Silencing Sapphire

by Mia Thompson

  “Oh no,” Sapphire tried, “this is how I look when I’m happy.”

  Misty gave her three encouraging pats on the back that felt more like the slaps one gets when choking. “Lucky girl, you are terrible dancer.”

  “Thanks.”

  Misty left to go wax a body part Sapphire didn’t know was waxable, and she stood there for awhile, disappointed, staring out as a few customers entered the establishment.

  The doors opened and he stepped inside.

  John Doe, Jr.

  * * * * *

  “Fuck me.” Aston shook his head.

  “Man, you can say that again,” Capelli agreed.

  “Fuck me.” Aston shook his head.

  He stared down at the broken keyboard that he used to smash up the hard drive which had collapsed when they inserted the flash drive.

  Capelli sat next to him staring at the black computer screen, arms crossed.

  Aston was so excited to get the identity of the Serial Catcher that he ignored the fact that he had slept through his alarm, had strange dreams of people in his studio, and had the ass-ache of the century. He skipped breakfast, a shower, and a few red lights on his way to the Beverly Hills Police Station.

  At first he thought there was an error with the computer, but when he saw the vicious little man flashing his tongue at them, he knew it was a virus. After a quick call, they found out the shoe store had the same problem. The tech department told them the virus was immediate and final.

  It was gone. All of it. There was no way to retrieve the information. The Serial Catcher, who was hooked and ready to be reeled in, had bitten off the line and escaped back into muddy waters.

  “How does breakfast sound?” Aston asked, grabbing the flash drive. “Coffee, bagel, bullet-to-the-head, eggs?”

  They walked down to the station’s cafeteria. Aston stared at the flash drive in his hand. Something smells fishy.

  And it wasn’t Capelli today, who instead reeked of bad cologne.

  “Coffee. Black,” Capelli ordered at the counter.

  “You should try the caramel macchiato,” Aston suggested. “It’s delightful.” When he got no reply, he turned to see Capelli gawking at him. “What?”

  “You should try the caramel macchiato, it’s delightful?” Capelli repeated. “This from a guy who used to reheat instant Folgers in the microwave and laugh at people with their foo-foo coffee drinks?”

  Aston was just about to defend his caramel macchiato, because it really was delightful, when it hit him. He grabbed Capelli’s arm so violently that the black coffee splattered all over the counter.

  “Fine, I’ll try your damn macchiato. Relax.”

  “The computer yahoos said the virus was instant, right? And the shoe store’s system was clean last night. I had the clean flash drive in my hand from the time I got it to when I went to bed. I put it in my filing cabinet, went to sleep, slept through my alarm for the first time in my life, then took the flash drive straight here and inserted it.” Aston and Capelli looked at each other, their brains connecting.

  “So either someone infected your flash drive too, then put it back,” Capelli said. “Or…”

  “This isn’t my flash drive,” Aston said. One thing became clear to Aston as he and Capelli stared down at the black, two-inch article in his hand.

  “She knows who I am.”

  Chapter 9

  “No touching, no snogging, no nipples, definitely no BJ. And don’t get any ideas, no CBJ either.”

  “Okay.”

  “No number, no talking, no flashing, no Italian. No shagging on the side, period.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t have a clue what Giles was talking about.

  “Good.” He looked less concerned. “Also, for anyone else, I’d tell you that security’s right outside if you need them, but if you call them in on this guy, I will kill you with my own bloody hands, Sapphire Two. If he gets out of line, you handle him. Ginger always did.”

  “Okay.”

  He took her right hand and held it up as if she was pledging an oath, then closed his eyes. “Repeat after me: I will not fock this up.”

  “I will not fock this up.”

  “Very funny,” Giles sneered, letting go of her. “Let’s have a piss at Giles who is down to one decent customer and has his willy strung up in one of those medieval devices because the world has been in a bloody recession and half his staff has either left because they are scared of dying or off being dead themselves.” He paused. “I need this bloke. So please, do the dance we practiced, don’t fock up, and I promise I will not kill or sack you…or both.”

