Cupid

by Jade Eby

  “You might as well go ahead.” She hugged herself and tried to prepare her heart for more.

  “Mr. Carson was found in the kitchen with a woman that the maid had identified as his secretary.”

  Diana slumped back in her chair and rubbed her face with both of her hands. She hadn’t even put on any makeup or changed when she rushed to the police station to see why they’d called her to come.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Carson?” Officer Slattery asked.

  “My husband was found dead in the kitchen with his secretary at six in the morning?”

  A red tint shaded his face. “Yes.”

  “Is there something else?” Diana asked.

  “I. . .”

  “What? Were they found in a compromising position?” she sighed.

  “Umm. . .”

  “Listen. My husband cheating on me is not news to my ears. Granted, his death is news. His blatant adultery and disrespect of our marriage is what I like to call Regular Tuesdays. You don’t even want to know what he does on hump days.” An erratic giggle fled her lips as Diana’s fingers shook. She grabbed her cup and attempted to calm herself enough so that she could pick it up. “He has something disgusting for each day of the week. Was it just his secretary?”

  The officer’s eyes widened. “Ma’m?”

  She gave up on grabbing the coffee. “Sorry.”

  “No. I understand.”

  Do you?

  She was supposed to be heartbroken, devastated that her handsome, wealthy, all-American husband was murdered with none other than his slutty mistress.

  She had a few tears to shed. They would just happen to be for all the blood that stained the granite countertops and seeped into the marbling stone floor. For all the mess she was left with because of Neil.

  Diana wasn’t a particularly sentimental woman, but neither was she cold and unfeeling. What it came down to, simply, was that she was so done with Neil and his antics. His sleeping around and acting like she didn’t know about it. His righteous, holier-than-thou attitude about everything. His degrading views that Diana should be a trophy wife instead of a whip-smart reporter.

  His need to break her down mentally every day with his games.

  The Neil she fell in love with—whatever version of love it had been—was not the same man who died with his pants around his ankles.

  She had respected him, once. He’d been a formidable man once upon a time, who possessed substance, a man that made her panties wet the minute he flashed his dimpled smile.

  That time had long passed.

  Yes, Diana Carson was a bit upset that her husband and his secretary whore had been murdered. But, she would get over it rather quickly.

  And then, one couldn’t forget about Neil’s texts to her before he died.

  Neil: I want to show you how much I care about you. Come to the kitchen.

  Diana: It’s New Year’s Eve. Give me one day where you’re not cruel, please.

  Neil: I’ve never been cruel to you. Just come.

  But his intention had been cruel. Neil must’ve hoped Diana would walk in on him banging his secretary right there in the kitchen.

  What did you think would come out of that? Were you going to stuff that whore with your cock while pointing and laughing at me? Or did you think we were going to be in a threesome? You’re lucky this murderer found you and her together, before I did, Neil. You might’ve gotten worse than an arrow in your chest.

  Officer Slattery coughed into his hand. “Would you like some tissue, just in case you need to cry?”

  “No.” She gritted her teeth. “I won’t need anything to wipe tears.”

  “If you need some time to digest this bad news, I could go and give you a few minutes or so to—”

  She waved him away. “Go ahead with your questions.”

  The officer stared at her for a few seconds, perhaps studying the rage that glittered along her eyes.

  She must’ve been an anomaly to the officer because Diana had not slipped into the little, meek widow that most saw on TV shows and movies. Tragedy and death humbled most people. For Diana, it toughened her. Once she heard that her husband had died with his mistress, investigation mode set in. Dozens of questions whipped through her brain.

  Who did this? Why? Am I in danger? Was it something to do with his mistress or was it all about Neil?

  “Okay.” Officer Slattery tapped the plastic glass behind him, and signaled for someone else to come in. “Captain Rothschild will be joining me as I ask you a few questions.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Captain Rothschild walked in, and represented Officer Slattery’s complete opposite—tall, skinny, and an ironed uniform with no food stains on the shirt. Where the officer could’ve acted in an automobile insurance commercial about bad luck accidents, the captain could’ve been rising out of ocean waves and stepping onto a sandy beach as water streamed down his abs.

  I bet Rothschild takes bribes. He’s too tanned and happy. Meanwhile Slattery looks like he stays up all night, eating at his desk and combing over evidence of unsolved cases. According to Ovid Island, Rothschild is the smart one. Slattery is the dumb one.

  Diana focused on Slattery and placed her hands on the table. Her fingers still shivered, but she paid them no mind. To her, she exuded a beacon of strength. Inside, things broke apart and other emotions solidified.

  “Go right ahead, Officer,” she said. “Besides, I have a few questions of my own.”

  Both men exchanged nervous glances and then proceeded with their interview. It took all of ten minutes to figure out that Diana not only had an alibi in the form of her condo lobby camera, but that Neil’s murder was familiar to the other wealthy and dead men found with holes in their chest. Of course, given that Diana knew she did not murder Neil and his mistress, she was insanely curious as to who did.

  Could it have been the same person that killed Jackson Mirabelli?

  Diana needed to know the answers.

