by Cat Connor
“You’re under arrest.”
“What for?” he snapped. “I’ve been here since last night. What did I do?”
“You’re under arrest for your involvement in the murder of ten women,” I said with a smile. I can be nice when I arrest people. “We already have your buddies.”
“That’s crap,” he squawked, rattling the cuff against the bed.
“No. It’s really not. Your exciting gallery display of blood-drenched and forensically designed articles and the things you sold to some boutiques here in D.C and Northern Virginia mean you are someone we very much want to talk to regarding the exsanguination of ten women.”
He rattled the cuff against the bed rail again.
“Settle or we take you now,” Kurt warned. “Just give me a reason …”
Kurt and I left the room. We could see Kristopher Lette from the viewing window.
“What do you want to do?”
“Leave him for now. Let’s get someone to babysit him. I don’t want to stay.”
Kurt made a call to Sam. He and Lee offered to sit with Lette until we could set up a roster of uniformed agents to take over. As soon as his mother died, we would take him in and the games would begin.
Forty-Two
Here Without You
The peppery scent of his cologne released from the fabric of the shirt as I slipped my arms into it and fastened a few buttons, successfully stopping it sliding off my shoulders. I glanced at the bed. He stirred, his eyes flickered under closed lids.
With a smile I went to the kitchen and opened the windows, letting the fresh morning breeze flow over me. A shiver ran up my spine as the cool wind spiraled down my body, touching bare legs. Glad of his shirt, I made the coffee.
The aroma of the freshly ground beans filled the air. For a moment, I wondered how smart an idea morning coffee was.
What’s the worst that could happen?
I made coffee and found some roasted pecans in the cupboard. Deciding to let Mitch sleep a bit longer, I took a cup of coffee and a bowl of pecans to the living room. Comfortable on the couch I ate pecans and laughed to myself as I read Dilbert cartoons online.
Engine noise from a boat outside drew my attention away from Dilbert. I watched the water ripple on the Sound in the wake of a large white launch. The sun reflected bright rays off the water’s surface. I knew why Mitch bought this property in New Zealand years ago. He’d found paradise. Mahau Sound was peaceful and stunning all at once.
Reaching for my coffee, I found it was lukewarm; the sea was quite a distraction. I abandoned all thought of coffee.
“Whatcha doing?” Mitch’s voice made me jump. He laughed. He leaned on the doorframe, hands in his pockets, a smile on his face and a gleam in his eyes. I had the impression he’d been there a few minutes.
“Eating nuts, surfing, and watching boats,” I replied, putting another salted pecan in my mouth. “You want some?” I chewed the nut. Pecans reminded me of brains, if brains were slightly salty, yet crunchy and tasty.
“We still talking about pecans?” Mitch said with what was possibly the most innocent expression I’d ever seen on his face.
It needed work.
“Not necessarily.” A smile settled on my lips. “Thought you were tired?”
“That was then, this is now,” he replied with a cheeky grin. “I’m rested now.”
I don’t need much encouragement. I closed the screen on my laptop, placed it on the couch, and stood up.
Mitch smiled as I covered the distance between us with three strides.
“Don’t let me interrupt …” he said as I neared him. “We’ve got another week of vacation here … that’s one hundred and sixty-eight hours … so if now’s not good for you …”
“Shut up,” I murmured, kissing him while wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Morning, Mrs. Iverson,” he said in my ear. “My shirt looks good on you.”
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank the following people for the reasons mentioned.
Rebekah ‒ for never being too busy to read for me, for your observations, laughter, style, fearlessness, and for being my daughter.
Geoff ‒ for never forgetting, for the best smile ever, and for being my Knight of the Order of Chrome.
Caoilfhionn ‒ for lively discussions about writing and for your humor.
Breezy ‒ for singing, always, and your big heart and Sagittarius ways.
Doug Whitlock ‒ because he is never surprised by my medically related questions, doesn’t think I’m a serial killer, and makes me laugh so much I have a keyboard protector on my Macbook.
Special thanks to Jayne at Rebel ePublishers.
About the Author
Cat Connor is a former mid-southerner who’s lived most of her life as a lower-northerner. She shares her home with Romeo the retired greyhound, Missy the fat grey cat, and her two youngest children. These days Cat mostly writes from a desk in the back corner of Writers Plot Readers Read bookshop, in Upper Hutt. She is co-director of the bookshop which was created to showcase kiwi writers.
A coffee addict, lover of Whittaker’s chocolate, and tequila aficionado, Cat has been described as irresistible, infectious, and addictive. She believes music is as essential to life as breathing. When she’s not writing Cat enjoys decoupage, forensic art, tie-dying, walking with her kids and hound, hanging out with friends, and travel.
Cat is the President of Writers Plot Readers Read Incorporated Society. She’s a member of International Thriller Writers, Backspace, Masters of Horror and Kiwi Writers and many groups she’s forgotten to mention.
Also by this author …
Eraserbyte, Databyte, Soundbyte, Flashbyte, Exacerbyte, Terrorbyte, Killerbyte
And for more from this author …
Please turn the page for a preview of the next exciting book in the byte series, Metabyte
One
Surfin’ Safari
A scream broke the silence. I jumped to my feet shoving the laptop onto the couch as I did.
