Why (Stalker Series Book 2)

by Megan Mitcham

  There were so many questions and no answers. She scrolled back through the text string to remember what they’d been talking about and then added her rebuttal.

  Genevieve: I haven’t said yes to partner.

  Marlis: But you’re going to, right?!

  Genevieve: I don’t know. It’s complicated.

  Larkin: We’ll discuss the pros and cons and weigh them Saturday night! Fancy or fun food?

  Libby: Fun

  Marlis: Fun is fine.

  Mar always preferred fancy. She put up with fun for them.

  Genevieve: Fine!

  Larkin: Great! See you then.

  Libby: With the sexy details on your exotic international trip!

  Larkin: A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.

  Genevieve: I don’t know any ladies.

  Libby: Lol

  Gen knew she should take the partnership and run with it. What a boost for her already over-the-top career. Later, she could parlay both into a seat on an early morning talk show. She should leave the past in the past and claim her future.

  The tall structure loomed like a dream turned nightmare. The dreams were fleeting, but the nightmares clung. They grew tentacles and burrowed deep. This was one nightmare she couldn’t easily leave behind.

  Ten

  The corrections officer inside the concrete, steel, and bulletproof glass control room was new. He fumbled with the buttons on the dash that operated too damn much for him to be learning on the fly. Where was Henry when she needed him? Driving stupid transports when his place was here, cracking jokes with her. At this juncture, she’d take the shit-for-personality Ronny. At least he knew his ass from a hole in the ground. She shuffled back and forth on sedate black pumps, waiting for the new guy to notice her. The control room was ten feet from her behind a network of heavy steel doors and small holding cells. A scream would get his attention, which was probably why another officer yelled through the echo chamber from the corridor opposite her. He wanted out. She needed in, but she dared not holler. In a facility that housed upward of 800 men against their will, a woman’s voice stood out. This was not the place to demand attention.

  “Come here often?” A deep, masculine voice poured over her. She knew its owner before she turned to see Detective Owen Graham’s approach. He was back in business mode buttoned up in a suit and tie. Shame to hide such a magnificent body. Her hands, clasped in front of her, fidgeted among themselves. As much as she liked looking at him, as much as she liked their flirtatious or often contentious encounters, he needed to be anywhere else on the planet right now.

  “Quite often actually.” She nodded a hello and turned her gaze back to the control room and the still struggling guard. “I’m not going to let you buy me a drink, though. They ferment their hops in the john.”

  “I’ve heard that. Never seen it.” Surprised, she slid her gaze to him and found him shivering. “The thought … disgusting.”

  “I’d expect you were a regular here.”

  “Only when I absolutely have to. I like easy access to freedom. Plus, I usually leave my patrons at the door.”

  Genevieve returned her gaze to the hub to find the grated metal door across the hallway from her finally yawn. The corrections officer walked through the gate and turned left away from them, demanding that another section be opened for him.

  “Well, shit,” she grumbled. “We might never get inside with this brainless freshman running the show.”

  “We could always go somewhere else and grab a drink until shift change.”

  She pinned him with a look. His shoulders were relaxed. He wore a small, sweet lopsided grin. The man was well respected on the force, among the law community, and even in political circles. He shot from the hip and didn’t dick around. Everything about him made her want to say yes, which was exactly why she wouldn’t.

  “What’s your angle, detective?”

  His cheeks turned a rosy shade. It was the cutest damn thing she’d ever seen. The cutest damn thing she’d never seen until today. A grown-ass man with the eyes of an angel and the lips of a devil who blushed.

  Despite herself, Gen smiled. “What was that thought?” She was dying to know that answer almost as much as she wanted this trip to answer questions about Perry.

  He shook his head, and his neatly arranged hair escaped its confines, slipping onto his forehead. “It’s inappropriate.”

  Gen thrived on inappropriate, but something in his tone told her he wouldn’t cross that line. If the chivalry stuck, he’d be the first.

  “Okay.”

  “Can’t a guy just be interested in getting to know a beautiful woman?”

