Killing Mary Jane: A Dark Romantic Thriller

by Amarie Avant

  The ice in her whiskey clinked against the glass as she tossed back the drink, savoring the hard burn, needing it like punishment.

  The director had indicated that if the various facets of this case weren’t wrapped up soon enough, they’d have to shove her back down to supervisor. “Because let’s face it, Juarez, they kinda need you,” she mumbled to herself. With the president breathing on everyone’s neck, she couldn’t determine if it was her saving grace or condemnation. The higher-ups wanted to keep this case as classified as possible, and there were already at least a hundred tied to the Grienke case with the FBI computer and psychological scientists aware of certain dynamics. The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the sky with an indigo mask with faint stars. Nothing like back at home in Louisiana where the original case had begun for her surrounding the abduction of Tiana Clement. Had it not been for Clement’s case, she wouldn’t be assigned to this one and not for the obvious reason. But she had to believe she was the best.

  Her cell phone buzzed on the coffee table next to her. Ariel answered the phone without screening the call. “Juarez.”

  “It’s Samuels. Wulf has been home for just about seventy-two hours now. Should I bring him back in, grill him more?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him yes, to get the information about Mrs. Grienke out of him by any means. “No. He loves the girl too much. He won’t break.” And you’ll keep showing your hand, such as telling him we plan to smoke out Woods with her as sacrifice. “We have agents working the Mexico angle. Either she’s there or she’ll return to Wulf.”

  42

  Loud, realistic shooting sounds traveled from the den where Wulf’s seven and eight-year-old nephews, Bryan and Ryan were playing. He sat at the kitchen table, with his four-year-old niece, Bree, leaning against him and sucking her thumb. She was a weird one and not at all hypnotized to cooperate when it came to cartoons.

  Wulf smiled at her big sparkling eyes and offered her a keke pua’a, a steamed bun made of pork. Brenda had learned about Wulf’s culture the moment she took him in her home. And today, it seemed she planned on mending his broken heart with food.

  Bree grinned, taking the bun from his hand.

  He kissed her forehead. “Why don’t you run around, play, terrorize your older brothers?”

  The toddler just continued to eat and sit there.

  Brenda laughed from her spot at the stove, content with cooking even more food. “I’m surprised the baby even recalls who you are as long as you’ve been gone. But she’s stuck to you like glue.”

  “How about a book?”

  Bree nodded.

  “Go grab your favorite book on your bookshelf and when you come back down, I’ll be ready to read.”

  With that, she took off. Shaking his head with a smile, Wulf pulled out Shelly’s MacBook that she’d allowed him to borrow. Yesterday, he’d focused long enough to review his resume.

  “Dylan.” Brenda placed her hands in the pockets of her muumuu and took a seat in the breakfast nook. “Are you still thinking about that girl?”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Shelly stressed as she came into the kitchen scooting into the breakfast nook next to him and started to grab a keke pua’a off his once discarded plate. Wulf swatted her hand.

  “Shi—sheesh!” Shelly stopped herself from cursing while waving her hand around. “For all the snitching I did as a child about you sneaking out when you first moved in, Dylan, you always got my back.”

  “Yup. Your hand was always in my food.” He laughed.

  “That stings,” she said, still flapping around her hand.

  “I’ll make you a plate,” Brenda said with a smile as she rose. “I’ve got my court shows to watch. You two remember how old you are. No fights.”

  “Dylan is head-over-heels for little Miss Crazy. She left him.” Shelly got the last word in as Brenda exited the kitchen.

  “Thank you, Shelly,” Wulf replied, clicking a hyperlink for a private security job with an amount of pay that would’ve made him leery. However, he’d received the lead from an old colleague.

  “You’re welcome. Now that the little zombie head is—”

  “What?”

  “Brainwashed woman. Does that sound better?” Shelly asked.

  “Quincy told you,” he grumbled.

  “Hell, yes! Anyway, I think Quincy only told me about Grienke being her husband so I would stop applying Grienke facial products. That’s what you get for introducing me to your cheap friends.”

