by Mia Thompson
Take the bait. Take it. Taaaake it.
He glanced over at her again then his eyes shot in the opposite direction.
“Mmm…no thanks,” he said, as if she had asked him if he wanted the rest of her ice cream.
Sapphire smiled to hide her frustration. This man-boy did not want to kill her at all.
He didn’t have a type or any other physical preferences. Meaning it could be any girl at any given moment as long as she was a Golden Mirage stripper. So why not Sapphire? Not that she was vain or anything, and she tried hard not to take it personally, but seriously, what was it? Her hair? Make up? Breath? Something about her made him think she wasn’t killable. She never had any complaints before.
“That’s me over there,” he said and she pulled over. She found it hard to believe that the man with the world’s most expensive suit lived in such an average apartment building.
“If you change your mind…” Sapphire started, about to give him an e-mail address she would set up later.
“I won’t. Thanks for the ride.” He slammed the door shut.
Sapphire gasped as he walked off. First, he refuses to kill her, and then he slams her already loose door? This killer was psychotic AND bad-mannered.
He walked up to the entrance of the building and fiddled with his keys.
Sapphire drove off then pulled into an alley and parked.
John Doe, Jr. looked around then walked away from the building. Sapphire let him get way ahead then crept after him, lights off.
He walked until he reached a part of the city where there were streetlights and no hobos or prostitutes in sight. He stopped at Skyline, downtown’s most retro building, where some of the richest people in finance and a few celebs lived.
Sapphire watched him exchange a few words with a passing woman and shook her head.
The misconception of serial killers often being middle-class was a bad one. It tricked people into believing they were safe around the wealthy. Wrong. Rich people were worse. They were bored. Sapphire should know.
She waited the few minutes it took for him to get up the elevator. Then a light from the apartment farthest to the left on the thirty-second floor came on.
“Gotcha.”
Chapter 10
Sapphire’s eyes snapped open. Her whole body was soaked in sweat, and her heart beat something fierce. She was awake, but she couldn’t get the images out of her head.
She’d come home from stalking John Doe, Jr. and hit the sack right away. The second she fell asleep, she was back in the crimson-colored motel room with her mother and father.
Sapphire looked at her alarm clock. It was only 3 a.m. but it felt like she’d been trapped in the dream for hours, trying to get out. The scenario kept repeating, ending with her father saying, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
She got out of bed and stood by the window looking out into the darkness. Something wasn’t right, she could feel it. Dr. Rues made Sapphire go somewhere she wasn’t supposed to and now her mind was stuck there, on repeat.
She noticed a white Audi outside of the mansion. Its lights were off, but fumes came out of the rear. Sapphire would not have reacted to it except the car didn’t belong. It wasn’t that it was ugly and cheap like Sapphire’s Volkswagen. It was too average. People in Beverly Hills spent millions on their homes and vehicles to make sure they could never be called average. The word was detested.
Sapphire clapped. When the light didn’t come on, she remembered her mother recently upgraded the house lighting system. God forbid anyone actually walk over and flip a switch.
“Lights on.” The room burst into a bright yellow.
The Audi sped off, leaving a cloud of exhaust behind.
Of course, it could have been a pizza delivery driver, a maid, anyone.
Of course, this was not what Sapphire Dubois believed.
* * * * *
“You said we were going to Napa!” Vivienne cried.
Sapphire rolled up the window as she watched her mother and the rehab facility get smaller in the rearview mirror.
Mr. Goldstein had managed to work his magic, getting Vivienne out of both jail time and excessive fines. Had the judge not been a Matt LeBlanc fan, Mr. Goldstein would have gotten her out of the week-long rehab requirement as well. But the judge was and had asked Matt, more than once, to say, “How you doin?”
Sapphire’s mother, who was still in denial about the whole thing, had to attend rehab.
It hadn’t taken much to get Vivienne into the car, despite the fact that she preferred not to spend time with Sapphire. A promise of a mother-daughter week at a vineyard in Napa Valley—“vineyard” being the key word—and she was good to go.
