FADE TO BLACK - Thrilling Romantic Suspense - Book 1 of the BLACK CATS Series

by Leslie A. Kelly

  He watched. A semi truck was backed up to a loading ramp, two young men wheeling big, TV-size boxes up it. While they made their second trip, a man rounded the cab from the passenger side.

  It was Tim, the brother of the woman he’d come to care so much about. “I see.”

  “Shh.”

  Tim, easily identifiable because of his scars, walked to the driver’s-side door and waited for the driver to hop down.

  That driver was Randy Covey.

  “Tim told me he’d been doing a couple of ride-alongs with Randy lately. That’s why he was in that mall. He was just a passenger with no say in the destination.”

  She cued the video ahead a minute, fast-forwarding through the two men having a brief conversation, then Randy pointing toward the mall entrance. Tim went in, appearing a few moments later on the other side of the screen: the interior camera. Wandering to the food court, he ordered something from a fast-food shop. He appeared completely oblivious to everything except grabbing some takeout.

  Dean focused on the other half of the screen.

  While Tim conducted the errand Randy had sent him on, his good buddy watched the workers finish unloading. When they were done, he shoved a clipboard over to be signed, then waved at them as they disappeared inside. Once the rolling door was closed, he quietly stalked the rear parking lot, peeking into Dumpsters, easing closer to the back employees-only entrances of the stores closest to his rig.

  She zoomed in until one sign was legible.

  “That’s the store where the vic worked,” Dean snapped.

  “I know.”

  He reached for his phone, wanting Covey picked up now, but she put a hand on his arm. “One more second.”

  Covey knocked on a door. A young guy opened it. He and Randy exchanged a few words, both looking around furtively. Cash exchanged hands. Then Covey beckoned the man over to the still-unlocked truck. Pulling a large box from it, he shoved it at the younger man, who dashed toward his store. A minute later, Tim walked out carrying a large fast-food bag. The two of them got into the truck and drove away.

  The story the video told was perfectly clear. Randy Covey was stealing from his employer. Skimming off the top, selling electronics to some punk kid looking to pick up a stereo on the cheap. The kid had looked very familiar with the process; it hadn’t been the first time.

  “You saw, right? Tim was clueless about any of this. At least, as of then. I’m wondering if Randy tried to drag him into it, and that’s what bothered him enough to come to my door the other night.”

  “Could be. And it adds one more piece to the puzzle. Randy could have been doing his side business and staking out his future victims at the same time. Amber might even have bought something off him before she died.” It all made sense, especially with what he’d learned today. “Stokes and Mulrooney were able to get a look at the driving logs Covey has turned over to his employers,” he told her. “He was on overnight runs on many of the nights the murders occurred, including the last one.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” Stacey admitted, “but everything you said the other night about the perpetrator, and what we’ve learned since, points to him as the Reaper. His background, his job, his history of abandonment, and his mommy issues. He delivers electronics, for heaven’s sake. How hard would it be for him to swipe the latest computer or video equipment for his own use?”

  From the other side of the kitchen, he heard Mr. Rhodes sigh deeply. “I’ve known him since he was a boy. He’s not violent, sure isn’t a genius. I never imagined him doing something like this.”

  Dean rubbed his jaw, feeling the rough stubble. It seemed like an eternity had passed since he’d shaved at his apartment this morning. Thank God this would be over soon.

  Unable to take his eyes off the paused surveillance footage, Dean suddenly wondered about something. “He knew about the cameras,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “He obviously knew there was a camera positioned to cover that loading dock area and the back door of the store. It was shot out the night Amber was taken.”

  She followed. “So why would he conduct his side business in view of it?”

  Good question. It made no sense.

  Maybe Randy hadn’t thought anybody would pay attention to him poking around near the Dumpsters, especially if no crime had been reported. But anybody would know the video would be examined after the last murder.

  It was the only reason he could think of for Randy’s initial carelessness. He still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced, but it was at least possible. They’d know a lot more when they brought the man in for questioning.

  “His house is only two miles away,” Stacey said.

  Dean reached for his phone again. “I want backup.” He punched in Mulrooney’s number, gave him the information and Covey’s address, and told him to bring Stokes and meet them there in fifteen minutes.

  Stacey, meanwhile, had made a call of her own. “Mitch and two other deputies who will keep their heads will be en route shortly.”

  Good. If Randy Covey really was the Reaper, and he realized they were onto him, he could turn ruthlessly violent. With nothing left to lose, he’d have no reason not to.

  A few minutes passed, and they both checked their weapons to make sure they were loaded. The tension in the Rhodes house was thick enough to swim in, but Stacey was about as calm and cool as he’d ever seen her. As if now that the end of the nightmare was in sight, she could stop worrying and just take care of business.

  Finally, when it was time, they left the house and, by silent agreement, got into Stacey’s squad car. They reached the main road and began to pull out onto it when Stacey’s ancient, wheezing old radio came to life.

  “Sheriff, if you’re there, please respond. Over.”

  They exchanged a glance. “Mitch,” she explained before answering.

  Mitch said only a few words. But they were disappointing ones. “Randy Covey’s not at his house. Over.”

