Pierced: Pierced Trilogy Boxed Set

by Lashell Collins

  I stare at her dumbfounded for a second, and I can feel my smile slipping. We are not going to argue about money tonight. I take a deep breath as I look away. “I don't think so, baby,” I say quietly.

  “But, Josh …”

  “Hey,” I say softly as I turn back to her with a fierce glare. “We are not going to do this here.” My voice is very quiet, and the look on my face must be pretty serious because she flushes slightly and looks as if I've hurt her feelings somehow. Shit.

  There's suddenly an awkward blanket of silence covering the dining room, and I feel like a fucking ass for having caused it. Samantha slowly picks up her water glass and takes a sip, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. I didn't mean for my words to sound so harsh, and I certainly never wanted to hurt her.

  “Um … why don't you just think about it for a while,” Dennis says, speaking up. “The auction's in three weeks in Arizona. And you can go online and look at what's going on the block. If you change your mind about buying, you might want to pre-register. It's a bit of a hassle trying to do it on site.”

  I nod slightly at him, still feeling like shit as the conversation around the table resumes. Megan and Karen start chattering about Karen's latest modeling assignment, and I know they're trying to draw Sam out. She still won't make eye contact with anyone, focusing on her water glass as she runs her thumb over the surface of it. I reach out and gently take her hand in mine, pulling it away from the glass and lightly running my thumb over her knuckles.

  Slowly, she looks up at me with sad eyes, and I forget that we're sitting at a table with six other people when I bring her hand up to my lips. I softly kiss the back of her fingers as my eyes stay locked on hers. She reaches out with her index finger, running it lightly over my bottom lip. We don't use words … but in that instant she knows that I've apologized for hurting her feelings, and I know that she's accepted my apology.

  When dinner is over and we're mingling in Lucas' living room, I get Sam off to herself for a minute, wrapping my arms around her.

  “Baby, I didn't mean to upset you before,” I say softly, not wanting the others to hear our conversation. “I just didn't want to talk about our money issues with an audience.”

  “I know; I get it,” she responds. “I'm sorry I brought it up here. But, Josh … I want you to go this auction with Dennis. Buy something if you want to and enjoy yourself. You deserve to have a little fun!”

  “Samantha, I am not spending one cent of your money at a collector car auction,” I whisper. “That would be like throwing money away. And I don't want to give your mother any ammunition to use against me. It's not going to happen!”

  “Josh, my mother does not have a say in how we spend our money. It has nothing to do with her,” she counters in a loud whisper. “And it wouldn't be throwing money away, Josh. I know those cars make good investments. Why do you think all those old, rich men are so into it?”

  I smile at her in disbelief because I recognize that she is pulling out any argument she thinks will work. “Why is it so important to you that I spend your money on myself?”

  “Josh, we already had this argument before we got married, and I thought we settled this! You agreed to no pre-nup and a joint bank account. It is not my money anymore. It's our money. Please start thinking of it that way!”

  “We are not having this argument in public,” I whisper harshly.

  “Fine! End of discussion.”

  *

  We didn't talk about it the rest of the night, not even after we left the dinner party. Four days later, Samantha handed me a large manila envelope and told me she had sent in all the required paperwork and registered me for the auction. I had my very own paddle and bidder's number, and a credential packet had already arrived in the mail containing everything I needed to enjoy myself at the auction. She had even called Dennis and told him I'd be joining him. I was furious at her for days. But there was nothing I could do, the registration fee had been paid. And more importantly, the bid limit deposit had already been made. A sizable down payment on an even more sizable maximum bid. I couldn't believe the limit she had set. She told me to think of the auction as a birthday gift and insisted that I enjoy myself.

