by Mia Thompson
Sapphire walked out of his office feeling overwhelmed. She wasn’t sure why such a happy memory frightened her, but she wanted to bury it. Put it back wherever it came from.
“Hey,” John said as they left the building. “How about we go to dinner then go back to my house and get in the hot tub?”
There it was: the quest for sex. He seemed desperate now, a tinge of anxiety in his voice.
“No sex before marriage.” She was sick of the line. A part of her felt badly for him.
John had always been a horn dog, but since he proposed he’d stopped cheating on her. He no longer smelled like perfume when he embraced her, and she no longer received guilty looks from the girls at the country club.
She wished he would cheat again and that everyone would find out. A big scandal would be the mother of all excuses. Nobody would call her insane. Stupid, perhaps, for letting all that money go, but not insane. Why did John suddenly have to insist on monogamy?
John stood ill at ease, squeezing her hand in his. “Dr. Rues explained something to me before my session.” He paused. “You know why I’m marrying you?”
“No?” She honestly didn’t know. She was trailer trash to the Vanderpilts. He claimed he loved her, but this wasn’t the feeling she got from him. His unyielding commitment to Sapphire made no sense to her or anybody else.
He looked down. “I broke up with you when my father told me your inheritance was too small. Dr. Rues said that I realized something then. My entire life, I had always done exactly what my parents wanted me to do and that’s why I decided to marry you. It’s like, even if I wanted to be with someone else, I couldn’t because that’s what they would want.”
“So we’re getting married because you’re rebelling?” Sapphire said dryly.
“Yes!” He was relieved she understood him.
A fiery hope lit inside Sapphire, and she squeezed his hand back.
“John…” she said slowly. “Don’t you think love should be involved?”
“But Sapphire, I do love you. You’re like my Porsche.”
“Ah, of course.”
“I think of you as mine. I’m the only one who’s allowed to drive you. And once we’re married…” he peered down, paying extra attention to her boobs, “I’ll upgrade the parts.”
Sapphire looked down at her chest. Most girls got their first saline-based implants at eighteen but she had refused her mother’s wishes.
John hugged her tight. “Consider yourself the luckiest girl in the world, Snuggle Bunny. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yay,” Sapphire said, face inside his rigid embrace.
Kill me.
She had to remind herself she still had plenty of time to come up with a plan.
John pulled back and kissed her. He let his long, pointy tongue slide over her lips, mouth, and teeth before he pulled away.
“So how about that hot tub? Don’t buy the cow if you can’t taste the milk first.”
* * * * *
“If you really want to kill someone,” Aston said, “there are three letters you’ve got to remember. H-L-H. Heart, liver, head. Shoot someone in the chest or back, he might live to avenge your shot. I once made that mistake with a homicidal pimp. However, shoot someone in the eyeball, the liver, or the heart, he doesn’t have a prayer.” He paused to bring a spoonful of sugary cake to his mouth. “Now, the trick is to stand close enough to get an accurate aim, but far enough away so that his nasty brains don’t spray all over your face.” Aston glanced down at his audience and took a swig of beer to wash down the cake.
“What’s brains?” asked Dylan, the chief’s six-year-old son. The other kids on the lawn nodded, a sea of bobbing red cowboy hats.
“And what’s a pimp?” another boy asked.
Aston suffocated a burp. “Well, to know what a pimp is, you really need to know what a hooker is first…”
“Okay!” Chief Anderson interrupted. He motioned the kids to run along. “I think Uncle Aston needs a break.”
Aston didn’t even shudder at the title anymore. The more time he spent with the chief’s family, the more he grew accustomed to being referred to as “Uncle.” He didn’t like it, but it didn’t make him want to jam a fork into his eye anymore.
To keep Aston from leaving the BHPD, the chief offered him free range to go after whatever case he wanted, meaning the Serial Catcher. The deal implied that Aston would come to every BBQ, birthday party, and official holiday event he was invited to.