  This guy that I’ve already been searching for, has now come to me. Why did you kill Neil? Did he have some connection to Jackson, Thomas, or any of the others?

  “Did your husband know the other victims well?” Slattery asked, while Rothschild checked his phone. He’d been staring into that tiny device most of the interrogation.

  I bet Rothschild is going over Facebook updates or probably taking a selfie.

  “Mrs. Carson?” Slattery said.

  “Yes.”

  “Did your husband know any of the other victims?”

  “No,” she said. “I mean as much as anyone on the island knows each other. It’s pretty hard not to remember the name of faces that you see day to day, but did Neil actually spend time with any of these men? No. Not even a golf or game day. Neil spent time with women. All of his employees were females. All of his friends were women he’d known for years. The only thing a person with a penis could do for Neil was either lift something heavy, or point him in the direction of a vagina."

  Right at the mention of vagina, she shut her mouth.

  Perhaps, I’m not okay. Maybe, I’m just a little bit angry at that bastard.

  “Sorry,” she blurted out.

  “I understand.” Officer Slattery glanced over at Rothschild who continued to tap things into his phone. “Okay, so you said you had questions for us.”

  “Are you certain that Neil died the same way the other men did?” she asked.

  “That’s not something I can tell you,” Slattery said.

  “My husband and I have not only contributed mass sums of money to this department, we’ve also managed to unite with a lot of powerful friends on the island.” Diana didn’t like to strong-arm cops, but sometimes moments like these called for it. “I don’t expect you to tell me intricate details of all the murders, but I do want to know if Neil is being considered as one of the victims of this serial killer on the island.”

  “Hey,” Captain Rothschild held his hand up, but didn’t look away from the phone. “No
one is saying this is a serial killer.”

  “He’s murdered three men that are similar—rich and white. Clearly, there’s someone upset about something and on a mission. This screams serial killer.”

  Rothschild targeted her with a piercing gaze. “This is not a serial killer.” He rose from his seat and headed to the door. “In fact, our questions are over. Slattery, please finish this and make sure Mrs. Carson is taken care of.”

  The fat officer nodded.

  Diana waited for Captain Rothschild to leave, and then attacked Slattery with a look that scared most. “Come on. Tell me something.”

  “I. . .can’t.”

  “You look like you work hard.” She gestured to his wrinkled shirt. “You spent the night at the station right?”

  He nodded.

  “All that hard work, and no one cares.” She shook her head. “Nothing gets done. No one goes to jail, and if they do, they’re out within fifteen minutes thanks to their huge law team. You’re tired of it. Aren’t you? The bullshit. The evil that breeds from money. The crime that gets ignored.”

  Slattery formed his lips into a straight line.

  “I’m a news reporter.”

  “I know who you are,” he said.

  “I always have a wealth of information. It’s sad to say, but I could get clues and facts from places on this island that you could never even venture into. I have developed a lot of contacts with many people. I could help you with not only this investigation, but future ones. Additionally, I could get your supervisors off your back at times, just by waving around my money.” She smiled at him and offered her hand. “Hello, Officer Slattery. Would you like to be my friend?”

  He stared at the hand and didn’t shake it. “I’ve found that friends on this island tend to change into enemies at the most inopportune times.”

  “Then let’s call this a friendly probationary period.”

  He glanced around as if someone was hiding in the room, and then shook her hand. “What do you want to know?”

  “How similar was my husband’s death to the other victims?” she asked.

  “Just like the others," Slattery muttered. "Hole was the same size, too. Definitely, some sort of hunting arrow. The murderer probably uses a high-tech bow. Something a hunter would use to take down big game."

  Slattery, glanced at Diana briefly. "We're going to have to keep this quiet. Don't want to alarm the public. We need to find this guy. And fast."

  She shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair, writhing with the desire to be loose. “Could you get me some copies of the case files for the other murders and any similar ones in the past year?”

  Slattery rubbed a worried groove into his chin. “I don’t think that’s a good idea or that it will do any good.”

  “You don’t have any witnesses.”

  “This is true.”

  “I could get you witnesses.”

  Slattery glanced over his shoulder again. “I. . .I don’t want any connection to—”

  “Of course not. I would never tell anybody my sources.”

  Slattery and Diana talked some more. They did so in whispers and nervous checks of the glass window where Captain Rothschild paced and watched them. They shared a few details between each other, and then promised to figure out an appropriate time that afternoon to exchange the files.

  Thirty minutes later, Diana was excused, and a female officer had her signing paperwork and answering a few more tedious questions about Neil.

  She answered like a robot, yet on the inside, determination beat within her heart. Unlike other wives who’d just found out that their husbands were brutally murdered, Diana hoped to drown in this mystery, to investigate the people, places, and things the police so often missed. And what would be better than to look into her own husband’s death?

  Does he even deserve justice? No, Diana. Stop that. Neil is dead. I can’t be mad at him.

  Yet, anger and sadness bubbled in her chest. She pushed it all aside, blinked the tears away, and considered all the new facts that she’d heard tonight.