  Dennis and I took one of the Colby Coring jets to Arizona, and we did wind up having a great time at the auction. He paid over a million dollars for the rare Lotus he went after. And I ended up buying a numbers matching 1967 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500 Fastback, dark green with black interior. One of only 2,050 ever made. She's a beauty, and I was taken with her the moment I saw her because the color reminded me so much of Samantha's eyes. I had to have her. It was nowhere near the cash Dennis had shelled out, but it was the most I had ever paid for anything in my life, and I was incredibly nervous about it. When the bidding for her ended and my paddle number was called out, I felt physically ill. But when I called Sam an hour later to tell her what I'd done, she was overjoyed.

  Since then, I've been back to the Barrett-Jackson auction with Dennis one other time and I've added a numbers matching 1967 Chevy Camaro S/S convertible, dark blue with a white stripe around the grill and a matching blue interior to our garage, making me something of a muscle car collector. They are the only thing I've ever spent crazy money on, but it still makes me incredibly uncomfortable. And I only buy if the car is special enough. If she's not numbers matching, I don't want her.

  The ride in to work is uneventful and I pull into the back lot of the police station at about ten minutes 'til 8. Just enough time to get in and get me a cup of coffee before looking over the previous shift's log and starting roll call. I had my reservations about this new position when it was presented to me. When Captain Skinner first came to me and told me the spot was opening up, I was puzzled. But when he explained that Lieutenant Marcos was moving up and that they had discussed possible candidates to take over the detective section, I was honored they thought of me. But at the same time, I was totally shocked. And surprised. Terrified. Marcos was a great Lieutenant to work for. The guys all loved him, me included. And I was reluctant to try and step into his shoes and take things over.

  I talked to him, and to Samantha and Lee, about it for a couple of weeks before I decided to put in for the position. And once I got it, I decided early that I didn't want to make any radical changes or deviate too much from the way Marcos did things around here. He had a way of handling the detectives under him that made us want to give our all to the job and to the cases we were working. He was straightforward and approachable. No nonsense. And that's what I've tried to emulate these past nine months that I've been in this position. So far, the guys have all responded pretty positively to me being in charge, and I think that I've got a real good rapport with them. Most of the seasoned guys all knew me when I was a detective just like them. And with the new guys, I've had a fairly good experience reaching out to them and making sure they know that they can come to me.

  After I've led roll call, giving the boys a heads up on what's gone on overnight and handing out a few assignments, I head into my office to deal with a little paperwork. On my way in, I'm met outside my door by Dave Conner.

  “Hey, Conner. How was your weekend?” I smile.

  “Well, after I took your money in poker on Friday night, my weekend was pretty good, Lieu,” he smiles. “How 'bout yours?”

  “Except for losing to you at poker, not too bad,” I laugh as we walk into my office. I pull out my chair and take a seat. “Did you need me for something?”

  “Yeah, just wanted to let you know that Marsh and I had a uniform go pick up Bennett. We're bringing him in for questioning again.”

  “Bennett's the business partner, right? You still like him over the brother for this one?” I ask, referring to the attempted murder case that Dave and his new partner have been working.

  “I do. The brother had means and no alibi, but I'm just not seeing a motive there,” he answered. “Yeah, the partner has an alibi, but it's a little too convenient if you ask me. I'm still looking into it.
But he had all types of motive, Guy. And there's just something about him that I don't like.” He gives me an expression that says he wants me to trust his gut. Dave and I were partners for over seven years, so I got no problem doing that.

  “Okay,” I nod at him. “Follow it up, see where your instincts lead you.” He nods and heads out. And I turn to the messages on my desk. Most of it's routine, but at the bottom of the small pile there's a note for me to call the Portland PD about a rape case. That's all. No other information. I frown as I look the note over. It doesn't even give the name of a contacting officer, just the number. I sigh as I pick up the phone and dial.

  “Yeah, this is Lieutenant Joshua Pierce, Seattle PD. I've got a message to call your department about a rape case.”

  “Yes, sir. I'll patch you through to Detective Colson,” a polite voice responds. “He's been waiting for your call.”

  After a brief hold, another voice comes on the line, this one all business. “Detective Pierce?”

  “Lieutenant Pierce,” I answer.