  “If by getting to know, you mean getting acquainted with the holes between her legs and the bumps on her chest, then yes.”

  He choked.

  “If you mean getting familiar with the inner workings of her personality, her passions in life, and the origin of the forces that drive her, then based on my vast experience, no.” She shrugged. “Not that I can blame them. Us women are stunningly gorgeous and extraordinarily complex on our best days.”

  “Complex for sure.” Graham sighed. He looked dazed.

  Genevieve stole the opportunity and stepped forward. She banged on the columns of steel and called for the officer in her deepest voice. The guy turned and seemed stunned to see them standing there. He held up a finger. She had a finger for him. Two of them, in fact.

  “I know from vast personal experience that if the woman is complex enough, he’s interested in both.”

  “So if a man only wants in our pants, it’s our fault for not being interesting enough?” Genevieve slapped her long hair back over her shoulder, quite pleased with herself for catching him.

  “There is a certain carnal reality, proliferation of the species, that our bodies—male and female, alike—will never free us from. Often, interest can’t move past that base level on either part because people aren’t often compatible. Every once in a while, a person comes along who forces you past the fundamentals. And, Genevieve Holst, to me, you are that person.”

  He made no move forward. Even though his hands didn’t touch her, heat plucked at her chest, plunged low, and licked at her core. Her body responded in the most unlikely of places, at the most inappropriate of times, as though he had laid her bare and attacked her most intimate parts. That was exactly what he’d done—seduced her brain first. It buzzed between her ears.

  Gen licked her lips, trying her best to engineer words that would deflect the onslaught of thoughts and images of their bodies writhing together. But worse were the images of a lazy Saturday morning curled up together, talking, dreaming, sharing hopes for the future together. Over the years, her body had become a weapon wielded against men for her own pleasure, not theirs. Her mind, however, had become a fortress, forbidden to anyone with a cock and most of those without one.

  The steel door rolled wide. Genevieve cooled the need to surge forward and leave Detective Graham behind. They could only approach the control room one at a time, and the last thing she wanted was for him to see the name of the prisoner she planned to question.

  “Please.” She motioned for him to precede her. When he stayed, she cast a glance over her shoulder. “Liar, liar, I need to see if your pants are on fire.”

  “I think you just want to stare at my ass, counselor.”

  “If I say no, then mine would be on fire.” She shooed him along. “Now, let’s go, I don’t have all day.”

  His mouth quirked as though he wanted to say more, but he didn’t elaborate. He grinned, nodded, and headed for the control room. She couldn’t rip her gaze from him. The confident stride. The steady hands. The ass most certainly on fire, but for a whole different reason, even if mostly hidden by his suit. The slight bulge in the rear of his jacket from the ever-present and too damn endearing slim pack of peanuts shoved into his back pocket. Her gaze followed him from the sign-in sheet to the hallway one over from the one she needed. When he disappeared out of sight, relief
and disappointment flooded, making thought next to impossible. The momentary break from her mind’s incessant inquest eased the headache that had plagued her for days.

  “Hey!” The officer’s sharp voice penetrated her momentary fog and yanked her forward.

  The second her heels cleared the gate, it closed behind her, and it started. A communal roar of whoops and whistles so loud it dulled her thoughts once more. Inmates in cells on neighboring corridors hung their arms through gaps in the bars and angled small hand mirrors in her direction. Others without the privilege joined in blind solidarity an unspoken pact among criminals. Years ago, it had chilled her to the core, but now it hardly registered. Sad, really. Insulating dulled the other reactions, but it was Survival 101.

  She signed in, appropriately flashed her badge, and waited for him to read the name of the prisoner she’d requested. He gave no outward reaction. After all, Edger Sanchez was no one to him, just one of the hundreds of men awaiting trial in the Tombs. Also known as the Manhattan Detention Complex. Hopefully he wasn’t one of the men catcalling her.

  “Down that hallway, I think. First door on the …” He scratched at his chin.

  “I’ve got it. Thanks.” