already on the wall were about unsolved cases, killers she hadn’t been able to find, victims she couldn’t connect. Once a case was closed, she’d take the articles off the wall, place them into a new folder, and number it. It was the best and worst part of her process. It was a surge of feelings of success followed by inexplicable disappointment. There was a part of her that felt like she hadn’t gotten what she wanted, even when she got the very man she was supposed to. It was strange, even to her.
Sapphire studied her wall, unsure of how to start her transformation from Beverly Hills heiress to penniless downtown stripper. She couldn’t just stroll into the Golden Mirage knowing nothing about stripping. She needed time for pole-dancing lessons and research.
As she flipped through the L.A. Times, she stopped short in the Classifieds.
The Golden Mirage seeks Exotic Dancers.
She searched for the date and time of the audition.
Sapphire had exactly twenty-four hours to master the art of stripping.
* * * * *
“The bar was crawling with broads,” Capelli said in his thick New York accent. He held the pause button on the DVD player. “Guess what I came home with?”
“Five kinds of STDs,” Aston said. “Would you push play?”
“No, this makeup artist named Diana. We go to her place, and I’m thinkin’ this place is lookin’ familiar. Which was weird because, you know me, I never forget a face…or a nice set of knockers, so I hadn’t slept with her before.”
“Push play.”
“Turns out I had been there before, because in walks Diana’s roommate, Stacy. She was the one I’d slept with…”
Aston zoned out.
When Capelli first moved from the East Coast to L.A., he and Aston became the dream team at the downtown station—according to them, at least. Not only did they catch high grade pimps and murderers when they put their minds together, but they also got along on a personal level. After work, they’d go to the bar and bullshit about the Serial Catcher and play wingman for one another’s lay-of-the-night. After a few months, Capelli transferred to Thousand Oaks and Aston partnered with Wilson, a vulgar son-of-a-bitch from Compton.
He and Capelli fell out of touch until Capelli called to let Aston know that he had a Serial Catcher victim in custody. Capelli convinced his chief that he needed Aston’s expertise, and he was allowed onboard despite being from a different county.
Aston assumed they’d fall into their same pattern, but Capelli had changed during their time apart. The Serial Catcher was still priority, but he spent more time talking about tail than he did focusing on the task.
“So, long story short,” Capelli continued. “Diana didn’t want to sleep with me that night, so my balls still look like fat Smurfs.”
“Just give me the remote!” Aston snatched it from Capelli and pushed play for the hundredth time.
On the screen George Rath stuffed his face with hamburgers and fries; his gigantic stomach folded over the edge of the table in front of him.
The Serial Catcher had caught Rath, a shoe salesman/serial killer, last year in Thousand Oaks, Capelli’s district. The police received the anonymous call and found Rath hanging upside down above a meat grinder in the old slaughterhouse. Next to him lay a recording of Rath himself confessing to the murders.
He was the only serial killer caught by the Serial Catcher who’d been willing to talk. The McDonald’s food was the only thing they were able to bribe Rath with to have a conversation without his ever-present lawyer. Junk food meant a lot to this guy, maybe even more than killing.
Aston sat in the opposite chair. Capelli stood behind him with crossed arms and a puffed chest like a bouncer. He was 250 pounds of Italian muscle and was the obvious choice for the intimidating, silent cop.
“Like I’ve told you and Rocky Balboa over there,” Rath said, nodding to Capelli, “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know if you can get me released.”
“Mr. Rath, you admitted to murder on tape, and we found locks of hair belonging to all the victims in your apartment,” Aston said. “You’ve repeatedly screwed the pooch and there’s not a judge in the world that would set you free.”
Rath rolled his eyes as if the women he had killed were inconveniencing him. “Fine, give me your best shot.”
“Men like you,” Aston said, “usually go somewhere like San Quentin where you’ll be a prey to other inmates with soft spots for women, like their mothers and sisters.” Aston got up as he always did when it came to negotiation. “We can try to persuade the judge to get you a spot at Pleasant Valley State Prison. A vacation resort compared to San Quentin.”
Rath took a huge bite of his Big Mac, sucking in the dressing like the juice of a ripe pear.
“Ah-aaaah,” he groaned, as if getting laid. He took another chunk off the defenseless burger.
Aston puked a little in his mouth.
“I also want In-N-Out. Double-Double, animal style. A large milk shake, half vanilla, half choc…why aren’t you writing this down?”
Aston tapped his finger to his head. “Got it all right here.”
There would be no Double-Doubles for George Rath. As soon as he spilled the beans, which Aston was convinced he would do, it would be bland chow at San Quentin.
“So you’re basically saying my choices are shitty jail or shitti
er jail? No deal.” Rath placed his blubbery arms over his even blubbier stomach. “Don’t think I don’t know how bad you want this. And trust me, what I got will blow your mind.”
Rath grabbed the second Big Mac and opened his mouth. Aston snagged it and slapped him with it, leaving a blob of dressing across Rath’s face.
“Let me tell you something, lard ass.” Aston put his hand under the table. “If you think you’re safe where you’re sitting, you’re wrong. I’ve manipulated the system before, and I can do it again. I will do everything in my power to make sure you and your triple XL ass get sent to Texas where they have less mercy. San Quentin would be a goddamned walk in the park compared to what the right wing will do to you.” It was a lie. Aston had no ability to reshuffle the state-to-state system, but Rath didn’t know that.
“Bullshit,” Rath said.
Okay, maybe he did know it.
Aston let on the tiniest smile. “Right now, there’s a Smith and Wesson forty cal’ cocked at your crotch.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yes I am,” Aston said and pulled the hammer. “Now, it’s cocked.”
Beads of sweat accumulated above Rath’s lip. “You can’t shoot me. You’d get fired.”
“I would,” Aston agreed. “Luckily, the live feed will mysteriously skip right before you attack me and I’ll be driven to use lethal force. Does that sound about right to you, Capelli?”
“Sure does,” Capelli nodded.
Rath’s already labored breathing grew thicker. “What about the Serial Catcher?”
“Meh.” Aston shrugged. “If you’re not going to talk, your life is worth shit to me. In fact, the way I see it, your death would benefit both the system and the hard working tax payers. Do you pay taxes, Capelli?”
“Sure do.”
Rath was sweating everywhere. Even his pudgy earlobes were dripping.
Aston looked at his watch. “You have three seconds to talk before I shoot; no Mississippis. One-two-”
“I’ll take it!” Rath shouted, holding his hands up. “I’ll take Pleasant Valley State!”
“Okay, then let’s try this again.” Aston put the gun back in his brown shoulder holster and clasped his hands on top of the table, hiding his excitement. “Who is he? Who put you in that slaughterhouse?”
