by Sharon Sala
The towels were somewhat gray and threadbare, and the bars of soap were the size of credit cards and nearly as thin. Several of the black-and-white tiles on the floor were cracked or chipped. There was a large red rust stain in the bottom of the tub around the drain, but the room was three times the size of the cell that he’d had to share and seemed luxurious.
Immediately, he stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the shower, peeling the thin paper wrapper from the soap as he went. A few minutes later he had soaped from head to toe, shampooed his long hair, and was in the act of rinsing off when he heard a knock at the door. Confident that it would be the whore he’d ordered, he turned off the water and grabbed two towels, wrapping one around his waist and using the other to dry his hair as he strode out of the bathroom, past the bed, and to the door.
“Who is it?” he growled.
“Anyone you want it to be, doll,” a female voice answered.
His pulse kicked with anticipation, although he opened the door just a fraction before satisfying himself that she was alone. Then he swung the door completely inward, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her inside.
For a moment the only sounds were the locks turning. Then the woman smiled.
“Hey, hon… how you doin’?” she asked, and ran her finger lightly between his belly and the thin wet towel he’d wrapped around his waist.
Foster flinched. Inside, he’d broken a man’s nose for a lesser familiarity. He had to remind himself that he was no longer in prison, while wondering if he could get still get it up for a woman. It had been a long time since he’d had the chance to find out.
“Good,” he said shortly as he gave her a hard look.
She would not have been his first pick out of a crowd, but she wasn’t all that bad. Like him, she was just a little past her prime. He barely had time to notice the dark roots against her scalp, or the brushy fall of dishwater-blond hair, before she tossed her handbag aside and put her hands on her hips.
“So, hon… you want a blow job or what?”
Her voice was part whine, with an indistinct southern drawl that could have put her from Alabama, but more likely Arkansas.
He reached for her breasts, feeling the firm but yielding texture of flesh, then squeezed. As he did, he felt the first stirrings of an erection and knew a great sense of relief.
“What else will twenty-five get me?” he asked.
“A hand job. Another twenty will get you an ass or pussy fuck, but if you want anything kinky, it’ll cost you a flat hundred… and I don’t kiss no one on the lips.”
Foster thought about how long it had been since he’d even had the opportunity to sink his prick into the tight heat of a woman, but the way he was feeling, he wouldn’t last long enough to make it worth the price.
“Blow job,” he said shortly, then dropped both towels, sat down on the side of the bed and spread his legs.
“Money first,” she said as she held out her hand.
He reached behind him, took his money from the pocket of his pants and counted out two tens and a five into her palm.
Water droplets still clung to his body as she folded the money and put it in her fanny pack. After that, she stepped between his outspread legs, then went to her knees.
Foster watched long enough to see her red-painted lips sliding up and down his erection before the dampness of her tongue and the intensity with which she was sucking shifted his focus. Warmth became heat and pressure became pain, but a very pleasurable pain. The woman knew her business. She brought him to a climax so hard and so fast that his semen shot into her hands before he could elicit a groan. Moments later, he fell backward onto the bed, still rocked by the intensity of the spasms.
“Oh damn, that was too fast,” he groaned.
The woman got to her feet and headed for the bathroom, carrying her fanny pack as she went. He heard her brushing her teeth but was too spent to move, and he was still on the bed when she came out, drying her hands.
“How long was you in, hon?”
He answered before he thought. “Twenty-five.”
She grinned. “It’s no wonder you got off so fast. Sometimes the men like you come just lookin’ at me.” Then her eyes narrowed as she stepped back into her shoes. “If you’re interested in an encore, you just let Marvin know.”
“Who’s Marvin?” he asked.
“The desk clerk who called me,” she said.
“Oh yeah… him,” Foster said.
She hesitated a moment, then grabbed the doorknob.
“So, you take care, hon, and thanks for the business.”
Oblivious to his nudity, Foster followed her to the door, let her out, then once again locked himself inside.
With the edge gone from his hard-on, he moved back to the bed, picked up the remote from the top of the television, then hit the power button. His belly growled as he thought about ordering up a pizza, but he let the thought ride as he played with the remote. He knew what the phrase “channel surfing” meant, although the room he’d had in California had been minus a TV and he hadn’t had the pleasure. He kept his finger on the up arrow and ran through the brief choices the hotel menu offered, then had started through it again when, to his shock, he saw his own face on the screen and heard a newscaster saying his name.
“…looking for Foster Lawrence, who was recently released from prison after serving twenty-five years for his involvement in the kidnapping of the granddaughter of Dallas mogul Marcus Sealy. At this time authorities want Lawrence only for questioning regarding the recent discovery of the skeletal remains of a child’s body out at Lake Texoma. The Sealy family is also being questioned regarding the similarities between the baby’s remains and Olivia Sealy, who, as a child, was kidnapped and then returned to Marcus Sealy after an extended length of time.”
Foster’s heart skipped a beat as his lips went slack. The knot of hunger in his belly turned into a full-blown ache as the remote slipped from his shaking fingers. It hit the floor with a thump and, as it did, changed the channel.
