The detective’s jaw tightens, his eyes stiff on the slippery, rain-slicked road.
“Jesus Christ. Any clue as to their whereabouts?”
To make matters worse, thanks to a power outage, I learn that Skye’s smart watch—part tracker, part recorder—that Billings made her wear has been malfunctioning. My throat constricting, the air evaporating from my lungs, I curse under my breath.
Then static. We’ve lost the connection. Jesus. How much more can I take?
“Mancuso, I can’t fucking hear you!” yells my companion before the connection reactivates. I blow out a breath. Thank God.
“The last thing we heard before we lost them was that he wanted her to meet Marilyn.”
Gripping the wheel, my companion jerks his head toward me. “Do you know a Marilyn?”
My mind races like it’s in the Daytona 500 and then it comes to me. “Yes! It’s his yacht.”
“Where does he have it docked?”
“In the Marina.”
“Fuck. They’re miles ahead of us.”
“Shit. With this fog and traffic, we’ll never get there in time.” Panic coils in my gut as my pulse pounds in my ears. Reality stabs me like a knife to my chest. I may lose Skye again! This time for good!
Every nerve in my body about to implode, my eyes stay on the detective as he punches three numbers into his communications device.
“Billings to headquarters. Send Lucy Goosey.” He looks at his GPS coordinates and spells them out.
A terse pause, then he barks at the response. “Don’t tell me you can’t fly her in the fucking fog. Send her now!”
I have no clue what the hell is going on, but in my dire state of despair, I can only trust in the detective’s words.
God has a way of handling everything for the best.
I pray He does.
CHAPTER 60
“Sweetheart, meet Marilyn.”
So this is Marilyn. As much as I tried to extract information out of the bastard on the ride here, he refused to divulge any. He wanted to surprise me. Barely able to read the name of the massive yacht because of the fog, I repeat it back as Sheldon grins proudly.
“Named her after my mother, may she rest in peace.”
“It’s an amazing boat. Is this where you keep her?”
“Yup. The Marina’s her home.”
Good. A location. Finn and Billings will know where I am. I follow Sheldon as he leads me up a ramp. The cold, damp air makes me shiver. Despite the chatter of my teeth, the pig doesn’t offer me his jacket. I hug myself to ward off the chill as I climb up the steep incline.
The captain of the ship welcomes us aboard. He tells Sheldon that his other guests are already here. They’re waiting in the stateroom. “Let me know if you need anything, sir.”
“What’s the weather forecast?”
“Not good. The fog won’t be lifting any time soon. The winds are at forty-five knots and a storm’s coming in.”
Sheldon pats his back. “Keep me posted. We can weather anything, right?”
The captain quirks a nervous smile. “Of course, sir.”
A cloud of doubt as thick as the fog falls over me. Maybe he won’t take things further with me. The tweak of a nipple isn’t enough to put him where I want him. Wondering what his intentions are and worrying about the weather conditions, I let him lead me to the third level. He cups a hand on my ass as we step into the elegantly appointed quarters.
The stateroom.
“Sweetheart, I want you to meet my pal.”
Hovering over the bar, the trim, silver-haired man pivots around. I gulp down my shock.
It’s my former boss! Jim Hartley. Now almost sixty. As dapper as ever.
Clad in charcoal gray slacks and a black cashmere turtleneck and carrying a tumbler of some amber-colored liquid, he strides toward me. Sheldon introduces us, telling him my name.
He doesn’t recognize me. His lustful eyes travel down my body like a slow-speed elevator, making a stop at every level. A lascivious smile slithers across his face. I want to rip it off.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he drawls.
“She’s a hot one,” pipes in Sheldon. “And she’s smart.”
“Brains and beauty. It doesn’t get any better.”
Utterly disgusted, I compose myself, and in my most seductive voice, I test him.
“I think we’ve met before.”
“Darlin’, if we had, surely I wouldn’t have forgotten. I never forget a beautiful woman.”