  “So basically, no pressure.”

  “Go on then.” He smacked her on the ass, sending her in the right direction.

  Sapphire collected her nerves as she stood in front of the curtain to the private room where the cowboy was waiting for her.

  Whatever you do, Sapphire told herself, do not punch this man in the face. She slid the curtain to the side and smiled.

  “Why, howdy,” he said, licking his upper lip. Sapphire’s fist automatically clenched.

  “Howdy,” she answered, attempting a coy voice.

  He sat in a plush chair—taking up the majority of the space in the small room—drinking whiskey, and undressing her with his eyes. Not that he had to work hard at it.

  Giles had tried to make it easy for her. All she had to do was take off a small see-through shirt, her gloves, and a tiny skirt held by Velcro, leaving her in black booty shorts and a bra that was stuffed with nude cutlets to give her “something resembling cleavage” as Giles put it.

  When the cowboy’s favorite country song started playing, Sapphire took his hat and put it on her head, like she and Giles rehearsed. Though she found it hard to dance to the DJ’s hardcore techno, she found it harder to be sexy to a country song titled: Momma get the hammer, there’s a fly on daddy’s head.

  Despite two missteps and the twenty-second struggle to get her shirt off, it was going well. The cowboy seemed into it.

  It was when Sapphire turned around to do a dip that it all went south…literally.

  The cowboy stood up and grabbed her ass. Then came the unmistakable sound of cowboy jeans being unzipped.

  As Giles’s voice echoed in her mind, warning her not to fock up, Sapphire turned to him. She pushed him back and wagged her finger in a no-no motion.

  “Oh come on,” he said with groggy eyes, “we both know how important I am to this joint.” He approached her again, this time aggressively. “Just do what I want and no one will be upset.”

  His cattle-trading fingers reached for her throat and Sapphire snapped into defense mode. He could have been reaching for a body part less hostile, like her boob, but in Sapphire’s mind—more accustomed to murderous men—he was going for the kill. Her body responded before her commonsense had time to stop her.

  She grabbed his hand, twisting it. He winced in pain and his pants slid down to his ankles. His other hand searched toward her face and Sapphire kicked him back into the chair.

  There was a moment of stillness while Sapphire’s foot was still on his face—pushing his lips and his cheek to the side—his eye flicking between her and her boot.

  Not sure what to do, Sapphire slowly removed her foot from the cowboy’s face—frozen in some indescribable emotion—then removed the hat and neatly set it to the side. She stayed for an awkward moment then bolted.

  Shit. Sapphire’s heart raced as she dashed down the hallway. She’d get fired. Giles would never let her come back once the cowboy opened his mouth.

  She ran to the dressing room to change her clothes and noticed that someone—Ginger most likely—had written die bitch die in red lipstick on her mirror.

  It wasn’t until she got into her Volkswagen and her panic settled that she was able to start thinking.

  Sapphire sat in her car across the street from the Golden Mirage.

  She couldn’t give up now. John Doe, Jr. was still in there and he was brutal, a psy
cho. She couldn’t let him get another girl. If Sapphire didn’t catch him, who would? Strippers getting killed and disfigured right and left obviously wasn’t a priority for the LAPD. Without Sapphire, these girls didn’t have a chance in hell. She had to stay.

  She would wait for the cowboy to exit then use whatever tactic she could to convince him to tell Giles he needed to keep her. If the cowboy spoke, Giles listened. That part was clear.

  The door of the Golden Mirage opened and a familiar face appeared.

  Except it wasn’t the cowboy.

  It was John Doe, Jr.

  There were a few standard rules to stalking a serial killer, and since the bookstore didn’t carry a copy of Stalking Serial Killers for Dummies, they were rules Sapphire had created herself.

  Rule Number One: If you don’t have a plan while stalking your predator, keep your distance.

  Which is exactly what she did.

  The streets lay dark while Sapphire crept after the man-boy as he passed both humans and other creatures lurking in the shadows.