“Harley!” My hand reached for my Glock and came up empty. Dammit. “Harley!”
Another scream.
I grabbed my spare weapon from the drawer under the coffee table and crept into the hallway.
“Harley!”
Sobbing came from the kitchen. A voice broke through the sobs, “Ellie!”
Entering the kitchen, I found Harley, pale and backed into a corner.
“What’s wrong?”
She pointed to a black hairy shape on the tiled floor.
My heart rate returned to normal. Relief washed over me. “I can’t shoot that,” I said, placing the gun on the countertop.
I’d like to. I hate spiders.
I held my hand out. “Come here.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. It’ll get me.”
Potentially.
“Watch it and I’ll get the fly spray.”
“No! It’ll run at me if you spray it.”
I stepped closer, eyeing the black furry horror on the floor. It squelched under my boot as I stamped on it.
Yuck.
Harley squawked and flew at me. I hugged her.
“I hate spiders.”
“Don’t usually see any inside. You going to be okay?”
She nodded, her smile returning. “Sorry.”
I picked up the gun. “Better put this away. Can we reserve screams for life-threatening situations?”
Twenty minutes later peace had returned, I continued with the painful process of writing.
“What’s it about?”
“What’s what about?” I asked, squinting at the screen. Clouds parted, sending a ray of sun across my line of vision. “No sun for days and now it wants to shine.”
“The story you’re writing—”
“What about it?”
“You’re not listening …”
I lifted my fingers off the keyboard and looked at her. “I’m listening. Ask me again.”
“What’s the story about?”
“Oh, that trip your Uncle Mitch and I took to the beach last summer.”
“Doesn’t sound very exciting,” she said, her interest diverted by the bright colors and chirpy music of a new television advert.
No, it doesn’t. Had to agree with the opinion of the seventeen-year-old. It certainly didn’t sound very exciting. Best it remains that way. Wouldn’t do for truth to sully the story and turn it into something more fun.
All the noise stopped. I looked up to find Mitch’s niece standing in front of me, one hand on her hip and the other twirling the remote control around her fingers. “Can I help you?”
“Why are you writing a story?”
Good question.
“Because it seemed like a good idea when Holly suggested it.”
She smiled. “Is it a good idea, Ellie?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s really not.”
“Show me?”
I spun the laptop to face her. She picked it up and sat on the couch. I wandered off for juice, coffee, or wine. I wouldn’t know which until it magically appeared in my hand. Anything wet would help the awful evening that stretched ahead of me.
Why did I think writing would be fun?
It’s like pulling teeth without anesthetic.
Unscrewing the cap on a bottle of Pinot Gris told me I’d decided on my poison of the night. Good choice, brain. Good choice.
The good choice was overridden by my mother’s voice. “You shouldn’t be drinking that.” My eyes rolled so far back into my skull I could see Mom with a glass of gin in one hand and a half full bottle in the other. Her opinion mattered very little.
Laughter filled the air and came closer, shaking the image of my mother until she dissolved into a gin-soaked puddle. I didn’t have time to wonder if the laughter was good or bad before Harley appeared in the doorway.
“Ellie, it’s so funny.”
“Good funny?”
“Yeah. But something needs to happen.”
“It’s a trip to the beach …”
Lots happened, I’m just not sure any of it is for general consumption. Okay, I know it isn’t.
Holly thought I should write a story for a competition she was running through her bookstore and as usual, wouldn’t listen to my protests about time constraints or my inability to write something that wasn’t a report for our files or an account of an investigation for the District Attorney.
“You should just write about work, your work stories are the best.”
“Thanks for the input, kiddo.”
“I’m serious. The stories you tell us about working with Kurt are really funny.”
Maybe funny is teenage code for horrendous. Had a feeling the kid would need a lot of therapy one day.
“I can’t write a story about a case … Holly said there are certain things I need to have in the story.”
She shrugged. “Put them in then. Come on, Ellie. Please. Tell that story of the time you and Kurt were in New Zealand. Didn’t you go to a beach?”
Images filled my head. None of them were story worthy: Lee and me and a golf course by a beach. I shut down the memory just as the flash from an automatic weapon caught my eye. Not that story.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, taking a generous swig from my glass. It’s not happening. “I’ll definitely think about it.”
Harley spun around and headed back down the hallway. “You should. It’ll be great.”
“You sound like Holly,” I called after her.
Her laughter bounced off the walls and collapsed in a heap of giggles on the rug. The laughter became insistent and more like the opening bars of ‘Wanted dead or alive’.
“Your phone!” Harley hollered.
Saved by Bon Jovi.
“Coming,” I called back.
Something flew at me when I stepped into the living room. My fingers snatched the object from mid-air. The ringing continued but this time, it came from my hand. Kurt.
I swiped my finger across the bottom of the screen. “Problem?”
“Potentially,” he replied. “I’ll pick you up in ten.”
Ten. That meant he was already on his way. “See you soon.”