Left-handed, he takes a sip of his cocktail—for sure a bourbon. I notice he’s still wearing a wedding band. The scumbag. Maybe, that’s why several female colleagues abruptly left the department while I was there. I even remember him inappropriately touching me on occasion. Giving me a pat on my ass. Sometimes a shoulder massage. There were also sexually insinuating comments. I brushed them off as playful innuendos. My mind jumps; my tongue burns with questions. Was he involved with my attempted murder? Did he know I was investigating Greenberg? Before I can go any further with my conspiracy theory, Sheldon diverts me.
“Sweetheart, let’s have some kinky-ass fun.” He puts my hand to his crotch, rubbing it up and down his thickness. Right in front of Jim, who lecherously looks on while nursing his drink. An enormous erection forms under my palm. I feel nauseous.
“Sheldon, please stop it. You told me I could pitch you my movie idea.”
I try to pull away, but he won’t let me. “Stop it!” I repeat, my voice rising.
“C’mon, sweetheart. The pitch can wait. Let’s get to know each other better. Jimbo wants to watch. Then, play with us.”
Play with us? What does that mean?
“Shelby baby, I’m ready.”
To my horror, my former boss sets his drink on a table and then shoves me to my knees. He holds my head down.
“What’s going on?” I cry out as Sheldon keeps my hand pressed to his cock.
“Sweetheart, it’s party time. Zip down my fly.”
“Please don’t make me do this.”
He snorts with laughter. “Sweetheart, trust me, I’ll be way more receptive to your pitch.”
“No!” I shout out.
“Stop wasting my precious time. It’s not every day you’re gonna get this chance of a lifetime.”
I hear him unbuckle his belt. My heart races as bile rises to the back of my throat. I don’t think I can suck his monstrous bulge, let alone stomach the sight of it. Besides, I need more than sexual abuse. At most he’ll get a few years in prison at some upscale white-collar penitentiary and then early parole if he’s on good behavior and agrees to rehabilitation. Then, he’ll be sent to some ritzy rehab joint in Malibu or Scottsdale with luxurious accommodations—complete with a deluxe suite, spa, pool, and gourmet dining.
I need to prove he tried to kill me. The thought of him getting away with murder is unfathomable. The bastard! He needs to suffer as much as he made me suffer. I take that back. Make that more!
Rage livewires through me. It’s time to go in for the kill. Pun intended though my mental double entendre makes me shudder. I need a confession. As risky as it is. I can’t let Jim’s presence throw me off. Or a pending blowjob. I need to stick to my plan. The script.
“Listen, Sheldon, why don’t you let me pitch my story and I’ll do anything you want.”
“Maybe you should fuck her brains out first,” chortles Jim. In my mind’s eye, I can see him laughing at his own joke.
It’s not funny. In fact, it horrifies me. I manage to cast my eyes upward. Creasing his forehead, Sheldon weighs his options. My heart thudding, I remain silent with anticipation as the monster scrunches his bulbous nose.
“Nah. Let her get her pitch off her chest.” He snickers. “Then she can get me off. Who knows . . . maybe she’s got something good besides a fuckable pussy. I’m desperate for something to sell.”
I inhale a breath of relief. Things are back on track.
Sheldon orders Jim to take a seat. Releasing my h
ead, he grabs his bourbon and folds into an armchair. I stand up as Sheldon plops down on an opulent couch. His potbelly is so big he can’t close his legs. He scratches his balls.
“Go ahead, sweetheart. Don’t take too long. Give me the elevator pitch.”
I know what that means. Jim, with his short attention span, taught me that term when it came to pitching news stories. It means summing up your story in a couple of pithy lines. Making it high concept.
“I’ll try. It’s a complex story.”
Sheldon scratches his crotch again and huffs out a frustrated breath. “C’mon, sweetheart. Make it fast. My balls are itching.”
I suck in a steeling breath and make eye contact with my audience. My pupils bouncing between Sheldon and Jim. Ultimately landing on Sheldon, I begin. My voice is strong, my expression animated. My hands sweep the air dramatically.
“Imagine . . . Dark Passage meets Brenda Starr . . . meets Madeline . . . ”
The two men furrow their brows.
“Who the fuck is Madeline?” grumbles Sheldon.
Jim informs him. “Some ballsy French kid. My wife used to read those books to my daughter when she was a toddler.”