Sapphire yawned, trying to keep her tired eyes steady on the dirt road. She hadn’t been able to sleep after the nightmare. She stayed up and watched the road in case the white car returned. It never did.
She pulled out from the gates meant to keep people in more than out, and actually felt bad for her mother, who looked helpless in the mirror as she stared after the Range Rover. All that was missing was a teddy bear in her arms.
Sapphire glanced at the clock on her dashboard: 6:05 p.m.
She would have been at the Golden Mirage now if she hadn’t beaten the crap out of their best customer. Big mistake. Now she would have to figure out a way to get into John Doe, Jr.’s apartment, which was nearly impossible.
The Skyline was a state-of-the-art new apartment building with all the best amenities and topnotch security. They had cameras everywhere and security guards patrolled every floor.
Sapphire had been there once, at the grand opening. Chrissy dragged her there. Now she was glad her best friend had. She knew the obstacles and could prevent her face from getting plastered on a screen…again.
She put her phone in the port as she realized that the person who got her in before, could probably get her in again.
“Call Chrissy,” Sapphire ordered.
“Right away Ms. Dubois,” the robotic female voice replied. “Calling: California Pizza Kitchen.”
Sapphire scowled at her new phone. They didn’t get along well, the two of them, not like her and her old phone. She would still have the old one if Chrissy hadn’t traded it in, insisting Sapphire’s was three months out of date and therefore an embarrassment.
“No,” Sapphire scolded. “Call Chrissy.”
“Calling: Father O’Riley.”
“No. Call…well, okay.”
They hadn’t talked since she found her new killer, and he had a knack for shedding light on most situations.
“Father O’Riley is out of the coverage area, Ms. Dubois.”
Sapphire sighed at the rectangle machine. “No, he’s thirty miles away. Last week I went to West Hollywood and you told me I was in Guam.”
“Searching…Guam.”
“No! Call Father O’Riley,” Sapphire insisted.
“Calling: Chrissy.”
Sapphire banged her head to the steering wheel, accidently honking at an elderly couple crossing the street.
“Um, hey, Saph,” Chrissy’s voice filled the car. “I, eh, can’t talk. Shopping.”
“Wait. Remember when we went to the Skyline’s grand opening?”
“Barely, it was boring. I ended up sleeping with the Prince of Finland because I was so bored.”
“Finland isn’t a monarchy.”
“Then who did I sleep with?”
Sapphire sighed. This was a question that came up a lot. Over the years it became a weekly game titled: Who did Chrissy sleep with at (insert event)? Most cases remained unsolved.
“Anyways,” Sapphire said, not having time to play, “do you know anyone there who might have a party or gathering in the near future?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Chrissy sneered.
“What’s up with you? Is something wrong?”
“I didn’t—I mean nothing. Quit questioning me. What are you, my mother? I said I can’t talk!”
Cl
ick.
Sapphire looked at the screen. Yep, something was definitely wrong.
* * * * *
“Sir, I already told you, you can’t smoke in here.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what’s in your hand?”
“Oh, whoops. I’ll just finish this one then.”
The bank director gave Aston a cold stare then opened the window, coughing and waving her hand.
Becoming a cop was the best decision Aston ever made. People tended to argue less over things that clearly weren’t okay. They assumed he knew what he was doing because he was a cop. Joke was on them, Aston rarely knew what he was doing.
After coughing some more, the director left the room and Aston and Capelli went back to staring at the small screen, featuring the security footage.
Aston’s phone rang and he looked at the screen. It was Moore.
Reject.
He liked to believe he was passing on no-strings-attached sex because he just didn’t have time, but he knew the real reason; it was the look on Sapphire’s face when she saw Moore at his place. It had been on replay in his mind ever since.
His actions had hurt her and he hated that, even though she was engaged to someone else. The whole thing was fucking confusing.