  “You married my cheap friend.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly in thought, as she grinned devilishly. “I ought to tell Brenda you’re moving in for good. She’ll be so hopeful.”

  Wulf chose not to react to the threat. He loved his sister, and she loved goading him.

  “Look, Dylan, you’re my brother. That woman owes you an explanation for leaving. I’m going to be as annoying as I was when we were teens, trying to get you not to go AWOL, until you get closure.”

  “My life isn’t some tragic love story, Shelly.”

  “I’d rather like a tragic love story after all you’ve been through for that girl. She needs to apologize; she owes you closure.”

  “She tried.”

  “When?”

  Wulf grumbled. “I got a few texts and voicemails from Megan’s phone. Mary Jane—”

  “From her sister’s phone? Why would she call you from her sister’s phone?”

  “Can I speak?” Wulf asked flatly. When she nodded, he added, “MJ and I shared a phone in Mexico. The person who would be out took it. We didn’t have bill collectors calling in paradise,” he finished, taking a deep breath. “So she called and texted. I deleted them without reviewing a single one.”

  “Why?” Shelly’s head tilted.

  “Because Mary Jane would’ve offered an apology and tried to rationalize it. She would’ve wanted to lighten the blow by telling me.” His voice drowned out. In a tone devoid of emotion, he finished strong with, “She would’ve told me that no matter how much she cared for me, she loves Keegan.”

  Shelly’s brown eyes brightened with tears. Her mouth opened and she hadn’t quite gotten the right words to say when Wulf gestured toward Bree. The tot bounded back into the room with a humongous Disney princess book that filled up both of her arms. “No more shit talk,” he whispered to his sister. “It’s reading time.”

  Shelly scooted out of the nook and kissed Bree on her forehead before she claimed the spot.

  “All right then, Dylan.” Shelly started walking backward toward the hallway. “But before I go. I know you mentioned searching for apartments, but I’ll just tell Mom you’re moving in. How are you liking the bottom bunk? The boys just love having you in their room.”

  He chuckled.

  An hour later, Wulf had finished a book about a princess whose hair was so long it tangled all the way down to her feet and wrapped around the perimeter of the tower she lived in. He’d also put a sleeping Bree into her bed, and then caved in to Shelly’s threats. They were almost locked out of the LAPD database. Shelly had figured out Quincy’s password on the third and last try. Wulf held the address to Megan Portman’s home in Lakewood, California. It read that she lived with her parents Lieutenant Colonel Vincent Portman and Elena Portman.

  Forty-five minutes later, he sat in Quincy’s off-duty Charger and stared at the one-story house across the street. Even the home reminded Wulf of the house of terrors. The home was kept well, the yard neat, and the house with a fresh coat of paint. Symbolic of the perfect life Mary Jane was never allowed to have. It was like living in the perfect dollhouse, though people weren’t aware that it was a haunted house in disguise. He then thought of Vincent Portman, Mallory Portman’s biological father. The name was very familiar. Vincent. Vin.

  The man Mary Jane knew as Vin had been abusive mentally, emotionally, and sexually. This man had been her biological father. He could only assume that Peter wanted to strike fear in Mary Jane’s heart at j
ust the mention of her father. Maybe if father and daughter crossed paths in real life, she’d react so adversely that there’d be no weeding through the lies.

  43

  Clink, clink. The door was unlocked. Canelo entered and on cue Mary Jane’s stomach rumbled with striking nausea. When Mary Jane paid him no attention, he tossed the oily brown paper bag onto the bed beside her. She hardly glanced at it. While they were traveling, they’d gone through many drive-thru eateries. They couldn’t poison her because she’d watched them grab the food.

  “You vomited early this morning. Aren’t you gonna eat?” he gritted out.

  The growl of her stomach was just as loud as her whisper, “No.”

  “Why not, Lalina?”

  “Fuck you! I am not Lalina!”

  Canelo sat on the bed beside her. Internally, she recoiled from the strength in his physique. Outwardly, she glared at him, up and down.

  He pulled a Snickers bar out of his jacket pocket and placed it into her lap.