  I need to find witnesses. That’s what the police have been unable to do. I’ll need to find the blonde chick that was seen walking in with Jackson. That will be where I’ll start. Then maybe I can talk to Thomas’s daughter. He was the man found dead at his daughter’s head board while she slept. Why would the killer murder Thomas in his daughter’s room?

  Diana had been in the game long enough to know what she was and wasn’t supposed to do. She thought about the news headline she would write later today. It flashed over and over again until it burned into her skull.

  A Serial Killer Among Us.

  Ovid Island City Police Department would be furious with the article. Her boss would scold her, and then give her his classic wink, but one thing would remain despite it all:

  The truth would be out.

  He, whoever he was, would know that Diana Carson was not the reporter you wanted to fuck with. And if you’re going to kill her husband and his pathetic mistress, you are bound and determined to get caught.

  So she waited in the interrogation room, as the police tripped over their own shoes and twiddled their thumbs with evidence.

  She waited for them to double check her alibi.

  She waited for them to notify her that she could not enter Neil’s extra sex-fest apartment, due to it being a crime scene.

  And she waited and waited some more, the whole time, writing her entire news article in her head, until finally, Captain Rothschild let her leave.

  “Sorry about your loss, Mrs. Carson,” he said to her as she passed him in the hallway.

  “I’m not.” She tossed back her hair and let the heavy police doors slam shut on the way out.

  Five

  Diana

  The rest of the day, Diana dived into the murders. She consumed the files Officer Slattery had given her, called up some of her trusty contacts, and was sure she had some good leads to search out in a few hours.

  Then a knock came at her office door.

  She looked up from her big desk.

  A gorgeous man greeted her eyes and said in a deep voice, “Are you Diana Carson?”

  Diana was certain he asked a question, though it sounded more like a command. As if the words barreled out of him and fed right into her veins. He was tall, blonde, impeccably dressed in a fitted navy striped suit.

  Banker? CEO?

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, I am.”

  He nodded and pulled a chair up to her desk. “I’d like to offer you a deal.”

  Diana’s eyebrows rose.

  This should be good. If it involves any sort of sexual bargaining, I’m in.

  “Oh yeah?” She took her hand off her mouse and placed it in her lap. “And what’s that?”

  “I would like you to investigate something for me.”

  “I’m a news reporter, not an investigator.”

  He curved those lovely lips into a smirk. “I’m well aware of who you are.”

  “Then you know that if I’m investigating it, then it’s to publish a story. I don’t keep secrets. I share them with the world.”

  “Like I said.” His smirk widened. “I’m well aware of who you are. Besides, I believe you would be invested in this deal.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it involves your husband and his. . .horrific demise.”

  A shutter of sadness ran through her. The reaction disgusted her. Wasn’t she supposed to be happy Neil had gone that way? If he’d been a better man, wouldn’t he still be alive? Why the hell could she not be okay with just hearing that Neil was gone?

  Pushing all of the emotional chaos out of her head, she swallowed and carefully said, “Maybe you should explain what the deal is.”

  “Are you confident that the murderer you wrote about this morning, is a serial killer?”

  She leaned back in her chair. “Yes. Why?”

  “Most serial killers have specific victims that they target.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, this is correct,” she agreed. “I think it’s at least safe to assume that this serial killer targets rich men.”

  “Maybe even only rich, white men.” He held his hands out as if to say that he, himself fit that category.

  “So my article scared you?”

  “It freaked out a lot of people.”

  Diana crossed her legs under her desk. “So back to your deal.”

  “I researched you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? The point is, I looked up your past works.” He raised his hands and then clapped them slowly. “You’ve accomplished great things, Mrs. Carson. In your years as a lowly reporter for the Miami Times, two serial killers were caught due to your investigative reports. You then transferred to the New York Times and cracked a few federal cases on Wall Street. I can go on and on—”

  “But there’s no need to, I know exactly everything I’ve done. What is the deal, Mr. . .? What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Maybe, you should.”

  “Perhaps, when the appropriate time for personal conversation is over dinner.”

  “I asked for your name, not your social security card.”

  “And I asked you out, and you didn’t respond.”

  “I’ve just been newly widowed.”

  “So you’re single.”

  “Umm. . .Excuse me?”

  “Back to the deal.”

  “Wait.” She held her hand in front of her. “What is your name?”

  “Mrs. Carson, I’ll tell you my name, after we’ve agreed to the deal, the one that you will say yes to, because you simply can’t say no. I understand this about you, this woman who has justice and curiosity burning through her veins.” He raised one finger. “This is why I came to your office, among other things. The first reason was to fund your passion, get you on this supposed serial killer haunting our island and targeting people that look just like me.”

  She touched her chest. “You want me to investigate this possible serial killer?”

  “Yes, and then I want you to give me your number and commit to dinner tonight.”

  “Okay. No to dinner. Now, back to—”

  “I came to see you. To listen to your voice. To inhale your scent. To maybe get a sense of the feel of your skin. And although, this is a bit much coming from a stranger who’s just trampled into your life barely hours after your dead husband—”