Deep down, there was a miniscule part of Aston that liked it—the same part that felt like the Andersons were more of a family to him than his own father had ever been.
The kids scattered out in the backyard’s maze of clowns, balloons, and bouncing castles.
“Hooker!” Dylan yelled in the distance as he shot one of the defenseless Indians in the eyeball with his toy gun.
The chief blasted Aston a stern look, twisting his beer cap as he settled down in the lawn chair next to Aston’s.
“So, where are you on the Serial Catcher? Getting hotter?”
“More like colder than a witch’s titty—” A child ran by. “—caca.”
“Nice save.”
Aston agreed and clinked his bottle to the chief’s. There was a no R-rated language rule in the Anderson home. It was set up by the chief’s wife, Mona, especially when Aston was around. “The fact that it’s a woman hasn’t made it easier.”
The chief nodded over to Capelli, who was chatting up Mona by the bouncing castle. “I had a conversation with your unofficial partner over there, and it sounds like he’s more interested in the fame that comes after, rather than catching your perp. We’ve had a few cops like that in Beverly Hills, and trust me when I say they’re not the right kind of cop. You’d be better off with someone like Barry. He looks up to you, and he’s as loyal as they come.”
Aston chuckled. He looked over at the pimply Officer Barry Harry, who had been taken hostage by the kids in the bouncing castle.
“Look,” Aston said, “I know Capelli, and despite his distractions, he wants the Serial Catcher just as bad as I do…for the right reason.” Aston took another swig of his beer and nodded over to Mona and Capelli. “You might want to clear him away from your wife, though; he is a bit of a dog.”
The chief’s face dropped as he watched Capelli check out Mona’s ass while she bent down to fix the bouncing castle’s air plug.
“I knew there was a reason I didn’t like him,” the chief muttered and moved to save his wife. He turned to face Aston, walking backwards toward the castle. “If the Serial Catcher is a woman, maybe you shouldn’t focus so much on how to catch her and focus more on how she’s catching them!”
Aston froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. The chief’s words triggered a launch button in his mind.
That’s how she did it: she lured them in. Playing the victim, then unexpectedly swapping roles and taking charge. It was her advantage over the police.
“Capelli!” Aston called, defusing an old-fashioned boxing match between his Italian partner and his chief of police. The chief had already rolled up his sleeves, ready to rumble.
Aston stood with a smile. He knew exactly where to start.
* * * * *
“Everybody,” Giles called out to his staff. “This is the new girl, Sapphire.”
All activity ceased and the girls turned to look.
Sapphire stood in the doorway next to Giles. She had never seen so much nudity in one sweep of the eye. There were girls everywhere: topless, semi-naked, buck naked. Bras and panties of various colors and designs lay scattered across the floor or hung from the large mirrors framed by bright light bulbs. Below the mirrors lay mountains of makeup, razors, and wax products. Sapphire hadn’t expected a nunnery or anything, but it was a lot to take in.
“Hi,” Sapphire said. “I’m Melissa.”
A redhead looked over at Giles. “What is she, retarded or something?”
Giles looked at Sapphire, annoyed. “Always u
se your stage name. It helps you live the character.”
“Sorry, not used to the name. I’m Sapphire,” Sapphire said.
“Sapphire?!” The angry redhead’s eyes wandered between Giles and Sapphire. “The real Sapphire just died a few weeks ago. You don’t even wait until the pole is cold, do you, Giles?”
Sapphire, aka Susan Barker, was the second girl taken by the Stripper Slayer.
“If you don’t go back to icing your nipples I’ll replace you too, Ginger.” Giles pointed Sapphire to a mirror in the corner.
“Oh, please,” Ginger retorted. “With my training I could’ve been a showgirl in Vegas. I’m doing you a favor by staying at this rat hole.”
Ginger stood up, intentionally bumping into Sapphire. “Could you be more in the way…Sapphire Two?”