  She folded her arms. The “good guy, bad bitch” routine had almost reached its peak. He walked out.

  In an orange bikini with gold designer emblems, Soledad sunbathed beside a salt-water infinity pool. She sipped a frosted glass of Pina Colada when Canelo stepped onto the pool deck. Canelo imagined her evil eyes boring holes through his brown complexion through the shade of her sunglasses.

  He needed to tell her about the young woman. The girl they had taken could not be Lalina. Although, Lalina and Mary Jane were the spitting image of each other, Escobar’s daughter was never allowed to be in the presence of a single man. Moreover, Lalina’s life was sheltered, perfect even. The Puerto Rican drug cartel made sure his daughter lived a precious existence. She had a security team, but Canelo had learned this Lalina lived with a Polynesian man. The man’s life would be marked for just looking at Lalina on the chance that Lalina might run away with him. And then there was the girl claiming that she wasn’t Lalina. Which made sense. There were warnings to tourists not to wear jewels in Mexico. It was like Mary Jane was claiming not to be this rare, exquisite jewel to a world renown thief. So she was lying about her identity and had run away from her father. With a man. But her father’s team should've found her, killed him, and escorted her home by now.

  Escobar would start a drug war if Canelo’s boss, Hector, had so much as sniffed in Lalina’s direction.

  Canelo’s people wanted to wage war. So why wasn’t Escobar adding fuel to the flame? They had a pawn. No, they had Escobar’s pretty, little princess.

  As he stepped closer, the sound of Soledad slurping up the last bits of chilled alcohol aggravated his eardrums. She held up the empty glass. He grabbed it and went into the house to refill it. When he stepped back out of the large villa, she’d turned over. He placed the drink on the end table next to her chair. As he’d been trained, Canelo picked up the tanning lotion to apply it to her pale skin.

  “Soledad,” he finally began. “I don’t believe she’s Lalina.”

  “Are you paid to think?” She sipped at the now slushy-like drink with a thin arched eyebrow.

  “Hector will flip when—”

  She began to laugh. “Again, we are conversing about matters that do not concern you. Are you the boss?”

  His hands itched to wrap around her slender neck.

  “I didn’t think so.” She undid the straps of her string bikini bottoms. He rolled his eyes. What skin hadn’t already been visible before became so as he pulled them off her. He began to massage the lotion over her bottom.

  Her hand took hold of his and gently glided it into her wetness.

  Contrary to his hatred of Soledad, his penis began to rise and strain against his jeans. Canelo opened his mouth to let Soledad know that he wasn’t in the mood. But hell, the last time she made such a fit, she’d forced him to screw her longer, harder.

  He was loyal to Hector, the king of the El Toro before Soledad arrived.

  When Hector took Soledad as a mistress, Canelo’s life changed for the worse. Although he’d already had sex with her in his mind after first being introduced to her, he never would have initiated a physical relationship with her. She was walking death. She belonged to Hector.

  However, this mistress wanted more sex than the others were required to give the old bastard. Hector couldn’t keep this one satisfied.

  The beautiful demon turned over, signaling him for more.

  44

  Wulf stared at the house across the street with its light blue shutters, pink rose beds, and well-kept grass. Vin had been given a bad rep like Megan. Like her mom, Elena. All to keep Peter’s beautiful wife from coming home. But this was sick. Why make Mary Jane’s real father out to be such a monster?

  A disgusting feeling churned in the pit of his stomach. Scenario after scenario wrapped its claws into his mindset. He concentrated on Peter Grienke’s current whereabouts at a super-max facility. Grienke had no means to hurt Mary Jane ever again.

  This had to be her family. Regardless of the truth before his eyes and Quincy’s confirmation, he’d tread cautiously.

  He got out of the car, noticing a woman with very light skin and a silky, long silvery braid down her back who was clipping the flowers. He told himself that she reminded him of his mother, Brenda, needing the personal reference to humanize a woman he’d grown to loathe.