“Whatever.” Sheldon juts his double chin. “Go on.”
Not having the luxury to waste time, I continue.
“What happens when a young investigative reporter at a major network learns from an A-list actress that one of Hollywood’s major players sexually assaulted her?”
Sheldon narrows his eyes. “What d’ya mean?”
“What I mean is he raped her.” Having Sheldon and Jim’s full attention, I don’t stop. “Against her boss’s wishes, the reporter decides to prove that the actress’s accusation is more than an allegation.”
Jim squirms and takes a long swig of his bourbon. “Sheldon, I don’t like where this is going.”
Swiping his greasy comb over, Greenberg dismisses him. “Let her finish. This has potential.” Inwardly breathing a sigh of relief, I pick up where I left off.
“The determined reporter goes undercover and manages to get the Hollywood mogul to invite her to his house. He forces her to have sex with him.”
“What kind?” asks Sheldon, his voice thinner, his face darkening.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s against her will.” I pause for a beat. “Somehow the bigwig TV producer figures out the true identity of the woman and goes after her. Determined to stop her from exposing him, even if it means putting an end to her life. Then—”
Suddenly, my pitch sinks in. While Jim turns chalk-white, Sheldon turns a shade of purple, his nostrils flaring, his pupils dilating. He cuts me off.
“Shut up! Who the fuck are you?”
With my arms folded across my chest, I face him squarely. “Does the name Skye Collins ring a bell?”
A stunned Jim chokes. He drains his bourbon. “Skye Collins? She’s dead! You don’t look anything like her!”
“Looks can change, Jim,” I say calmly though every nerve in my body is on edge. “How are the ratings these days without me?”
The tumbler in Jim’s shaking hand falls to the floor and shatters as Sheldon explodes. “Don’t fall for her! My boys ran that bitch off Mulholland! I read the obits!”
My heart does a high five against my chest. Yes! A confession! The bastard confessed! A smug, victorious smile curls on my lips.
“Remember me?”
“You’re bullshitting me. I don’t fucking believe you!”
Time for a reality test. I turn to my former boss. He’s white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf.
“Jim, tell him how I came back to work the day after I gave birth to my daughter and was the first on the scene at the Woodland Hills school shooting and made Conquest News the number one news outlet.” It’s a little known fact that only he and a few others would know.
In a state of shock, Jim remains silent.
“Tell him!” My voice goes up decibels with each syllable.
His lips quivering, he buries his face in his hands and mutters, “Holy Jesus. It’s her.”
I face Greenberg again. “So, Sheldon, do you still think I’m bullshitting you?”
Reality sets in. His ugly face contorts with rage. “You almost fucking blinded me, you cunt!”
“You almost cost me my life!” I bark back as he starts sweating like a pig.
“I should have killed you myself! It’s not too late!”
His words terrify me, but I counter his threat. “I wouldn’t bother now. I’ve got everything recorded. The police have heard everything. And they know where I am.”
Regaining his composure, he snorts. “Bullshit. They’d be here by now.”
Worry floods me. My stomach twists into a tight spiky ball. He’s right. Billings and his team should have been here already. An unnerving thought invades my head. Maybe my communications device—the hi-tech watch I’m wearing—isn’t functioning. Or maybe they lost track of me because of the fog. And have no clue where I am.
I can’t let Sheldon know that I’m beginning to freak. I have to be like my childhood heroine—Madeline. Like my precious daughter. Bold. Brave. Not afraid of the ferocious tiger. I’m the predator. He’s the prey. I swallow back my fear and hold him fiercely in my gaze.
“Think about it, Sheldon. You don’t want to kill me. You might get twenty years behind bars for rape and attempted murder—and possibly early parole—but you’ll get life for pre-meditated murder. Maybe the death penalty.”
He snarls. “I wasn’t the one who fired at you! I never left my house. Go ask my housekeeper!”
I will myself to stay calm as a sinister smile snakes across his face.
“And I didn’t rape you.”
Unsure if I want to know what he did, I counter, “But you raped Nicole Farrell! And threatened to kill her!”