He found himself tuned to the Discovery Channel, watching a male elephant intently copulating with a female elephant who was in heat. Any other time, watching any kind of sexual act would have turned him on, but the only thing hard now was the bed on which he was sitting.
“Son of a bitch,” Foster muttered.
The thought of reliving the hell of a federal prison was impossible. He knew for damn sure that the baby he’d seen had been returned unharmed, because he was the one who’d taken her to the shopping mall and let her go. There were things about his accomplice’s past he hadn’t liked, but he’d kept his silence, thinking that the million dollars would be worth the wait. However, he hadn’t planned on having to deal with murder all over again. He hadn’t known about Michael’s and Kay Sealy’s murders until it had been too late, and he didn’t know a damn thing about this one, either.
Suddenly the sanctuary of his room began to seem more like a cell. He thought of the clerk who’d seen his face and the whore who’d just sucked his dick, and figured his days were numbered. He jumped up from the bed and started yanking on his clothes. Panic was pushing him into running until he suddenly stopped. He couldn’t go out—not like this. That photo had been a recent one, and he would certainly be spotted immediately. He had learned one thing doing time: patience. He had too much at stake to make a mistake, so instead of running away, he began to run through his options.
It didn’t seem possible that this was happening, and, by God, it wasn’t fair. He’d paid his debt to society, so what the hell was going on? It seemed as if the state of Texas was out to get him, one way or another. He couldn’t let that happen, but he couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not until he had what he’d come for. But how? Thanks to the news, he was bound to be seen. He thought for a few minutes, then started with the obvious. The authorities were looking for a gray-haired man with a ponytail and facial hair. It was time to make that man disappear. He grabbed his backpack and headed for the bathroom.
With the aid of a switchblade, a can of shaving cream and a disposable razor, he shaved off his beard and used his knife to cut off his ponytail. His face was pale where the beard had been, and his hair looked as if he’d gotten caught in a lawn mower, but it was enough to assure him a safe trip outside to get another room and the goods he needed to finish his new look. He stared at himself for a few moments, then dressed quickly, stuffed his belongings into the backpack and left, leaving the key to the room on the bed as he went.
As he started down the three flights of stairs, it occurred to him that he might have to change more than his look to get past the desk clerk without notice, but he wasn’t sure how. It wasn’t until he started down the second flight of stairs and saw an empty pizza box in the stairwell that he knew what to do. He picked it up, holding it as if the food was still inside, and walked the rest of the way down the stairs.
The desk clerk glanced up, saw the man and then the pizza box, and immediately looked away, assuming it was a delivery gone bad, just as Foster hoped.
Once he was out on the street, he discarded the box and lengthened his stride. He stopped once at a corner drugstore, exiting shortly carrying a small sack, then proceeded a few blocks farther before checking into another hotel.
The desk clerk was an obese female of indeterminate age, who eyed Foster curiously. He stared back, morbidly fascinated by the faint green tinge to her hair and the number of fleshy folds in her face as he counted out the money for another room. She took the money without comment and handed him a key. Again, he had only paid by the night. If nothing else went wrong, he should have his money in a couple of days and be long gone.
***
Trey finished reporting to Lieutenant Warren, but his anger was obvious as he went back to his desk.
Chia Rodriguez was finishing a report when Trey slumped into his chair, then rubbed his face with his hands, as if trying to scrub away something foul.
“Hey, Trey, what’s up?”
“Today I hate my job,” he said shortly, then got up from the chair as quickly as he’d sat down, grabbing his coffee cup as he went.
Chia followed him to the break room.
“Is it the Sealy case?”
He nodded.
She sighed. “God. I can’t imagine something like that happening to one of my kids. I look at them every night and pray that I’ll be able to keep them safe long enough to grow up.” Then she grimaced. “Then there are the nights when I’m afraid to close my eyes for fear they’ll disappear when I’m not looking. On those nights, I sleep on the floor outside their door.” Then she laughed weakly. “Pretty crazy, huh?”
Trey put down his cup and turned around.
“Damn, Chia, that’s scary. You’d be a good spokesperson for birth control.” He turned away again.
She pulled a face, then made a big deal out of leering at his backside to make up for the fact that she’d just shared something personal with him.
“Now, Bonney, you know how women are. PMS and shit like that gets us all crazy sometimes for no reason. Besides, with buns like yours, it would be a crime to the human race not to pass them on.”
He grinned because she needed him to, but he didn’t feel like smiling. Truth was, he could identify with her fears and had an overwhelming urge to hug her, but she wouldn’t like it and everyone else would take it the wrong way, so he let the notion slide.
Thankful that Trey was letting her change the subject without comment, she poured him a cup of coffee, then topped off her cup.
“Here, stud… drink up. Caffeine always makes the world a little easier to bear.”
“From your lips to God’s ear,” Trey muttered, then lifted his cup in a toast before taking a sip, after which he made a face. “This stuff is terrible.”
Chia reached in front of him, snagged the last doughnut from a plate, broke it in half and handed one piece to him.
“That’s what these are for,” she said.
Trey eyed the dried-out pastry, then shrugged and dunked it into the dark, greasy-looking brew as Chia took hers and swaggered back to her desk.