“Nice ass,” Capelli said.
“Thanks, I’ve been working out.”
“The bank director’s.”
“Oh, I didn’t notice.”
“Really?” Capelli leaned back, putting his hands crisscross in his armpits. “Aston Ridder, the infamous downtown womanizer ‘didn’t notice.’ I used to think alien abductions were a crock, but now I’m not so sure.”
“If anybody has changed, it’s you,” Aston sneered.
“I hate to tell yah, but I’m the same as I’ve always been. That Moore chick has done a number on you. You won’t go to boobie-bars, and you don’t even glance when a smokin’ ten walks our way. Frankly, your behavior is alarming, Ridder.”
Aston was taken aback. Was he the one who had changed? He laughed despite the headache he had from staring at the poor-quality footage. “Trust me, Moore isn’t the reason.”
Capelli scoffed, not believing him. “Okay, so if not Moore, then who?”
“Her, right there.” Aston pointed at a slender blonde on the screen. “Watch.”
“We’ve already watched her, she goes in, ten minutes later she comes out. Nada.”
“Exactly, read the list.”
Capelli sighed and looked down at the notebook. “Femmy guy, purchased shoes. Brunette, nothing. Lady with dog in her purse, a new purse for her dog. Redhead, nothing. Weird woman with limp, purchased surprise, surprise, shoes. Blonde, nada.”
“Different women, go to a shop, and none of them bought anything?”
“Dear God,” Capelli exclaimed, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “Book ‘em Dano.”
Aston snatched the remote from Capelli and rewound the tape, pausing with every woman.
“Brunette, redhead, blonde. Rath collected hair from his victims. She lured him out by switching her appearance to figure out what hair color he wanted.”
Capelli squinted at the screen. “Christ. We’ve got the back of the Serial Catcher’s head.”
They both tilted their heads and Aston pushed pause.
“Do you see what I see?”
“Yup.”
* * * * *
Sapphire walked into the kitchen to see the Dubois’ family physician, Dr. Wells, and Charles with their weekly checkup underway. Behind them, Berta was mopping and farting, making Dr. Wells uneasy.
“Hello Sapphire, haven’t seen you in awhile,” he said.
“Jacket,” Berta ordered and Sapphire handed it to her.
Berta scowled and shook the jacket vigorously to make a point of its dirtiness.
“I’m glad you came, Sapphire.” Dr. Wells put down his stethoscope and his forehead creased with concern.
A knot materialized in Sapphire’s stomach and she looked at Charles.
“I heard your mother is in re…er…away, and legally Charles’s secondary guardianship falls on your Uncle Gary, but his office said he is in India on business and not due back until next week. This means all decisions fall on you.”
“What kind of decisions?” She couldn’t lose Charles. Growing up she never had that father-daughter relationship with him. Whenever Charles wasn’t away on business, he seemed oblivious of her, like she was air to him. But in the years after his stroke, they had grown closer. The idea of a life without Charles and his lopsided smile was inconceivable.
“Um,” Doctor Wells said. “The medication your mother has kept Charles on doesn’t do much but maintain the state he’s in. Over the last few years I’ve been trying to convince your mother to put Charles on a program that could improve his health quite a lot.”
Sapphire knew the answer, but she had to ask. “And why did she refuse?”
“Well-um,” he said, “the treatment is rather expensive, and she said it was a financial issue.”
Eeer! Wrong answer. Charles was a multimillionaire. Vivienne did it to keep Charles immobile until the day he finally croaked. Even Dr. Wells knew it.
Sapphire cringed thinking about what her stepfather had been through over the years. She always thought Charles had the best help, but her mother had let him suffer on purpose.
“Yes, you have my permission,” she said, her voice hard.
“Great. It may work quickly, or in few cases, not at all. It varies from patient to patient.” Dr. Wells gave her forms to sign, handed Berta a prescription for extra strength Gas-X, and was out the door.