  She barked a quick response. “Where is he?”

  “Somebody called in a few minutes ago. A neighbor of Randy’s saw a story on the news and wanted to see if we knew anything about it. I just got off the phone with the state police and they confirmed. Randy was involved in a serious wreck just before dawn somewhere down near Richmond. Over.”

  Before dawn. Before the Reaper’s latest auction? God, after the adrenaline rush, the certainty that they were finally reaching the end of this nightmare, had they been completely wrong?

  “He was in surgery for hours, but they think he’s going to make it. Over.”

  Good for Randy. Not good for their case. They were back at square one.

  Stacey had obviously reached the same conclusion. Because as she slowly returned the radio handset to the dash, her hand shook. “I was so sure. …”

  “Me too. But it’s not true. Covey’s not the Reaper.”

  REALLY, he was doing the kid a favor.

  Watching the unconscious boy as he lay on a cot the Reaper had set up in one of his secret rooms, he started to think that what he was going to do to him was for the best. His life was pure shit, his mother a bitch.

  A blond bitch. A screeching, abusive, white-trash blond bitch.

  He had heard what she’d said to the boy, Nicky, in the parking lot of the campground. He’d seen her hit him. Yeah, the kid was better off dead than growing up with that woman.

  It had been easy to watch for his chance, sitting in his truck up on the ridge above the parking lot close to the family’s campsite. Mothers like that never paid attention to their kids. When the boy had set off through the woods for the public restroom, he had simply looped around to the other side of it, made sure nobody else was in there, then waited for Nicky to skip back out.

  He hadn’t meant to hit him so hard—hard enough to draw blood. But he had needed to knock him unconscious. The kid hadn’t been too badly hurt and had come around eventually. Not for long. Forcing Nicky to swallow a Coke with some crush
ed-up sleeping pills had taken care of that.

  Now it was just a matter of waiting for the first half of the money to show up. Then he could finish this. He had plucked the boy out of that hard life and, in the morning, would be delivering him from it for good.

  This was merciful compared to what Nicky would experience if he remained with his dirty, filthy mother. So it was all good. What he was going to do was right for everyone.

  “And don’t you worry,” he told the unconscious boy. “I’m not some fag child molester.” He wouldn’t do the deviant stuff; that was just sick.

  Fortunately, the buyer couldn’t expect him to actually rape the kid, risking his own exposure on the video. He snorted, wondering if somebody had invented dick identification.

  Didn’t matter. He wasn’t pulling his out. This Lovesprettyboys scum would have to settle for whatever tools he had lying around that he could use on the kid.

  But all of that was for the morning. After he had his cash.

  “Maybe it won’t come to that,” he mumbled as he cleaned his rifle, one eye on the cot, watching for any sign of movement. Maybe he could just kill the boy and dump the body, without any of the extra stuff.

  There was still the chance he could get Warren Lee. If he didn’t have to pay the blackmail money, he would have no need for all that cash. He could waste the boy, offering a rebate or something to the buyer for not doing all the dirty shit, and everything could go back to normal.

  After all, it wasn’t like he really needed the bucks for himself. Money in this world meant nothing. It was useless. It wouldn’t add rooms to his beautiful dark mansion, which hovered over the playground like a scavenging bird of prey. It wouldn’t pay for more sharp and bloody toys with which to play. Wouldn’t help in any way at all in his real, dull existence.

  How he wanted to disappear inside the cyber world he loved. To step into the picture like some kind of fantasy movie. He would give just about anything to immerse himself in that life and never come out.

  Just about anything.

  EXHAUSTED, DEFEATED, AND CONFUSED, Stacey realized she’d had enough for one day. It was nearly two in the morning; she had slept for no more than a few hours a night for the past week. And her brain didn’t want to function anymore.

  After they had heard about Randy, she and Dean sat in her squad care for a while, at the end of her dad’s driveway. They both called off the reinforcements, then fell silent, not driving forward, not backing up. Before cutting the engines, she opened her window and he did the same. A night breeze washed through the vehicle, floating across her skin, carrying a hint of coolness, a promise of relief from the never-ending summer heat.

  The silence deepened. They were utterly still, both looking out the window into the night.

  She knew in his mind he was picturing the same things she was. A little boy and a monster. Wishing for the dawn of a new day, when, please God, they could get the financial information they needed to track that monster and save that boy.

  For him, it had to be a hundred times worse. He was a father; he had a child to fear for, a child whose loss would surely crush his soul.

  For the first time, she wondered what the boy looked like. Was he dark haired and dark eyed like Dean? Did he share the stubborn jaw, the hidden sense of humor? She wondered whether Dean had ever had to pick him up when he had fallen off a bike. If he had cleaned Jared’s cuts and wiped his tears and tucked him into bed.

  Of course he had. She’d been on one side of his sweet good night conversation with his son. The love had been clear. There was nothing the amazing man beside her would not do to keep his child, or anyone he cared about, safe from harm.

  Stacey could only wonder how, in his profession, he hadn’t yet realized that was an impossible goal.

  She sniffed.

  “You okay?”