I hung up, shoved the phone into my jeans pocket and downed the last of my wine. My night at home, struggling with Holly’s story idea was over. A little voice inside my head hollered, ‘Woo hoo!’
“You going out?” Harley asked from the couch.
“Called to work. You be okay? We can drop you at Gran’s if you like?”
“I’ll be all right,” she said, turning her head to see me. “Besides, Uncle Mitch will be here later, won’t he?”
“He sure will.” My watch indicated he’d be home in about half an hour. I’d miss him and that sucked. A quick text was in order.
I sent a text saying I’d been called out. Not a surprise. It happened more often than not. Criminals have no regard for our lives but on the plus side, job security.
Mitch replied quickly and said he and Harley would cook dinner and they’d save me some. Once again my excellent choice of a husband came to the rescue. I let him know there was a squashed spider body on the kitchen floor that he had to remove.
My eyes drifted to the teenager. For a moment, a memory of a different teenager standing in my lounge overlaid the present. Her smile radiated, her laughter jingled in the air like a dozen fairy bells. Carla. The memory glittered around the edges as it faded. I missed her laugh so very much.
Harley’s perky voice plunged through the remnants of my memory. “I’ll be fine. What’d Uncle Mitch say?”
“He said you can help him cook dinner.” A niggly squirmy unsure feeling grew in my gut. “I don’t like the idea of you being on your own,” I said. Overprotective much?
“I won’t be for long,” she replied with a smile. “Anyway, Mom and Dad are going to FaceTime me soon. So, I won’t really be alone.”
Mitch’s brother was in Germany on business and his wife had gone with him. We’d offered to take Harley for the month. A week in and it was going well. She was a great kid.
“Okay. I better get ready,” I said, looking around the room for my bag.
“It’s behind the couch,” Harley said.
“Thanks.”
From the bag I took everything I wore on my belt. I checked my weapon. Then snapped my holster onto my belt. I seated my Glock checking it was snug inside the holster and adjusted the fit of my belt. On the other side of my belt, I snapped spare magazine pouches and a black handcuff case.
“Isn’t all that uncomfortable?” Harley asked.
Until she spoke, I was unaware she’d been watching. “Nah. Got used to it years ago.”
“Is that why you always wear a heavy belt?”
I nodded and shoved my ID wallet into my left front jeans pocket. My phone lived in my right pocket. Harley handed me my FBI jacket. I pulled it on, not bothering to zip it up. I remembered something that I thought she’d enjoy and hurried down to my home office. From my desk, I picked up a box and carried it out to the living room. I set the box on the coffee table in front of the couch and opened the lid.
“Thought you might enjoy a pre-dinner snack,” I said, turning the box to face her. “I have a friend in New Zealand, she sent a care package over.”
Harley leaned forward and surveyed the bright colored contents. She reached in and took a yellow bag out.
“Pineapple lumps,” she said. “They look yum.”
“They are. You should try the Jaffas and the Whittaker’s L&P chocolate.”
“Really, what are they?”
“Jaffas are orange flavored candy-coated chocolate balls. L&P chocolate is white chocolate, kinda lemony and has pop rocks in it. So good!”
“Hey, there’s a cookbook in here. Edmond’s Cookbook. Maybe we could make something from this for dinner?”
“I’m sure you and Uncle Mitch could manage that.”
Car tires crunched on the gravel drive
way. A horn blasted.
“That’s me, Harley. Be good. Don’t eat too much candy.” I gave her a quick hug. “Fly spray is in the cabinet under the sink.”
Opening the front door, I stepped out. Security lighting flooded the top of the driveway and illuminated Kurt’s car with crisp white light. I gave the front door a sharp pull. It closed behind me. The passenger door popped open as I walked around the vehicle.
“Hey,” I said, sliding into the seat and closing the door.
“Sorry to drag you away from the family,” Kurt replied. The engine rumbled to life.
“Where are we going?”
“Chesapeake Bay.”
“Why?”
“Two bodies in the water.”
“Boating accident?” I asked, fastening my seat belt and getting comfortable.
“I doubt it. State Police called us. One of the deceased is on our most wanted list.”
“One down …” I whispered. Scenery blurred beyond the windscreen. I leaned on the headrest and waited for more information.
“He was a bank robber, his partner is still at large,” Kurt said, passing several cars.
“And the other person?”
“No ID yet.”
“Lee and Sam?”
Didn’t see why we should have all the fun but then again why ruin everyone’s night.
“We’ll call them in if we need them. At this point, it’s two dead bodies.”
Guess that was reasonable.
Two dead bodies and a nighttime trip to the beach. Holly wanted me to write a story about a journey to a beach. I had a feeling this wouldn’t be any better than any of my other beach stories. She expected way too much from me. Join my writing group she said. It’ll be fun she said. My eyes rolled so fast last week came into view. I’m not a writer. I don’t want to be a writer. The night came back into focus, it was welcome but brief.
Visions of Danni Lane danced before my eyes, backlit by oncoming headlights. It took a bit of convincing before my brain accepted that not all writers were psychopaths. And not all writers based their characters on real people. And not all writers went about putting those real people into horrendous situations just to watch how they reacted.
