The Alexandru Chronicles: The Beginning

by Julienne Holmes

  Genevieve had gotten mad at him before, and, for close to three weeks, she wouldn't communicate with him about anything. She kept her distance and unless she needed his input, she gave new meaning to the silent treatment.

  Sighing he rubbed his face and as he tried, unsuccessfully, to preoccupy himself in his work, he tried not thinking about, what kind of trouble his partner could be getting herself into; at that moment.

  XXX

  It didn't take Genevieve long to find James Fording's apartment. Unlike that Friday night, there was no eery music playing in the background or unnatural black fog outside. In fact, if anything, the apartments, that she had, curiously, searched, looked as if the people, who had occupied them, were planning on returning to them.

  In most of the apartments she had gone into, there were large stacks of cocaine and marijuana on the tables, which was strange, because drug dealers were not in the habit of leaving such a stash for long periods of time. It had taken Genevieve handling the package of one of these narcotics, for her to notice this fine dust that had settled on top of it.

  When she had thought it couldn't get any stranger, it did.

  Each bedroom had had large stacks or rolls of money in it. For a dirty and even clean cop, these stacks were very tempting.

  Yet, Genevieve was one of these people who was more toward having a clean conscience rather than a dirty one. So, all she had done with the money, was frown at it and then put it back where she had found it.

  As she continued on her way to her destination, she tried rationalizing where the drug dealers and everyone else had gone.

  There was a possibility that everyone could have been rounded up?

  Yet, that still couldn't explain away the drugs and money still being in these apartments.

  It made more sense that if a raid had happened, that the drugs and money would have all been seized too.

  The moment she got to James Fording's apartment, she was surprised by the brand new door that was now in the place of the old one.

  If it wasn't puzzlingly enough to see this new door, what had her even more puzzled was to find the door locked.

  All the apartments, she had gone into, had been unlocked.

  So, why would this one be locked?

  Because someone doesn't want you to enter, dumbass.

  The annoying vexing of her conscience, was starting to really get on her nerves. It was constantly nagging her about not doing this; if she hadn't known better, she would have sworn that Amelia was standing right beside her—hissing in her ear.

  “This is wrong and could end with horrible repercussions.”

  Yea, she could hear her sister saying this.

  Yet, how was she supposed to do the right thing, if she couldn't break the law in the process of getting there. In all honesty, her conscience was starting to become a nagging bitch, that didn't seem to understand that she was trying to do the right thing.

  After propping her wire cutters up against the wall, adjacent to Fording's door, she brought her foot back and kicked in the door.

  Like most of things, now days, this door was cheaply made. It came open with just one, good, kick and almost came off it's hinges. Taking her side arm out, she cautiously went into the apartment.

  As she looked around at everything, she was somewhat surprised to see that the apartment looked a lot cleaner than it had been when she had been there those last two times.

  The pizza box was gone and there wasn't as many ants as before. Also, it looked as if someone had done the dishes; and that small amount cocaine on the table had been wiped away.

  It was still an eye sore, just a slightly cleaner eye sore.

  It was upon Genevieve heading into the bedroom, that she got even more of a surprise; the record player was no longer there and the bedroom, like the living area, had been straightened up.

  Someone had definitely been staying here.

  Who?

  She hadn't a clue.

  As she scanned the bedroom, it was then that her gaze landed on the closest. She had been in this room two times, before, and she had looked over everything thoroughly the first time. Yet, at that time, she had been looking for evidence and clues on why her supposed, murdered, victim was dead and who had killed him.

  She had found nothing, but a lot of disgusting garbage and a butt load of ants and other bugs.

  Yea, it had not been fun searching for clues.

  And, yet, that was what was in her job description.

  Luckily her.

  Now though, the situation was different, she wasn't searching anymore for her missing stiff from the morgue. Or even clues on what or who killed him.

  At this point she could have cared less. Some people just deserved to die and James Fording was one of these people.

  It was now Monica Summers, that had her searching for clues.

  Where was she?

  After putting her gun back into her holster, Genevieve headed over to the closet. Before opening the door, she contentedly listened; it made sense that someone would be hiding inside that closet. Yet, no matter how hard she strained to listen, she couldn't hear anyone moving around inside.

  Taking a shaky breathe, she quickly opened the door.

  The moment the door swung open, she was shocked and, at the same time, relieved, when nobody jumped out at her.

  Yet, that shock was quickly replaced with this new astonishment; at the sight of the clothes hanging up in the closet.

  These were not men's clothes.

  They were women.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kyle had been trying practically the whole day to get a hold of Genevieve. Each time he called, his calls were forward to her voice-mail.

  The last call, which was incidentally the twelfth call, one more than Cirpian if he had even bothered keeping count, was the final straw on him calling her.

  Obviously, Genevieve had her phone on either silent or she had turned it off.

  Either way, she was in no mood to talk to him.

  He was tempted to go to her apartment and wait for her, but knowing Genevieve, and karma, she wouldn't return home until after dark and by then he probably would have died of heat stroke.