Oh, ouch. Was that supposed to annoy her? Sapphire sat down and looked at the costume hanging on the chair. Black leather booty shorts, a bra, and gloves missing the tops of the fingers.
“Ladies, tonight is Free Shrimp Friday. Do not even think about going near the buffet. Misty, I’m looking at you,” Giles warned. “Sapphire, you’re doing go-go in the back cage tonight. Let’s hope people will look more at your body than they will your bloody left feet. One can only pray.”
The girls snickered, except for Ginger, who belly laughed.
Perfect. Sapphire didn’t need to be seen tonight. What she needed was to observe everything, every guest, every employee, and every move.
Sapphire looked over at a girl in front of the mirror next to her. Her shoulders were drawn to her neck and her hair pulled over her face. She looked older than the other girls, yet tiny and scared to death.
The girl whispered something to her.
Sapphire leaned in. “I’m sorry?”
“That is Chastity,” a topless girl two mirrors down interrupted in a thick Russian accent. “She is new also.”
Chastity whispered again. It sounded like: “Nice to meet you.” Or, possibly: “I hate you all.”
“I am Misty.” The Russian girl reached out her hand for Sapphire to take. “Don’t vorry about Ginger, she is sunulvabeach.”
“A what?”
“Sunulvabeach. You know the word, yes?” Misty said. “Sun-ulva-beach!”
“Oooh! Son of a bitch.”
“Yes, do you not hear good?” Misty put two ice cubes on her nipples. She clasped on her thin bra, and then winked at herself in the mirror. “Okay, let’s go, Sapphire Two.”
Okay, now it was annoying.
Out in the club, the bass of the DJ’s music was beating like a drum, making the whole floor vibrate. Thick cigar smoke lingered throughout and its overpowering sweet smell was nauseating.
Sapphire got in her cage and closed the door behind her. Thankfully, the go-go duty allowed her to keep her “clothes” on. Unthankfully, the girls at the audition had been right; the leather lingerie did make your ass sweat.
Sapphire danced and scanned the room. Going into this, she’d expected cops. Amber’s death made it three, which officially meant they were prey to a serial killer. All she’d seen so far was a squad car pass the place. She wasn’t complaining or anything; it certainly made it less risky for her, but it just seemed…wrong. The LAPD obviously didn’t feel that strippers were worth their time.
Her eyes swept over the crowd. Giles was already out of the picture; he was more concerned about his club than the dead girls, which just made him a prick, not a murderer. She eliminated the obvious bachelor parties, guys’ night outs, and the pervy guy with his hand in his pants, who a security guy was about to remove. No serial killer would draw that much attention to himself. There was a man in a cowboy hat. His eyes looked like they were going to shoot out of their sockets when the DJ introduced Ginger as the main act. He looked horny but harmless.
Sapphire’s eyes landed on a young, well-groomed man. In fact, she doubted he was even 21. He sat close to her in the back and watched the stage as Ginger did some sort of dirty nurse routine using a stethoscope in a way few doctors would approve of.
There was something cold in the young man’s eyes.
A cowboy hat blocked Sapphire’s view as another man passed by her on his way to the restroom.
“Ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat and sending her a curious glance.
Sapphire turned back to the young man just as he rose. He tossed a hundred on the table.
She noticed his suit and stopped moving as her mind recorded the detail.
Is it? Can it be?
Yes, it was an Alexander Amosu suit. A suit that cost exactly $100,000.
John bought them all the time and would throw the price out there just in case someone in his vicinity had missed the fact that he was filthy rich.
What the hell was a guy with a $100,000 suit doing at a shithole like the Golden Mirage? He should be at upper-class gentlemen’s clubs. He could’ve been twelve years old for all they cared, as long as he had status.
He was also alone. People like him had chauffeurs or security by their side, especially when visiting this area. Sapphire tripped over a homeless guy before she walked into the club. Though that particular homeless guy turned out to be a nice man named Herbert, there was a good chance this rich guy would get robbed the second he stepped out those doors.
