Peter bumped and crashed his way through the room in the dark. Jill glimpsed his shadowy figure as he passed by the closet door. He let out an earsplitting fart, and Jill grimaced. Pig. Next, the bathroom light flipped on and she was serenaded by the sound of a long, gratifying piss in the toilet. The lights clicked off, and Peter’s discarded clothes hit the floor in a heap.
Not long after that, the buzz-saw sound of his snoring filled the suite. Jill waited as she went through the plan again and again in her head. Peter would pay for what he’d done. Anger uncoiled at the pit of her stomach. Jill slid the closet door open and stepped out into the darkened room.
Her gloved hand sweating, she gripped the butt of the revolver. The barrel of the gun trembled slightly as she pointed it at Peter’s sleeping form. It was evident from the boozy cloud of breath he dispelled with each bed-rattling snore that Peter had made the most of the open bar. She hoped he was still lucid enough to understand what was happening to him. And why.
Leaning forward, Jill shook his shoulder, still keeping the weapon aimed directly at him. Maybe it was the smell of Wild Turkey on his breath. Maybe it was the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Whatever it was, for a moment Jill was transported back to the small bedroom in her stepfather’s house. She could see Sam’s sweaty face poised inches above hers in the darkened room as his gravelly voice called to her.
“Jill.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears. She gritted her teeth and focused on the man in front of her. He was not Sam. He was a small, pathetic coward. And she was not a scared teenaged girl. Not anymore.
“Peter, wake up.”
Snoring.
“Wake up,” she demanded, shaking him even harder this time.
“What? What?” He asked, waking with a start. His eyes, at first squinting in the dark to get a look at who dared disturb his peaceful slumber, popped wide as he caught sight of Jill, and the gun.
“What the fuck?”
“Bet you didn’t expect to see me again so soon.” Jill’s tone was dangerously soft in the quiet room.
“Goddamn it, Jill, what the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”
Even in the dark, she could see the hard glitter of fear in his eyes. Adrenaline spiked through her veins. She was gratified by the terrified look on his face.
“You know, I can’t believe I fell for all of that ‘Scout’s honor’ bullshit. What did you do to me last night?”
The expression on Peter’s face turned from fear to dread, and a cold certainty stole through Jill. Her hands steadied. She knew she was right to come here. With each passing second, she felt less like a victim and more like an avenging angel.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter lied in a shaky voice. His hand darted toward the night table, and she cocked the gun.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said. He froze.
“Reaching for my glasses, that’s all. We should talk this through.”
“Unless you want some extra ventilation for your brain, I’d keep your hands where I can see them.”
“All right. All right,” he repeated, holding his hands up in surrender. “Let’s talk.”
“Talk? Well, sure. Let’s talk about these.” Jill dropped the baggie with the pills she had found in the bathroom onto his heaving chest. “I think you slipped one of these pills into my drink last night so you could do whatever you wanted to me. Which was what, exactly?”
Peter’s eyes fluttered closed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Jill’s gut twisted—a mixture of disgust and certainty. This is what she’d come here for. It was as close to a confession as she expected to get. Hate blossomed within her, and her hand tightened on the gun.
“Listen, Jill, I’m sorry. Okay?”
“You’re sorry,” she cocked her head in disbelief. “You raped me, and now you’re sorry?”
A humorless bark of laughter escaped her lips. She plucked the baggie off the bed and stuffed it into her pocket.
“Rape is a strong word,” he stammered as his eyes shifted away from hers and toward the phone. But it was too late to call for help.
“Rape is a strong word. But having sex with someone against their will is the very definition of the act, is it not? Did you think you could get away with it? Did you think I wouldn’t tell? Did you think that your little white pills would put you in control?”
“I’m sorry, Jill. I didn’t mean—” Peter’s warbling voice was barely a whisper.
“You didn’t mean what? Please!”
Jill glared down at him with a look filled with pure loathing as he shrank back. Pity was the furthest thing from her mind. She thumbed off the safety.
“You’re the worst kind of coward. Give me one good reason why I should let you get away with what you did to me.”
Peter sniffed. Tears formed in his eyes. Jill grimaced in disgust.
“Please, Jill. Please, forgive me.”
“Forgive you?” she cooed in a soft, sweet, mocking voice. “Sorry, Baby, I’m just not that kind of girl.”
A soft, whimpering sound escaped Peter’s lips. Without hesitation, without time for a second thought, she pressed the gun to Peter’s temple and pulled the trigger. The tight seal of his skin to the muzzle of the gun muffled the sound of the single shot.
Staring down into Peter’s lifeless eyes, Jill felt a dizzying surge of heat shimmer through her, followed by a high far more powerful, more complete than anything she had experienced before. She felt alive, every nerve ending on fire, every sense heightened.
Whatever Peter had stolen from her, Jill had taken back. And she felt justified in the knowledge he would never hurt anyone again.
Leaning forward, she grasped Peter’s limp arm and placed the gun in his hand, Gently she coiled his fingers around the grip, making sure to position his index finger on the trigger, hoping the powder from her gloves would transfer over onto Peter’s skin.