  Irritably sighing, he threw his phone down upon his desk.

  So, she was ignoring him.

  Well, two could play that game.

  Yet, he knew that he really had no intention of playing the same game as her; like a whipped dog, he would answer the phone the second she called him.

  XXX

  As Genevieve leaned out and fingered a woman’s sweater in the closet, she felt the scratchiness of the material's cuff – this sweater had seen better days. As she stood there, just holding the sleeve, she was suddenly slammed with this overwhelming sense of limitation. First, the dusty packages of drugs. Second, the inhabitants weren't even present in this apartment complex. Now, she was having to deal with women's clothing in a dead man's closet.

  What could possibly happen next?

  If the wicked witch of the west came flying in on her broom, then she was in serious trouble.

  There was just so much that one's brain could take, before reaching that ultimate limit.

  When Genevieve heard the creaking of floor boards behind her, she instantly turned around. All too sure that she would see the wicked witch, herself, standing behind her.

  Yet, for some strange reason, she was very much surprised by there being nobody there.

  It was her imagination playing tricks on her again; this time using her ears to deceive her.

  Subconsciously glancing down at her watch, she saw that it was already six. And dusk would most likely be settling on the apartment building around seven or eight. She really needed to move her ass, and find what it was that she was looking for.

  Yet, the problem was, she hadn't a clue what that was. Or where to find it.

  It took her close to thirty minutes, looking through that closet, for her to figure out that none of the boxes, that had been the
re before, were there now.

  While they had taken some of the boxes and a few other items, back to the precinct; the others they had left, because they didn't seem to be of any important value.

  Of course the boxes taken over to the precinct, hadn't been either. In those boxes there hadn't been really anything of significant value, that could tell them who her murdered stiff was, where he had come from, who he was related to, and etc. The only thing that had been done, before his body disappeared from the morgue, was running his prints, which had, to Genevieve, taken forever for anyone to get back to her.

  Okay, maybe she was over exaggerating.

  Yet, it had seemed like forever.

  Once she had rummaged through the boxes in the closet, and come to the conclusion that all this stuff didn't belong to James Fording, she started looking around the room. She had a feeling that the boxes that had been in the closet before, had most likely been thrown away by whoever had been living here after James Fording.

  During her quick survey, around the room, Genevieve was able to form an instant impression of who this new tenant was. Just from the female clothes in the closet and the feminine touches around the apartment, she was positive that the new lodger was a down on her luck homeless woman—just looking for a place to stay and having no luck with finding any place that was affordable. Not just that, though, but she had also taken into account the small amount of toys in the closet; which led her to believe that her homeless woman was also a mother – possibly a wife. Yet, that wasn't a definite possibility.

  In all appearances, it appeared from the closet, that there were no other persons, but a mother and her child or children.

  As she looked around the room and outside into the living room, Genevieve noticed how dusty everything was. Women were considered, by nature, neat little nesters. Well, most of them were. Some, like Amelia, expected unpaid servant-hood.

  “They must have left pretty, damn, quick, for all this stuff to still be here.” it was the sudden sound of her voice, that had her inwardly flinching. She had been thinking this, but hadn't intended on voicing this out loud.

  Well, now, wasn't this a disappointing trip?

  If a person had moved in, the chances of them keeping anything, that had belonged to the previous tenant, was just wishful thinking.

  Disappointingly, shaking her head, Genevieve was just about to leave, when she remembered something that Malcolm, of all people, had told her:

  “People hide their valuables in the last place, you or anyone would actually look.”

  At that time, she hadn't put much stock into what he was telling her. She had been a rookie and her first impression of him, hadn't been a good one.

  Swiftly turning around to look at the bed, she didn't even think about it. She just went over to it and, grabbing hold of it, she flipped it over.

  Right away a bunch of bugs scurried out of the way, Genevieve didn't even have time to jump back or shriek when a cockroach ran across her shoe.

  The journal was taped right to the bottom of the mattress. James Fording must have gotten on the floor and scooted himself partially under his bed—just the idea of him getting on that floor, had Genevieve instantly suppressing a shudder.

  While it made her practically cringe at the idea of getting on the floor with huge ass bugs, she had to admit that it was a pretty ingenious hiding place.

  Most of the time, people taped certain items, that they didn't want other people to find, to the bottom of a dresser drawer; that would have been the next place that she would have looked, if she hadn't found it under the mattress.

  Untaping the journal from its spot, she started flipping through the pages. There was a lot of writings that didn't make a whole lot of sense. Just a lot of senseless bitching and complaining about other nationalities and how he hated that his girlfriend was mulatto.

  From what she could gather, James Fording was a raciest who had justified his beating of his girlfriend for being because he hated blacks; he had been trying to beat the blackness out of her.

  More and more, Genevieve found herself feeling nothing but utter contempt for James Fording. She knew it was wrong for her to think ill of the dead, but the man was nothing but a waste of a life.