  In the darkness, his hand reached out for hers. She clasped it, twining her soft fingers between his rougher ones.

  She liked his hands. They were masculine and strong, yet, she knew from experience, capable of giving such pleasure. Such eroticism.

  And, right now, such tenderness. That hand in the dark was like a lifeline she could cling to, a path through the tangled web of horror and memory and emotion that had buried itself inside her. As if as long as he was holding her hand, she could come out to the other side whole and unscathed.

  “I feel like I’ve known you for a long time,” she admitted softly.

  “Me, too.”

  He leaned closer, and it was the most natural thing in the world for her to meet him halfway and rest her head on his shoulder. The feel of a soft kiss brushed on her temple soothed and warmed her. Offered safety and sanity.

  Maybe because of that simple caress and the silence disturbed only by the cry of cicadas outside the open window, she was able to speak. Something made her want to try to make him see that her choice to come back here, to stay here, where he was so convinced she didn’t belong, wasn’t out of fear. But out of grief.

  “I was on patrol when the first call came in,” she whispered.

  He said nothing, but his hand squeezed the tiniest bit.

  “The radio traffic was insane. Reports that a student was shot in the dorm, then that the shooter was long gone, then that the school was under attack. Nobody knew what was happening.”

  He kissed her hair again. And the grip on her hand grew tighter as she kept speaking.

  The words came fast now. They had been building for a long time. People knew the basic story, but she’d never shared what it had felt like being there, bearing witness. Once she started to speak, she felt almost unable to stop.

  By the time she was finished, her face was wet with tears. No, she wasn’t sobbing as she had Saturday night. This was low, deep-down, quiet grief straight from her soul.

  At some point in the telling, he’d reached over and physically pulled her off her seat into his lap. Her arms were curled around his shoulders, his around her waist. Her mouth close to his throat, the whispers kept coming.

  Until, at last, they were done. She was done.

  He had murmured sweet, soothing sounds, holding her close, kissing her face, and wiping away her tears. He never interrupted, never asked unimportant questions. He didn’t offer trite words of comfort about how life went on or how bad he felt for the families.

  Instead, between one brush of his lips on her cheek and the next, he whispered four others that were completely unexpected.

  “You’re not alone anymore.”

  They drifted into her consciousness, settling down deep inside. The certainty that he meant it filled her with possibility and with wonder. And brought her peace.

  She drifted to sleep, her head nestled in the crook of his neck. Only for a few minutes, judging by time on the clock when she awoke. Still, it was late—after three. They had to be back on the job in a few hours.

  Sitting up, she said, “I guess we should both go get some sleep.”

  He nodded.

  “Do you want to go back to the inn?”

  He shook his head.

  She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath, waiting for his answer. It rushed out in a gush. “Is that going to be a problem? With Stokes and Mulrooney, I mean?”

  “You know, right now, I don’t give a damn.”

  She smiled. He smiled back. Their lips came together in a sweet, tender kiss that soon turned into a deeper, more intimate one. She shifted her head, parting her lips, licking at him with lazy hunger. Dean moved one hand to her back, tracing a slow path up and down her spine. The other moved down to her lap to stroke her with butterfly caresses that had her pulse pounding in anticipation.

  “Let’s go,” she said when the kiss ended.

  “Will I be breaking laws if I drive your car?” he asked. “You look so tired.”

  “I’m not too tired,” she pointed out. Somehow, despite all the tension, emotion, and pressure, a low, sultry chuckle spilled from her mouth. “But yes, you drive. My legs are
shaking all of a sudden.”

  He gently slid her off his lap and got out of the car to walk around to the driver’s side. Stacy curled up, turning a little to watch him. When he started the car, the dashboard lights sent pools of soft golden illumination onto him, highlighting the masculine angles of his face and the shapely mouth she’d just been kissing.

  “Drive fast, okay?” she said. Because though she needed sleep, she needed him more.

  “I don’t want to get a ticket.” He didn’t look over, but she’d bet there was a twinkle in his eye.

  True to his word, he drove quickly, not breaking any land records, but not exactly obeying the speed limit, either. She understood the urgency. The confession she’d made, the gentleness and then the sweet hint of passion they’d shared, had them both on edge, needing more, wanting more. Connection. They both hungered for it.

  When they reached her house and walked hand in hand to the porch, however, she quickly realized she wouldn’t be getting that connection. Not yet, anyway.

  Like the replaying of a bad dream, she realized that, once again, someone had brought ugliness and hatred right to her front door. Shards of broken glass glittered in the ruined window frame beside the front door, and the door was open a few inches.

  Her house had been broken into.

  God, would this nightmare of a day never end?

  “Stace?” he asked, obviously realizing at the same moment that the slim front window had been smashed. Easy enough for someone to reach around and undo the lock. So much for safe, small-town living.

  “Damn it,” she muttered.

  “Shh.” He went immediately on alert, pulling his .40-caliber, pushing the unlocked door inward. It made a long, low squeak that seemed to demolish the silence, but probably couldn’t be heard any farther than a few feet away. Putting a hand out to stop her from going in, Dean stepped in front of her. “Let me look.”