  The nightlife in downtown L.A. consisted of hobos, prostitutes, and the occasional lowlife criminal waiting for a chance to rob a hobo, prostitute, or a much more lucrative lowlife. It wasn’t often that you saw a young man wearing a $100,000 suit strolling carelessly through a part of L.A. the city didn’t even bother to keep properly lit.

  A few blocks down he stopped by a gas station and tried to hail a cab that was already taken. It confirmed Sapphire’s theory.

  Why wouldn’t he just get a cab outside the Golden Mirage? He didn’t want to be seen and recorded by one of the cab cameras at the place he picked his victims.

  There was a whisper in Sapphire’s ear. Fortunately she wasn’t getting carjacked. It was her own voice telling her to violate the regulations that had kept her alive so far.

  Rule Number One was about to be broken.

  Sapphire pulled up to the gas station. She took a breath before she rolled down the window.

  “You need a ride?”

  * * * * *

  “Hey…” Sluuurp. “Did you hear about that downtown case?” Barry asked.

  Aston cringed as he gazed at his own apartment building across the street. They were watching his building, hoping to spot the Serial Catcher staking him out.

  “It’s strange,” Barry continued. “The LAPD doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it.” Sluuurp.

  “Trust me,” Aston said. He took another bite of his whole grain bagel, trying to stay calm. “They’re doing something, just not in the public eye.” He had no idea what case Barry was talking about but felt obligated to defend his old station.

  Sluuurp.

  Aston counted to ten, annoyance for Officer Barry Harry making his skin crawl.

  After a lot of awkward begging, Aston had let the boy come along. Partly because he felt sorry for him and his lack of experience, but mostly because he needed Barry’s ugly buggy to stay incognito.

  Barry was the greenest cop Aston had ever come across. Having spent his first year as a cop in Beverly Hills, Barry’s ass was used to cushy assignments that ended with all parties smiling and shaking hands. In contrast, Aston got stabbed on his first day at the LAPD. His left ball was never the same.

  Sluuurp.

  “Give me that!” Aston snatched Barry’s juice box and threw it out the window. “What are you, five?”

  “Sorry, Detective,” Barry said wide-eyed, reaching for his potato chips instead.

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  Aston had just started putting Barry in a headlock when a car blew past them going at least 55 mph. It took Aston a second to recognize the car and two more to react.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? We’ve got a five-ten.” Aston searched for his siren in the backseat before remembering this wasn’t his car.

  “Um, three things, Detective,” Barry said, grabbing onto the side handle as Aston floored it. “How are you going to pull someone over without the siren? How are people going to know you’re coming without a siren? And why are you worried about a five-ten when we’re on an important stake out?”

  “Don’t know yet. Don’t care. And stopped listening after the first two.”

  “OH MY GOD!” Barry squeezed his eyes shut as Aston pulled between two cars in a nonexistent lane. The boy was overreacting. Aston had tons of margin—at least one inch on both sides.

  The other car took a sharp left at the next intersection and drove down Rodeo Drive. Aston turned, cutting off a yellow vehicle.

  Barry looked over his shoulder. “That was a school bus, you know. With kids in it.”

  “Then they’re lucky. I had to walk to school.”

  Aston maneuvered into oncoming traffic, driving alongside the perp with only the palm tree decorated median separating them. He accelerated to the intersection, then grabbed a hold of the emergency break as he pulled a sharp right.

  The buggy squealed to a stop in front of oncoming traffic in the intersection.

  Barry’s girly scream rang out as the perpetrator’s car plunged toward them, skidding forward. The Porsche emblem nicked Barry’s passenger side door.

  “Got any ticket books?” Aston asked.

  White as a sheet, Barry shook his head then his cheeks puffed up with either air or vomit. Nope. Definitely vomit.

  Barry hurled into Aston’s bagel bag.

  “You owe me $6.98,” Aston said. He grabbed his sunglasses and something to write on. He stepped outside, patting down a few out of place hairs.

  Aston approached the car calmly just as the man in the driver’s seat recognized him.

  “Sir, are you aware of the speed limit on residential streets?”