He chortles. “Another stupid bitch. This town is filled with them. How are you gonna prove it? I’ll claim I didn’t. It’ll be her word against mine. And her little stint in rehab won’t help. Plus, who gives a flying fuck about what happened twelve years ago?” He laughs wickedly. “Sometimes, I can’t even remember what I did twelve hours ago.”
Trepidation crawling back into my blood vessels, I let him continue against my better judgment.
“I only asked you to blow me, you twat. When you had the fucking nerve to spray me with that mace shit, I inadvertently pulled off your wig and recognized you instantly. I told my boys to go after you. They got a little carried away. It’s all your fault your car went over a cliff.”
Though I still can’t remember that night, the pieces are coming together. The thought of his cock in my mouth revolts me. I choke back a gag.
His beady eyes stays on me, his forehead creased in deep thought until his facial muscles relax. “You know what? Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind. I have no time for personal vendettas.”
I weigh his words. My options. One thought dominates my mind. Why isn’t Billings here yet? It’s been close to an hour. Maybe I should take Sheldon up on his offer. Walk off this boat while I have a chance. Pray that I’ve gotten everything recorded though in my heart I’m growing more and more convinced that my carefully orchestrated plan to take Greenberg down is an epic fail. Despondency mixes with resignation. And the frightening reality that I’m not safe here given his death threat. The loves of my life—my Finn and Maddie—are far more important to me than my ego and need for revenge.
“Fine. But you can be sure the minute I get off this boat, I’m going straight to the police.”
He throws up his hands. “Sweetheart, be my guest.” Then he snorts again. “Oh, and by the way, I’m passing on your movie idea. It’s been done before.”
The mockery in his voice only adds to my defeat. I pivot on my feet, passing by a catatonic Jim.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as he slumps in his chair.
Worthless sack of shit.
Screw the asshole! Somewhat disoriented, the room dimly lit, I search for the way
out.
“Sweetheart, let me escort you,” Sheldon’s patronizing voice. “This yacht is very confusing. And it’s dark.”
“No need,” I say, blindly walking as fast as I can in my spiky heels.
Not slowing down, I hear his heavy footsteps thudding behind me. His hands touch down on my bare shoulders, and then—gasp!—I’m pushed from behind. So forcefully, I go flying ten feet forward. He tricked me! Trying to break my fall, I go tumbling in my stilettos and wince as I hit the cold, hard floor. A sharp pain shoots up my leg. Oh, shit! I’ve twisted my ankle. Possibly broken it. Dazed and in agony, I try to scramble to my feet. But I can’t put any pressure on my right foot. To my horror, Sheldon shoves me to the floor again and I land smack on my face. Stars spinning in my head, I let out a groan as he squats down and rolls me over. He pins me down with his broad hands and the weight of his body. Tears brimming behind my eyelids, I meet his diabolical gaze. His eyes raging with madness. His mouth foaming like a rabid dog. The face of a monster. Terror fills every crevice of my being as the beast lifts up the skirt of my dress and squeezes my pussy. As if he’s scrunching a wet paper towel.
“It’s too bad I never got any of this.”
“You’re hurting me!” I cry out.
“Shut up!”
Without warning, his hand crashes across my cheek. The sting of the slap radiates to my toes as my head jerks away.
Whack! He slaps me again. Harder. “Look at me, cunt!”
Slowly, tearfully, I turn to face him.
“You stupid, stupid bitch. Did you really think I was going to let you get away?”
His fetid breath mixes with his cologne and perspiration, the repulsive scent nauseating me. With the hand that struck me, he whips off his belt, and then lifting my arms up by my wrists, he begins to bind me. Writhing and screaming, I try to resist, but it’s futile. The leather rips into my flesh, bringing on fresh tears.
“Jesus, Sheldon, what the hell are you doing?” It’s Jim.
The monster continues to shackle me as my watering eyes shift to my former boss.
“Please, Jim. Help me!”
“Answer me, Sheldon!” shouts Jim.
Ignoring him, Sheldon knots the belt with a sharp yank, then shoves his hand into a pocket. He thrusts out a crumpled handkerchief and stuffs it into my mouth, muffling my desperate screams. Sweat beads cluster on his forehead.
Remember Me Page 27