  Instead of reading all the way through the journal, which would have just put her in a foul mood, she ultimately decided to skim through it. For all there was, was just nothing but sentence after sentence of hatefulness.

  It was the pages half-way through the journal, that piqued her interest. James had been furious over Monica wanting to press charges. He had felt that since she had taken the beatings, that she would just roll over and do so again.

  Who cared if he had murdered her unborn child and almost killed her in the process. To James, it was justified.

  Monica, on the other hand, had seen it as being the last straw – she couldn't take it anymore. There was just so much that an abused person, and even an animal, could take before they reached their limit; and Monica had, obviously, reached hers.

  As Genevieve flipped to the next page, it was the next entry that had her anger for James quickly being replaced with surprise.

  In big capital letters, that took up the whole page, he wrote: THE....flipping the page, she read. BITCH....flipping to the next page. HAS...LEFT...ME...WHERE...IS...SHE

  WHERE...IS...SHE

  WHERE...IS...SHE

  WHERE...IS...SHE!!!

  XXX

  He could smell her.

  Just the scent of her blood had him aching for a taste of her.

  Yet, he couldn't go to her; not while that blasted sun was still up.

  It would be dark soon, though, and then he would go to her. And he would show her that she belonged to him and not that blind vampire hunter.

  Of course, he would have to put her in her place; that was a given.

  As he wrapped himself in the thoughts of fucking and drinking his bitch up, that's when he felt him.

  The slayer.

  The one that stood in his way, of conquering his little whore.

  Instantly sitting up, he felt the slayer's strength overwhelm every inch of him; it was that strength, that pushed him back down upon the dirty mattress he laid upon.

  “No!” he hissed. “You can't have her!”

  He wanted to bolt upstairs, but he knew that the sunlight would kill him.

  It was in that moment, of angry, frustration, that he wished that he could summon her to him; but he wasn't powerful enough and she was too stubborn.

  Madeira had told him that stubborn, headstrong, people, were the worse ones for a fledgeling to try and summon. Because of their strong minds, the only thing that might happen; would be nightmares and possibly a terrible headache come morning.

  As he sat there seething, his thirst boiling to the point of violence, what eventually had him settling down, was this reassuring thought; that soon he would have his little bitch.

  And soon, she would be at his mercy.

  XXX

  It was that faint creak of floor boards under foot, that had her suddenly yanking her gaze away from the journal. As she stood there listening, she was immediately accosted by this overwhelmingly, fearful, desire to just throw down the journal and run.

  It was after taking some deep cleansing breathes, that Genevieve was finally able to rein in enough control over herself; that she could think straight.

  What had made that sound?

  The building's structure, could have been settling.

  Then again, it could have been rats.

  Great, it was always something. First, it was enormous cockroaches and now it was, disgusting, rodents. Well, at least this was better than the human sized rats.

  Groaning, Genevieve looked back down at the journal.

  In all the journal entries, James had sounded like he was going nuts or bordering on. Yet, once Monica had disappeared, he totally went over the rainbow and all the way to the land of OZ—the man had definitely gone cuckoo for coco puffs.

/>   After closing the journal, Genevieve stood there just staring off into space.

  Was it possible that James hadn't even been responsible for Monica's disappearance...or her death?

  It sure seemed like that.

  Yet, it was also possible that James had murdered Monica; and then blocked out the whole experience.

  In one of her past cases, Genevieve had had to investigate the murder of a young, newly wedded, woman. In the end, the evidence had proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, that it was the woman's husband who had murdered her – in a cold fit of jealous rage, her husband had brutally stabbed her death.

  His defense had been that he hadn't meant to kill her and, because of how traumatic the experience had been, he had blocked out the whole murder.

  Yet, considering the evidence and everything else, this whole defense had been riddled with holes; that even the jury had found ridiculous.

  In the end, this man had been sentenced to life in prison, with the possibility of parole; which Genevieve had thought was truly absurd. Considering how brutal the murder had been, he should have been sentenced to life without parole. Yet, that was the judicial system of today; there was just a lot of bleeding hearts, who felt someone should be given a second chance to commit murder.

  It was possible, that James had murdered Monica in one of his fanatical frenzies, and, then, realizing that it was just a matter of time before they found her body or gathered enough evidence against him, he decided to use the insanity defense.

  The only problem with his defense, was that he had openly admitted in his journal, to pushing Monica down the stairs - all because he had hated the child, that she was carrying.

  Granted, because of her dislike for James, Genevieve was more than willing to throw the book at him; the only problem was, was that she had this unsettling feeling that Monica was still alive.

  It was again that creaking of floor boards, that had Genevieve surprisingly dropping the journal in her hands. As she stood there just listening and staring down at the discarded journal, she, like the last time, was met with nothing but silence.

  As she continued to stand there, with her frightened womanly instincts, gnawing at her to hightail her ass out of there, she tried, again, to get her breathing and heart under control. Finally, her cop instincts were able to dominate her womanly instincts; at least to the point, that she had enough control over herself, not to run like a scared female out of that apartment.