With one last look around the room, Jill stripped off her gloves, shoved them in her pocket, and left the room. She paused by the sofa, staring down at Peter’s open laptop. All she wanted to do was put as much distance between her and the dead body cooling in the next room as possible, but she couldn’t. Not yet.
After changing into a fresh pair of latex gloves, she switched the system clock on Peter’s computer turning back the time so it didn’t coincide with the time of death. Finding the notes from the interview, the video, and the still shots from the Nikon was easy. Getting rid of them, really getting rid of them, would be much harder. Instead, she modified the document, deleting most of its contents, and used the search-and-replace feature to change her name. Jill Shannon became Anne Willis. She renamed the image files. The last thing she did was reset the system clock. If the computer forensics guys went looking for evidence, a modified file was less suspicious than a deleted file.
Then Jill had another thought. What was a suicide without a goodbye note? Squatting down by the keyboard, she opened the word processor and typed a few lines. Some drivel about not being good enough, not being able to take the pressure anymore, needing to find a way out. Whatever. Even if the police didn’t buy the suicide angle, she had covered her tracks well.
With the memory card from the Nikon tucked safely in her pocket, Jill let herself out of the suite. She expected to feel panic. She expected the aftermath of the adrenaline rush to leave her jittery. Instead she was filled with a calm, steady sense of relief. The bastard had gotten exactly what he deserved.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Alex slammed the door to Captain Lewis’s office on his way down the hallway. Still steaming from the reprimand, he looked up in time to see the stunned expressions on the upturned faces as he passed. Most recovered quickly, averting their eyes as they tried to look busy.
“Get back to work,” he muttered to himself. “The floor show’s over.” He was sure that, as soon as he ducked back into his own cramped office, the whispering would begin as they rehashed the whole stormy scene
.
This time Alex did resist the urge to slam his door as he dropped into his chair and spun to look out the window. He’d barely had time to release a muted stream of obscenities when a timid knock sounded at the door.
“What?” he yelled, his eyes shooting death rays as he turned.
Kris Thompson hovered in the doorway, her face white as she peeked in. Everything about her, from the wary look in her eye to the tentative hand on the knob, told him that if she had any other choice, she wouldn’t be here.
“Never mind, it can wait.” She spun on her heel and was about to leave when he stopped her.
“It’s fine. What do you need?”
“I need you to sign off on a request for a warrant.”
“What case?”
“The Gillespie case.” Kris pointed at the mound of unread files on his desk. The blank look on his face conveyed his total and complete ignorance. Reluctantly, Kris stepped through the doorway and flipped through the neatly piled stack of plain manila folders on his desk. Selecting one from the pile, she opened it and handed it to him, exposing the relevant information. Chagrined, he admired her ruthless organization.
Alex quickly reviewed the paperwork. Everything looked in order, and he signed the request. Handing it back to her, she met his eyes, and he managed a tight smile. Conflict management was not exactly her forte, and he could see that she was anxious to escape as she muttered her thanks.
“Thompson,” he said as she skittered toward the door. His voice stopped her cold in her tracks, and she faced him.
“Yes?”
Alex pushed back in his chair and eyed her, rubbing his fingers against the grain of stubble on his chin. There was something different about her, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something about her face …
“Did you change your hair?”
It was shorter, swinging above her shoulders. Free of all that weight, the layers curled around her face. Kris’s cheeks flushed pink, and she hugged the file tight against her chest. Her lips parted, as if suspended between surprise and pleasure.
“Last week.”
“It looks … nice.”
“Thanks,” she stammered, and she spun and scurried back toward her desk.
Alex stared after her for a long moment. It wasn’t just her hair. Jill taught him to notice women’s fashions. Today she wore a fitted white blouse instead of one of the oversized sweaters she usually draped herself in. Skinny jeans were tucked into a pair of high leather boots. It was as if she’d been kidnapped by one of those television makeover shows. She looked … great.
He swung his chair around to face his computer screen. Jackson didn’t wait to be invited inside. Closing the door behind him, he wedged himself into the narrow guest chair. Normally Alex would have offered him the more comfortable leather chair, but he didn’t feel like being courteous. If Jackson was here to smooth things over, that was his choice. He could suffer.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jackson’s big voice boomed.
Clenching his teeth, Alex bristled at the question. He hadn’t expected Jackson to soft-pedal his approach. That just wasn’t his style. But still, who the hell did he think he was?
“Working. What about you?”
Jackson folded his arms across his chest. Alex could feel the weight of his glare but refused to look up. As if that would be enough to discourage his partner. Yeah. Right. It would take more than that for the big man to butt out.
“I’m trying to stop you from committing career suicide, you dumb shit. You’re one stupid son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?” The ironic inflection was not lost on Jackson.
“Guess so, since we both know the answer.”
“Then why don’t you get on with it? Say what you need to say. I’ve got work to do.”
If the venomous edge to Alex’s voice caught Jackson by surprise, it didn’t show on his face. The wide lips were firm, and he looked like a lecturing principal.
“Me? Oh, I don’t need to do anything to beat you down. You’re doing a damn fine job of that all by yourself.”