  “My apologies, Lieutenant. My name is Roger Colson and I'm working a case that I believe your department might be able to shed some light on for us.”

  “Okay. Go ahead,” I reply.

  “Sarah Townsend, 43, brutally raped Saturday night in her home by an intruder. Victim was home alone, her husband was working. He found her when he returned home a short time later and called 911. When my partner and I showed up at the hospital early Sunday morning to question her, she refused to cooperate saying that she couldn't do it again. When we pressed her for more, she indicated that she was raped thirteen years ago in your city, by the same man.”

  “Did she give you a name?” I ask, feeling myself frown.

  “Scruggs,” Colson answers. “Bo Scruggs.”

  “Bo Scruggs?” Why does that name sound familiar, Pierce? My mind begins working its way backwards through my mental filing cabinet. Scruggs? Scruggs? Brutal rape. Thirteen years ago. Bingo!

  Thirteen years ago, I was still a rookie and Scruggs was my first big collar. “I remember that case, detective. I was the arresting officer,” I tell him, and I can hear the surprise in my voice. “Scruggs was a real dirtbag. Serial rapist who plagued our streets for about eight months if I remember right. Had an unusual MO. He would only go after married women and then he'd leave a personal note for the husband at the scene.”

  “Well then his MO hasn't changed much,” Colson confirmed.

  “We had him on the hook for half a dozen rapes or more, but only one victim would agree to testify against him.”

  “Sarah Townsend?”

  “Sarah Townsend.”

  “Well, when she gave us the name, we did some checking. Scruggs was released from the Washington State Penitentiary two weeks ago. She did receive a notice of his release, but she and her husband figured since they had moved out of state, they had nothing to worry about.”

  “And that son of a bitch went looking for her,” I say in quiet disbelief. “Damn. How is she?”

  “Extremely traumatized. And badly beaten,” Colson adds.

  “Yeah. 'Cause this time he had to teach her a lesson for testifying in the first place,” I tell him. And I can feel my jaw tightening at the thought. Fucking scumbag. I sigh heavily as I shake my head. “Well, unfortunately cases from thirteen years ago aren't on computer yet. But I'll have one of my detectives copy the file on Scruggs and fax it to you.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. I'd appreciate it.”

  “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Not unless you have some theories on his whereabouts.”

  “Did you contact his PO?” I ask, referring to Scruggs' assigned parole officer.

  “First thing. He never checked in after his release,” Colson answers. “PO's got no clue where he is; he issued a warrant for his arrest.”

  “Then I'm afraid I can't help you any more than that,” I say apologetically.

  “No, you've done plenty, Lieutenant. I'll be looking for that file,” he says.

  “I'll get on it right away. You should have by this afternoon,” I assure him.

  We hang up and my mind drifts back to the night I arrested Scruggs. It was just another night on the job for me, no big deal. I didn't even have the first clue who he was. Call went out over the radio, I saw someone matching the description given fleeing the scene, I ran him down on foot and arrested him. I haven't thought about that case in … well, thirteen years. I wrote up my arrest report that night. Testified to what I saw and what I did at the trial. That was the end of it. Scruggs was convicted and doing 10 to 20 in Walla Walla last I heard. It's a shame that he got out and went after the woman who put him away. Sick fucker.

  I have one of the younger guys pull the Scruggs file and fax it all over to Detective Colson at Portland PD. And once that task is seen to, I pick up the small stack of mail on my desk and begin to flip through it. Most of it is fairly standard. Just the usual interdepartmental communication, or the occasional letters of praise – or complaint – from a citizen for one of my detectives. But as I look it over, I frown when I spot a small manilla envelope in the pile. Pulling it out, I note that there's no return address on it. And then my frown gets deeper as I realize that it's addressed to me personally, not the police department. That's not unusual in and of itself … I do sometimes get things delivered here, like law enforcement trade publications and that sort of thing. But I know that there's nothing I'm expecting right now.