  She appeared to be of Latin descent. From his side angle, Wulf knew she was none other than Elena Portman even though, strangely, she didn’t have any recent DMV photos on file. Elena squatted down in a long white skirt, a look of serenity on her face as she pruned a rose bush near the base of the porch.

  “Excuse me,” Wulf called out.

  At first, her shoulders tensed. Elena then stood up without warning. He had yet to glimpse of her face before she scurried around the side of the house.

  What the fuck is going on?

  “Ma’am, I apologize if I’ve frightened you,” Wulf stated. It was too late to turn back now. He had to know about Mary Jane. She owed him an explanation. He went to the short white fence and pulled at the latch; it sprung free. He opened it, calling to Elena.

  “What the fuck are you doing on my property?” The booming voice came from a middle-aged man about five-foot-six with lean muscles for his age. This must be none other than Vincent Portman. He had dark skin from hours of an active, outdoor life. He wore a wife beater and jeans and wiped a cloth with his oily hands.

  “I’m looking for–”

  “You’re Officer Dylan Wulf.” The anger dissipated from Vincent’s voice.

  Elena peeked around the side of the house. Her profile was identical to Megan and Mallory’s, full lips and nose. Only her eyes were melancholic instead of hypnotic.

  “Get back, Elena!” Vincent ordered, and she immediately disappeared again.

  Wulf opened his mouth to address the manner in which Vincent spoke to his wife. “Lieutenant Portman–”

  “Where is she?” Though the man was tiny, his voice carried.

  Wulf’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion as Vincent asked the question that should be coming out of his own mouth.

  “Where is my child?” His record indicated he was pushing seventy but his mannerisms were that of a man in his prime, ready to pounce.

  Wulf said, “She left…for home with Megan and Keegan.”

  “No, she did not!” Vincent stepped closer to him. His chest puffed out, solid muscle. “I’ve read about you in the paper. Super cop brings down Gunner gang! Blah! The Gunners haven’t done nothing but kill themselves and innocent women and children so anybody could’ve done your job. And you can’t even fucking tell me where my daughter is. How is it that you can go about defiling Mallory in Mexico for a year and now have no idea of her whereabouts?”

  He sucked in a deep breath of oxygen, gulping a deep breath of air before he could respond. “I was told that Mary Jane left with a man and wom–”

  “Mary Jane, that’s bullshit! My child’s name is Mallory Portman fuckin�
�� Grienke and that’s only because the bastard threatened her to marry him! Stop with all that Mary Jane crap.”

  “Vin,” Elena called, her head appearing around the side of the house again.

  Vincent turned around, his anger evaporating with a sigh. The only thing left was pure adoration for his wife. “Mal will be here later on. Go in the house, Elena, please.”

  She nodded and looked at Wulf in the eye for the first time. The faintest of a smile appeared within the depths of her dark eyes, and then she was gone.

  Vincent turned around. “Find my daughter, or,” his finger wagged in Wulf’s face until a Chevy Spark pulled into the driveway.

  Megan hopped out of the tiny car with a bag of groceries. “Dad, what are you doing?”

  “This idiot let Mallory run off with some folks. He thought she came back with you and that faggot.”

  “Dad,” she reprimanded.

  “I can say what I want!”

  “I know.” Her voice smoothed over his snappiness. “Let’s go inside and talk about it.”

  “He is not welcome in my house. Not without my daughter!”

  “Okay, Dad.” Megan put the groceries by the door. “Can you take these in the house? Mom’s cooking lasagna, remember? Your favorite. I ran out to get the—”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool, Megan! I am from the…”

  Megan repeated his army ranking under her breath, as he spoke. “Daddy, please.”

  Vincent turned back to Wulf. “Find her or I’ll find you. I’m certain you are aware of my credentials.”

  He snatched up the bags and went around back.

  Megan gave Wulf a half smile. “Our dad will tell you where he’s from about twenty thousand times. I guess it sounds like a gang where you’re from.” Her chuckle fell flat. “Now that you met the family, I think the reunions will run more smoothly. So, what is it Dad says about you not having Mal–Mary Jane?”