Stray

by Suzanne Steele

  “Sit… we need to talk.”

  Claire sat, just shaking her head and repeating the phrase, “Who would do something like this?”

  “That is the issue. Someone is sending you a very strong message.” It hit him that there could’ve been a note in the box that they might have overlooked in their haste to tend to the kitten. “Go look in the box and see if there is anything other than the dead bouquet of flowers.”

  She made her way over to the cabinet and opened it, taking out and donning a pair of latex gloves before looking through the box again. The brittle flowers broke into pieces and the air surrounding the area filled with the dust from the crumbling decay.

  “You’re going to get what’s coming to you,” she read from the ominous note. She tossed the paper back into the box and the gloves into the garbage.

  “Who would want to exact revenge on me? I haven’t done anything to anybody.”

  “That isn’t the only question, Claire. We also need to know whose blood that is.”

  “Do you think somebody wants to kill me?”

  “Whether or not they will go that far is something I don’t know, but the fact remains that somebody was desperate enough to draw blood from an unknown source just to send you that message. Anyone who would go that far to make a point is capable of much worse.”

  He stroked her hand as tears ran down her face. She was glad Striker was here. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of anyone that would want to hurt her or what she had done to deserve their wrath, but she certainly felt safer in Striker’s arms.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Agent Turner

  Agent Turner eyed his partner, Rene, with skepticism as the caretaker filled them in on the details of Officer Bill Saunders, the man responsible for the capture of the notorious serial killer dubbed the Louisville Lacerate Killer decades earlier. He was torn in his analysis of this case. Part of him, his gut, wasn’t buying that this was a man who died from natural causes. However, another part of him, the logical side, knew that there was no indication that a homicide had taken place. The man had been sick for the last year and he was on death’s doorstep when he died. Why couldn’t he shake this feeling he had that there was more to this case than met the eye?

  He’d been called in after the caretaker insisted that the man had been doing fine and that his death had to involve foul play. She insisted her suspicions were confirmed when she noticed the cat was missing, explaining that the screen door must have been opened for this to occur because she didn’t remember letting him out.

  “Ma’am, with all due respect, we’re not in the habit of taking on a case because the cat got out. I’m going to need something more than that to go on. Have there been any threats or letters? Anyone hanging around the neighborhood that you don’t know?”

  The woman snapped her fingers like a light bulb had just gone off. “You know, come to think of it, there has been a guy hanging around. He always wears a hoodie though so it makes it hard to describe him. Maybe that’s why he wears it,” the older caretaker said, cocking her head in suspicion.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “About a week ago.”

  “So, you didn’t see him the day of Officer Saunders’ death?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t here,” she answered defensively.

  Agent Turner resisted the urge to ask her why she hadn’t locked the door if she had been so concerned about the stranger. “You’re going to need to come down to the station with us and work with a sketch artist so we can get a facial composite on this guy.” He did nothing to try and hide the irritability in his voice. He didn’t know what was going on, or if there was even a case here at all, and he didn’t like it when his brain and his gut clashed.

  “I’ll need to grab my sweater.”

  “We’ll be in the car,” he stated as he started walking away. “Ma’am,” he turned, asking her as a thought just hit him, “where’s the cat now?”

  “Poor, little thing never returned. It’s really a shame; he’s barely six weeks old.”

  Agent Turner turned back towards the door, making his way out of the bedroom and headed towards the car.

  “Could you be any ruder, David?” Rene asked, having to trot to keep up with him.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that it’s Agent Turner at work? I’ve got better things to do besides babysitting some old lady while having a fucking composite of the Unabomber drawn up.”

  “No mustache or sunglasses according to her description,” Rene chuckled.

  “And no fucking evidence that this is a legit case.”

  “What’s it going to hurt to have the woman meet with a sketch artist?”

  “Time, Rene. It’s time that I don’t have to waste.”

  “Okay, but why are you taking it out on everyone else just because you’re conflicted?” She knew him better than anyone else and he knew she was well aware of why he was frustrated.

  When he didn’t answer, Agent Turner assumed Rene decided it was best to just leave it alone. He knew being unprofessional wasn’t an option she would even consider in front of a potential witness. It would play out. It always did. If there was a case here, other issues would come to light. That’s just how it was in their line of work. No matter how much darkness tried to obscure the truth, clues would always surface, shedding light on things previously unseen and bringing truth to the forefront little by little. Much like a puzzle, piece by piece, all his cases would get solved.

  Though there were cases that went cold at times, that didn’t seem to be the case for David and Rene because serial killers kill. The criminals they dealt with had an innate predator within that demanded the kill and nothing but would sate the bloodlust tormenting them. Once a serial killer was successful in their first kill, they would continue seeking the high that came with the control they exercised over their victim. They went through a cycle. There’s the killing and then a cool off period but they always surfaced to kill again and when they did, these two agents were there to piece together the puzzle.