Sapphire looked over at Charles. Since she knew her mother felt no guilt at all, Sapphire felt it was her responsibility to feel guilty enough for the both of them.
“Charles…”
He looked over at her with his sweet gray eyes. Sapphire marched over and hugged him. He was surprised by the forceful embrace, then tried to hug her back, but just leaned into her.
“I say we order the messiest food we can find then picnic in front of the TV on mom’s darling $65,000 ivory carpet.”
“Hoa He!” he said. It generally translated to: Hell yeah. Or, during baseball season: Those damn Yankees.
Sapphire’s phone rang. She assumed it was either her mother calling to beg Sapphire to take her back, or, more likely, the staff calling to beg Sapphire to take her mother back.
She didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway.
“Where in the hell are you?” an Englishman spat.
“Giles?” she asked, stepping away from Charles and into the hallway.
“Yes, Giles! Who did you think it was, Hugh-bloody-Grant?”
“Not really.” Hugh usually called Vivienne’s cell, not Sapphire’s.
“You better have a valid reason for running out in the middle of a shift and not showing up at all tonight.”
“I’m not fired? I mean, the cowboy…?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘her sass was refreshing.’ It’s too late to get your routine right tonight, so come in early tomorrow and we’ll see if we can get you on stage and straighten out your problem areas, so all your areas.”
Sapphire smiled. She wasn’t fired and she’d be on stage. Perhaps John Doe, Jr. would accept her as a victim. It was possible he was only drawn to the dancers featured on stage.
“So?” Giles asked.
“Sooo…I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“So what is your excuse for not showing up? Make it a good one please. I’ve heard everything from ‘my grandmother died again’ to vaginal reconstruction surgery.”
“Well…” Sapphire headed for the closet to get Aston’s flash drive, which was still in her pocket. “I had to take my alcoholic mother to court-ordered rehab because she smashed into Matt LeBlanc’s car. Then I had to spend time with my vegetative, paraplegic stepfather, who has been kept like that by my alcoholic mother so she can have sex with other men and still inherit his money.”
“Good one,” Giles finally said. “Though I’d lay off the soap operas if I were you.”
Sapphire hung up. She was back on track.
She dug into her pocket. The flash drive needed to be destroyed. Demolished. Hell, blasted by high-powered artillery, to make sure all evidence of Sapphire as the Serial Catcher died a fiery death.
There was only one problem.
It was gone.
Chapter 11
“Get off the stage!” Somebody hurled a shoe at Sapphire and she ducked.
Some Golden Mirage customers booed while others played with their phones. One guy was snoring. Not the greatest moment in Sapphire’s short career as a stripper.
She arrived at the Golden Mirage at 3 p.m. Giles spent the next few hours pouring his British heart into molding Sapphire into an acceptable stripper. Based on the booing and shoe throwing, he’d failed.
The DJ killed Sapphire’s techno music, and she left the stage embarrassed.
She went to the dressing room to plant her head on the desk in front of her mirror. She was so tired from not sleeping for days that her mind and body were on autopilot. Last night, she closed her eyes and was back in the motel room. After waking up screaming twice, Sapphire had given up on sleep and searched the whole mansion for Aston’s flash drive without result.
Berta would probably just set it aside if she found it, but having that kind of evidence on the loose was nerve wracking.
Sapphire banged her head against the desk a couple times.
“It’s okay, Sapphire Two,” Misty said, “when I was little girl in Russia, I dream of coming to America and see my name in big lights. Perhaps this is not good dream for you. Perhaps, butcher or prostitute.” She gave Sapphire one of those painful Russian encouragement pats.
Ginger skipped past them and over to her mirror.
“What, no gloating?” Sapphire looked at her. “No comments about shoes being thrown?”
“No need,” Ginger said, then held her hand up, counting down with her fingers. Three. Two. One.
“Sapphire!” Giles stormed into the room. “You are done for tonight. You were such rubbish up there, you make Chastity look like bleeding Michael Flatley in comparison.”