Trey ate the doughnut without tasting it and took the coffee like medicine. He would need all the fortification he could get to make it through the next day and get the Sealys to the lab. Then he thought about the notes he’d taken from Marcus and pulled them out. He didn’t know what time it was in Milan, but he was going to try the number that Marcus had given him for Terrence Sealy.
Back at his desk, he dialed, then picked up a pen and began doodling on a notepad as the phone started to ring. He counted the rings up to seven and was about to hang up when a woman answered in a breathless voice.
“Ciao.”
Trey frowned, frustrated that he hadn’t counted on the language barrier.
“Is this the Terrence Sealy residence?” he asked.
There was a moment of hushed silence, then a surprised lilt to the woman’s voice.
“Yes… yes, it is. Who’s calling, please?”
Trey’s heart skipped a beat. Pay dirt!
“This is Detective Trey Bonney with the Dallas, Texas, police department. I want to talk to Terrence Sealy.”
“Oh no! Has something happened to Marcus?”
“No, ma’am. Nothing like that. Who am I speaking to, please?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’m Carolyn, Terry’s wife. He’s gone for the day and won’t be home until evening. Can I be of help to you?”
“I certainly hope so, and I’ll get straight to the point. A few days ago, the remains of a small child were found in a house at Lake Texoma. She had been murdered about twenty-five years ago, then put in a suitcase and hidden behind a wall. Early investigations lead us to believe that the child might have been a Sealy.”
“Oh my God! How awful! But why would you suspect such a… oh! Olivia’s kidnapping! But we got her back,” Carolyn said.
“Yes, ma’am, but we’re still questioning the remaining Sealys.”
“Why?”
“The child that was found had been born with two thumbs on her left hand. A pretty distinctive trait.”
“Dear Lord… well, what would you be wanting with us? We weren’t able to have children.”
“Ma’am, this is a very personal question, and forgive me for asking, but I have to know. Was it you or your husband who had the infertility problems?”
“It was me, but that doesn’t—”
There was a gasp, then a long moment of silence.
“Mrs. Sealy? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here,” she said. “Are you insinuating that my husband had an affair? That he fathered some child that was subsequently murdered?”
“I’m not insinuating anything,” Trey said. “What I am doing is eliminating all the suspects.”
“How do you propose to do that?” Carolyn asked.
“I need a DNA sample from your husband.”
“This is horrible,” she muttered.
“No, ma’am. What’s horrible is what was stuffed in that suitcase.”
“Dear Lord…”
“Can I count on your cooperation?” Trey asked.
Carolyn answered without hesitation. “What do you want him to do?”
“I don’t suppose you would consider coming back to Dallas for the tests and to answer a few more questions?”
“That far? But—”
“It would mean a lot to the department, ma’am.”
Carolyn Sealy sighed. “It would mean a lot to me, too,” she said. “I mean, coming back to Dallas. I miss living in the States, and it’s been ages since we’ve seen Marcus.” There was a moment’s pause, and then she said, “Yes, we’ll come back.”
“This is my number,” Trey said, then recited it. “Call me when you get into the city. We’ll set up a time and place to meet and get this taken care of.”
Carolyn sighed, as if anxious to get rid of his call. “We’ll be in touch,” she said, and hung up.
Trey pu
t the phone back on the receiver, then rubbed the back of his neck. One more possible link in the chain.
***
Marcus speared a slice of meat from the serving platter and delivered it to his plate, then poured a small helping of mushroom gravy next to it before resuming his meal. At the first bite of meat, he rolled his eyes in satisfaction.
“Oh my, Olivia. Rose has outdone herself tonight. The tenderloin is delicious.” Then he noticed that her plate was still empty and frowned. “What’s the matter, darling?” He sat up a little straighter as concern tinged his voice. “Are you ill?”
Olivia stifled a sigh, then made herself smile.
“No, Grampy, I’m fine. Just not very hungry.”
Marcus put down his fork, then leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his stomach as he studied her face. He was so accustomed to her appearance that he never studied her features, but looking at her now, he had a fleeting moment of doubt. What if…? Then he frowned and thrust away the thought.
“You’re worried about tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Olivia shrugged, then nodded as she looked away.
Marcus’s frown deepened.
“I wish I could make you believe that there’s no need for concern.”
Olivia looked up, her eyes swimming with tears.
“Oh, Grampy, I wish you could, too, but there’s a dark feeling inside me, and as hard as I try, I don’t believe anything is ever going to be the same again.”
Marcus wanted to argue with her, but he knew that she wasn’t in a frame of mind to listen. All they could do was wait this out. Only time and truth would tell.
Olivia could tell that she’d upset her grandfather, and while it was the last thing she wanted to do, she had never been able to lie to him. All she could do now was trust that his faith in her was justified.
“I’m sorry for being such a whiner, Grampy. I’ll be better, I promise. And for starters, I think I’ll try some of Rose’s tenderloin, after all.”
Marcus smiled as he passed the platter.
“Don’t forget the gravy,” he added.
***
Foster Lawrence downed the final bite of his burger, then dunked the last two fries in ketchup, nodding affirmatively when a waitress paused by his table with a pot of coffee.