  John Vanderpilt stared back at him in disbelief. “What?”

  “It’s generally 30 to 35 miles per hour. I suggest you don’t ever go over 45, unless you’re on a highway or freeway. I’m gonna go ahead and issue you a citation.” He handed it to Vanderpilt.

  “Are you kidding me? This is not even a ticket. It’s the back of a tacky takeout menu!”

  “Sir, please don’t take that tone with me. Taco Pete’s is a fine establishment.”

  John crumpled up the menu and tossed it at Aston’s chest. It bounced to the ground.

  “Why don’t you add littering to that?” Vanderpilt said and eyed him up and down. “Unlike some people, I can afford it.”

  “Listen to me, you little prick,” Aston spat. “If I catch you driving 55 in a 35 zone again, I’ll make you regret the day daddy bought you this Porsche.”

  “For your information, my mom bought it for me,” John said, “And don’t think I don’t know what this is about.”

  “Oh yeah, what?” Aston said dryly.

  “You want something I have,” Vanderpilt smirked.

  “A receding hairline?”

  “No,” he said, as his hand flew to his hair. “Do you really think Sapphire wants some little meter maid that makes as much in a year as she spends on her electric bill? Then you’re day-lusional.” He arched a brow. “Where do you live anyway? An apartment? Ha!”

  Aston was happy he’d put on the sunglasses; they hid his reaction. Maybe it was true. Maybe he was day-lusional. What could he ever offer Sapphire Dubois? A yearly salary of 45 grand wasn’t enough to cover her lifestyle. The notion hit him hard, harder than Aston was used to being hit.

  “I have everything she’ll ever want.” John twisted the knife. “Just look around. I own that store.” He pointed. “And that restaurant and that bank. And that’s just on this block.”

  Aston looked at the bank, his jaw clenching. His eyes drew to a tiny camera on the outdoor ATM and his something in his mind sparked.

  The lady whose feet Capelli molested had said there was an ATM across from the shoe store. No ATM came without a camera. If it was even in the vicinity of the shoe store there was a chance something—anything—was caught.

  “Barry!” Aston shouted, ecstatic. “Call Capelli and
tell him to meet me at the shoe store, asap.”

  “Yes, Detective,” Barry said, puke still on his shirt.

  “You’re right, by the way.” Aston turned back to Vanderpilt. “She would never want me for my money.”

  “Of course I’m right,” Vanderpilt said into the rearview mirror, counting hair strands.

  “Must have been the legendary size of my dick that made her come home with me that one time.”

  Vanderpilt’s hand froze and his face dropped.

  “Now you make sure you pay that ticket, son.” Aston tapped the top of the Porsche, maybe a little too hard.

  Aston peeled off and enjoyed the silent ride to his destination. It wasn’t until twenty minutes later that he realized he had stolen the Buggy and left Barry back on Rodeo Drive.

  All and all, not a bad day.

  * * * * *

  Sapphire’s palms were so sweaty they stuck to the wheel. Inside her car, two feet away from her, sat a serial killer. He reeked of both blood-lust and guilt.

  She shouldn’t have broken her own rule, but the circumstances called for it.

  If she couldn’t get back on Giles’s good side—which was likely since she’d planted a foot on his best customer’s face—she might never get the opportunity to be near John Doe, Jr. again.

  She knew she didn’t really exist to him yet. She needed to establish a relationship by reaching out and introducing herself as his next victim. Fingers crossed.

  Sapphire had asked several questions, trying to pump him for information, but he didn’t tell her anything of value.

  “I’m sorry,” Sapphire said, “I never caught your name.”

  “Um, David.”

  Sapphire sniffed, smelling smoke. It seemed a fire had originated somewhere in the general area of um-David’s pants. He was small and scrawny, but a big fat liar.

  “So, David,” she said ready for one final push, “I’m not gonna beat around the bush. I’ve heard from some of the waitresses that you’re pretty generous. The reason I picked you up was because I thought you might like a private dance.”

  He glanced at her.

  “I could give you one,” Sapphire continued. “Outside of work.”