  Agent Turner was much like a pit bull in personality. Once he latched onto something, he locked down on it until he figured it out. Once a case intrigued him, or he was convinced it was a legitimate case and not the imagination of a mournful loved one who couldn’t let go, he would work it until it was solved.

  Very seldom was he torn in his beliefs of whether or not there was foul play involved. Today, he was conflicted and he didn’t like it, not one damn bit.

  He watched as Rene used the ride downtown to talk to the caretaker, securing the witness and diverting her attention away from him and his foul mood. Despite his aggravation with the circumstances surrounding this case, it was nice to know that his partner always had his back.

  Claire

  “I’m not riding into work with you—period!” Claire forced herself to look into the face of a man who was clearly not happy with her at the moment. She was used to dealing with strong men with strong opinions. She wasn’t, however, used to dealing with men who beat people up for a living. Striker gave a whole new meaning to the word dangerous.

  “Scared someone might find out I’m fucking your brains out when the sun goes down?”

  She hurried up and scurried out to her car before she ended up pinned to the wall with no escape.

  She used the ride into work to try and piece together the puzzle of not only her houseguest, but the issue of the bloody cat and dead flowers as well.

  It was very probable, at least in her mind, that Victor could be responsible. The problem with that theory was that she couldn’t shake the feeling that he wouldn’t want to get blood on his hands, or his suit for that matter. He wasn’t, however, above hiring someone to do his dirty work.

  The issue that troubled her the most was not knowing whose blood that was on that cat. Had some innocent victim been hurt, or even died, for an unknown enemy just to make a point?

  She tossed around the idea in
her head to go to the police or inform her father. Going to her father was nixed as soon as it came to mind but going to the police wasn’t. She would put the idea on the backburner for now. She needed to get some work done and the drama was a distraction she couldn’t afford. She pushed away the last thought that entered her mind as she pulled into her parking place. She realized the drama hadn’t started until Striker moved in…

  Striker

  “So, we meet again…” Striker stroked over the soft fur of the new family member who was now peacefully curled up on his chest, asleep.

  “I’m sorry about that nasty little concoction I had to put on you, but I couldn’t bear the thought of you hurt. Beating the shit out of an opponent in the ring is one thing, but hurting a precious little kitten, well, that’s just unthinkable, Little Bit. Maybe that’s what we’ll call you—Little Bit. You’re going to serve a dual purpose. Not only did you scare the shit out of the lady of the house, you just solidified that she needs a bodyguard and I can’t think of anyone better suited for the job than me. Can you, Little Bit?”

  The only answer was the steady hum and vibration of the continuous purr coming from the bundle of black fur burrowed in his chest. “We’re going to have to find some dirt on that dick in a suit, Victor. Then we’ll work on getting in daddy’s good graces. Though I can’t bear the thought of having to wear a suit, it may be a necessary evil to win over Claire’s father. I think it’s very befitting that you’re a black cat, don’t you? It just fits that whole sinister thing you and I have going on. You don’t have to worry now. You have a safe home, a place where you’re no longer surrounded by the stench of death. Really, I did the man a favor if you ask me. He was on death’s doorstep. All I did was open the door and push him into the place he deserved to be—the portals of hell.

  “That son of a bitch got what he deserved. He used my family to further his career and look where it got him, Little Bit. I’m just not the kind of guy that you can fuck with. Of course, he never would have known that. He was too blinded by greed for advancement in his career. Me? Well, I think we both know what motivates me… Revenge.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Agent Turner

  “No, no, I don’t think his nose was that wide but he had a hoodie on and it was really hard to see any details. Now, his body, that I could see and, well, I’m not normally one to check out a man’s body… I mean, you know, at my age and all. Well, anyway, this man looked like a gladiator.”

  Agent Turner was quickly losing his patience when he realized the dimwit finally said something he could use.

  Agent Turner listened to thirty more minutes of the woman going back and forth with the sketch artist and, on more than one occasion, he found himself resisting the urge to breathe deeply just to ward off the anxiety he was feeling.

  He waited until she was finished before he asked the pressing question he’d been waiting to ask her. There was no sense in pissing the poor woman off until he shoved her off on someone else to give her a ride home.

  “Why would you bring a cat into a man’s home who was dying of lung cancer?”

  “Excuuuuuse me?!?” the woman shrieked.

  “Why. Would. You. Bring. A. Kitten. Into. A. Dying. Man’s. Home? He enunciated each word slowly and clearly as if he was dealing with a child who couldn’t understand the instructions being given.

  “Are you insinuating that I didn’t have my client’s best interests in mind?”

  Agent Turner chuckled as if the answer he was getting ready to give her was a given. “You know, the fur, the dander… Why would you subject a man who couldn’t breathe to those things?”

  “My client didn’t have allergies.”

  “So?”

  “So what, Agent?”

  Agent Turner breathed in deeply, no longer concerned with letting the woman know she had irritated him. “So why subject a dying man to fur and cat dander?”

  “If you must know, the poor little thing wandered up one day and I had every intention of taking it to a shelter.”