There was only one reason someone like him would choose the Golden Mirage over a prestigious club where they’d let you do whatever sick, twisted thing you wanted, to whomever you wanted, under contracted discretion.
And it wasn’t Free Shrimp Friday.
* * * * *
He watched the girls of the Golden Mirage, waiting for someone special to piqué his interest.
His gem, Amber, was long gone and finding his next was crucial to his mental health. They were all beautiful, but like a talent scout, he searched for someone who had the personality with that it factor.
He glanced at his phone to make sure he still had enough time. Ice spread like wildfire through his veins.
Three missed calls. How had he failed to notice? One missed call would have been fine, but three was unacceptable.
He knew he had to leave, but the thought of walking another day with that void in his chest was unbearable.
The phone buzzed again and the big nasty letters spread out on the screen, identifying the caller. He had no choice. He moved to the doors and took one last glance around the room.
Within a second he was filled with a lifetime of wonderful and complex emotions. There she was. He had seen her before, but he saw her true colors now. He didn’t know when the mood would strike him, but once it did, she would die.
He’d be in trouble for not paying attention to his phone, but he felt good. The world was right again.
He had his next.
Chapter 7
Sapphire yawned as she passed one of the brown triangular Beverly Hills signs.
Good. She was almost home.
Flashes of red and blue lights appeared on the road ahead, coming from the four-way stop, and Sapphire slowed down.
Two ambulances and a patrol car were blocking both lanes of traffic.
Her shift had ended at 11 p.m., but she had stayed behind to make sure he didn’t come back. She snooped around the wait staff quarters to find that none of the waitresses knew his name and that Giles had told them not to card anyone who looked like they could spare the money.
The young man never spoke to them and always paid in cash, leaving no credit card name or trail behind.
It confirmed Sapphire was on the right track, so she left the club positive he was her man…boy.
Her guy without a name: John Doe, Jr.
Sapphire stopped in front of the ambulance. Had the accident happened before the famous sign resting on the borders of Beverly Hills had come into view, Sapphire wouldn’t have sighed.
She had seen it a million times. It was always the same story. Some celeb or young heir who’d had a few too many drinks or lines of coke. If they got pulled over, what would it
matter? They had the best lawyers in the country.
Sapphire leaned forward to take in the accident.
A car that looked familiar had plowed into a black Maserati. The windshield of to the car was gone and lay shattered on the ground.
Matt LeBlanc stood unharmed by the Maserati. He gestured wildly to the patrol officer, rehashing the events of the accident the way only an actor could.
The person who had been flung through the windshield still lay in a hot mess on the ground as the paramedics unloaded the stretcher.
Though she felt compassion for the person, Sapphire was appalled by any rich, stupid drunk who endangered not only the poor Matt LeBlanc but non-Friends cast members as well.
Then everything began to register and Sapphire drew a breath.
Her eyes bounced around the accident: the totaled car, the smashed windshield, and finally, the rich, stupid drunk on the ground.
Sapphire ripped the seatbelt off and pushed the door open.
* * * * *
Aston was just about to pull into his parking spot when he got the call. It was Barry Harry, the greenest officer at the BHPD.
Another drunk driver hit another celebrity.
“What the hell makes you think I care about some drunk driver?” Aston snapped into the mouth piece.
Officer Harry made a bad habit out of stalking Aston, calling Aston, and worse, joining Aston for lunch. This, despite the fact that Aston told him to fuck off on a regular basis.
“I just thought…you might want this call.”
The way Barry said it made Aston turn and head to the scene of the accident.
“Did we get any new leads on the Serial Catcher?” Barry asked.
There was no we; the boy was delusional if he thought he was rolling with Aston and Capelli.
“Barry…”
“I thought of something this morning, Detective. The Serial Catcher is probably the person we least expect. So that’s where we should look, where it’s least expected.”
That was a great idea…if you were Nancy Drew.
“Barry…”
“How was Thousand Oaks?”