Jackson pressed his hand to his chest, fingers splayed.
“Me?” Alex mimicked. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I’m busting my ass to find a killer, and Lewis has the gall to penalize me for it.”
Like venting steam from a simmering pot, his words came out in a rush.
“Jesus Christ. I’ve got important cases waiting. Like credit-card fraud compares to the murder of a teenager. Like I’m a fucking rookie or something.”
Alex shook his head, glaring at Jackson through narrowed eyes. The stack of new case files on his desk had grown. He didn’t need Kris to point out the obvious—that he hadn’t spent much time on them. He already knew.
“Then stop acting like a damned rookie. We all have that one case that we can’t let go of. Honeywell’s yours. We all get it, Alex, but maybe it’s time to pull your head out of your ass and move on.”
Alex let out a sigh and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. His cell phone rang, cutting through the heavy silence. He pulled it out of his pocket and stared at the call display. He closed his eyes for a split second before pressing it to his ear.
“Hi, Abby.” He evaded Jackson’s knowing look as he angled his gaze out the window. “No, nothing yet. How are you doing?”
He listened for a minute or two longer as Abby talked before he said good-bye. He set the phone down on the desk beside his keyboard. The sympathetic look on Jackson’s face spoke volumes, and Alex knew Jackson had his best interests at heart.
“Not so easy to do when it’s personal,” Jackson said, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “And since I’m all up in your business, you’d better get control of that. History can be a dangerous thing when it comes to relationships.”
Jackson shot a meaningful look at Alex’s phone. A stab of guilt pierced Alex’s heart. He gritted his teeth.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Do you think I’m too dumb to see where this is heading? You’d better think long and hard before you act. I’m living proof that there are some lines you shouldn’t cross.”
“Michelle?”
The last vestiges of Alex’s anger fizzled, and Jackson shook his head.
“Moved out. It’s over, man. Has been for a long time.”
“You never said anything.”
“No point.” Jackson’s stare was sober as he held Alex’s gaze. “Listen, just do as Lewis says. Hunker down and get through your caseload. Let Homicide do their job.”
“I can’t let Honeywell go. Not yet.”
“I know, but not at the risk of sacrificing everything else. I want this bastard, too, but you’ve got to listen to what Lewis is saying. Whether you want to admit it or not, he’s right.”
“He ordered me to take a couple of days off.”
“Then get the hell out of here. Why don’t you and Jill plan a weekend away? It may help you get perspective on things.”
The inclusion of Jill in Jackson’s statement was not lost on Alex. They weren’t just talking about work anymore. They were talking about his marriage.
“Pull your head out of your ass before it’s too late.”
“You know, if this cop thing doesn’t work out, you’ve got a real future as a therapist.”
Jackson’s deep, rumbling laugh filled Alex’s office.
“What do you say we get out of here? First round’s on me.”
Alex glanced at the stack of case files on his desk. Maybe Jackson was right. Maybe a weekend away would help. Jill had been working long hours, too. They’d hardly seen each other since she’d returned from the conference in California.
Rising from his chair, Alex thumbed the power switch on his monitor and grabbed his coat.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Halfway down the hall, Jackson let out a wolf whistle that nearly deafened Alex. Kris Thompson walked past.
“Whoa. Look out. We’ve got a hottie coming through. Looking damn good, girl,” he called out loud enough for the whole floor to have heard. A furious blush stained her cheeks, and she averted her gaze, but not before Alex saw her smile.
“Very subtle. If you’re not careful, you’re going to earn yourself a crash course in sexual harassment,” Alex said as he strode down the hallway.
“No need. I already know how to harass.”
“She does look good,” Alex admitted.
“You know why, don’t you?” Jackson’s look was sly as Alex shook his head “She’s got herself a man.”
The deep rumble of Jackson’s laughter filled the hall.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
“Enjoy your stay in Vancouver,” the desk clerk said with a friendly smile.
Alex gripped the access card and followed Jill through the ornate lobby of the Fairmont Hotel toward the elevator. Convincing Jill to spend a weekend in Vancouver had been much easier than he had anticipated. They had a full itinerary planned. Christmas shopping on Robson, dinner in Gastown, catch a Canucks hockey game. It was the perfect balance between he and she activities.
Unwillingly, he acknowledged to himself that the tension in his shoulders eased once they’d crossed the Canadian border. He was loath to admit that Captain Lewis was right about the therapeutic value of taking some time off.
Traffic in Vancouver was always a nightmare, but as they crawled along the Cambie Street Bridge, he saw the construction cranes draped in Christmas lights. That, coupled with the softly falling snow, helped set a holiday mood.
Normally, a weekend at the Fairmont would be well beyond Alex’s pay grade. But with Jill’s frequent trips to California, the accumulated hotel points made a three-night stay affordable. Traveling had its perks, and as he pushed open the door to the luxuriously appointed room, he vowed to make the most of it.
“So what did you want to do first?” Jill asked as she collapsed on the bed, arms folded behind her head.
“A little shopping, then dinner?”
Deadly Lies Page 19