  Still frowning, I open the envelope and reach inside. I pull out a handful of photographs and I frown again. Setting them down on the desk, I open up the envelope once more to examine it, making sure there's nothing left inside. Then I set it down and pick up the pictures again. Flipping through them one at a time, I wonder exactly what it is I'm looking at. It's a building. They're shots of a small, red brick building, taken from various angles at a point across the street from it. What the hell? My frown grows deeper still as I wonder what the fuck this is supposed to be, when suddenly I recognize the building, and an icy chill runs all the way through me.

  I pick up the envelope once more, turning it over in my hands as my mind begins to race. What the fuck is going on? My hand goes immediately to my cellphone and I hit the speed dial for Samantha's phone. My heart is suddenly pounding as I listen to it ring. Come on, pick up. Pick up. Pick up!

  “Josh?” I can hear the questions in her voice. We just left the house not two hours ago, so why am I calling at this time of the morning?

  “Hey, baby … um …”

  “Is everything okay?” she asks, cutting me off. And that's exactly the question I want to ask her, but I realize in that moment that I have no clue what to say to her. I can't tell her why I'm really calling because it would completely freak her out. Just like it's done you, Pierce. And I know instinctively that's what they were meant to do. Those photos were meant to freak me out. Frantically, my mind works to find a quick, believable excuse for my call. One that will put her at ease while still assuring me that everything is fine.

  “Yeah, I just … I keep thinking about you,” I tell her. It's not a total lie; I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since that amazing kiss in the kitchen this morning. “And after that kiss at breakfast you've got me daydreaming about tonight.”

  There's a slight pause, and I can almost hear her smile over the phone. “You have just earned yourself a very special evening, Lieutenant Pierce,” she says softly.

  I smile at her response, but my heart is still filled with anxiety. “Are you in your office?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Just … picturing you sitting at your desk, looking sexy,” I tell her.

  “You sound a little bit horny this morning, Lieutenant,” she says with a slight laugh.

  “Guilty as charged,” I smile. “And the kids? They get off to preschool okay?” I ask, my anxiety growing by the second.

  “Yes, of course. Josh … are you sure everything's okay?” she asks.
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br />   I pick up the pictures with my free hand and stare at the image of Leo and Livvie's preschool building, and I know in my gut that everything is not okay. But I know that I can't tell her that. Not yet. “Everything's good, baby,” I tell her. “Listen, I've gotta go. But I can't wait to get you in my arms.”

  “I look forward to it,” she says lightly. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  We hang up and I immediately search the contacts of my phone. There's another call I need to make. Now. And I know that I'm probably going overboard, but I don't know what the hell any of this means.

  “Progressive Learning Preschool and Daycare.” The voice is friendly and familiar. I'm so nervous I can't remember the woman's name right now, but I know that we've spoken on a number of occasions.

  “Yes, this is Lieutenant Joshua Pierce, Seattle PD.”

  “Oh, of course! Leo and Livvie's daddy. What can I do for you?”

  “Um …” Once again, I'm confronted with the fact that I have no real clue what to say. I think quickly, pulling on the first thing that comes to my mind. “Well, I know this is probably very silly of me, but … Leo and Livvie had a spat this morning. And I just wanted to make sure that they were okay.” That is a total lie. Their little argument after breakfast has nothing to do with this. I just need for her to tell me that there is nothing out of the ordinary going on today.

  I can hear her laugh slightly as she says, “Well I'm looking at them right now and they are holding hands and singing Jingle Bells together. So, whatever they fought about this morning seems to be forgotten.”

  I smile at her words, feeling a small wave of relief wash over me. They're okay. For now, everything really is alright. “Jingle Bells, huh? That's a favorite in our house these days,” I tell her.

  “Yes, it's a crowd favorite here too, I'm afraid. And we were just about to make Santa ornaments for Arts and Crafts.”

  “Well, don't let me keep you,” I tell her. “Listen, can we keep this phone call just between you and me? I don't want my wife to think I'm being silly.”