  “What day?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What day did the cat wander up?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I thought we already established that, Ma’am? I’m very serious.”

  “The day before my client died.”

  Agent Turner turned and left Rene to deal with the fallout of his rude behavior but his voice could be heard, directing one of the rookie agents to take the witness home.

  He made his way into his office and tossed the composite sketch on his desk as he thought what he had already voiced, fucking Unabomber…

  The closing of his office door caused him to look up. The woman he was eyeing was no longer his partner. This was his Mistress.

  “You’re getting your ass beat when you get home.”

  He looked down fumbling with the composite sketch and once again thought to himself… fucking Unabomber.

  Truth be told, the sketch did look just like the infamous bomber, without the mustache and glasses, of course.

  Claire

  “Oh my gawd,” Claire heard a crackle over the speaker that informed her what was going on at the front desk. She quickly grabbed the phone but was unable to figure out what the woman was talking about.

  Lucy, Claire’s receptionist, was a mixture of eighties nostalgia and professionalism. It didn’t seem possible that someone would be able to mix the two looks but it was because, somehow, the girl managed to pull it off. Claire had hired her due to the fact that the girl was a nerd and could find her way around any obstacle put in front of her.

  “Who is that hot piece of tail headed onto the elevator and up to your office?”

  She didn’t have to ask who her receptionist was talking about. There was only one person it could be. Striker had come to her office.

  “That would be my assistant.”

  “Well, I think I’m in need of assistance too,” Lucy purred, tapping a pen Claire couldn’t see against her lips.

  “Good bye, Lucy.” Claire chuckled, hanging up the phone just as Striker made his entrance.

  “Seems you have an admirer,” Claire informed him, watching as Striker made his way over to a chair and stretched his long legs out as he eyed her. It amazed her how he dominated a room. Before he entered, there was furniture, bookcases, and a desk but after he made his entrance, there was Striker. Everything else just seemed to fade to the background.

  “Not interested,” he stated lazily. “What’s on the agenda? I’m ready to get to work.”

  “Shut the door for a minute.”

  “Mmm, I like the sound of that.” His eyes lit up as he ran them slowly over her body from top to bottom.

  “Nothing like that, Striker.”

  He got up, made his way over to shut the door, and then sat back down. “What’s up?”

  “I can’t let this whole bloody kitten, dead flower thing go.” A shadow of something she couldn’t decipher passed over his countenance.

  “So, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I’m inclined to go to the police, or better yet, I have people on payroll to investigate matters like this.”

  “Don’t you mean your father has people on payroll? Do you really want to get him involved?” He had a mischievous spark in his eyes as he continued. “If it’s just a matter of protecting you, I can do that. I can guard your body, pin myself over you when your life is in danger, jump in front of a bullet for you… you know, all that stuff bodyguards do for damsels in distress.”

  Claire rolled her eyes, “I’m nobody’s damsel in distress. I am, however, confused as to why anyone would have it in for me. I don’t have any enemies. I haven’t done anything to deserve any.”

  Striker felt a pang of guilt go through him as he eyed the woman he was becoming more and more enthralled by with each passing day.

  “Do you think that Victor is capable of doing something like that?” he asked her.

  “I can’t imagine Victor
getting his hands or his suit dirty.” She watched as Striker interlocked his fingers behind his neck and looked at her from beneath hooded eyes. She squirmed as he eyed her. Why did this guy have to be so damn good looking? It made it hard to concentrate. He smirked as if he could read her mind.

  “I’m serious, Striker. I’m thinking about going to the police.”

  “Just because Victor doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, doesn’t mean he wouldn’t hire someone else to do his dirty work. Let me do some surveillance on him if it will make you feel better. If I can’t come up with anything and the threats continue, then we’ll go to the cops.”

  “My hero,” Claire laughed, putting her hand against her forehead in a dramatic, damsel in distress, acting display.

  “Be careful. I might get the wrong idea and start trying to rescue you or tie you up like they used to do in the old detective magazines.”

  “Well, in this case, I think I could use some muscle…”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Agent Turner

  Agent Turner eyed his partner from across the booth as they ate hamburgers at a greasy spoon restaurant. He didn’t do well explaining his actions or his attitude. He didn’t bother to backtrack and explain himself to Rene now; he would save that for later tonight after they got home, if they got home at a decent hour. If it were anyone but his partner, he wouldn’t offer an explanation as to why he had gotten so irritated with the witness. Hell, half the time there wasn’t a definitive reason; it was just the stress of the job. That, in and of itself, was enough to make anyone cranky.

  “I just don’t get people sometimes. They’re clueless to the fact that we are overrun with cases and we can’t open an investigation just because the fucking cat got out. Seriously?” he growled.

  Rene chuckled, “I have to admit that the sketch composite did look a lot like…” they both said it together, laughing, “the Unabomber.”

  “Hell, Rene, that guy just looks like the typical guy taking a bus home.”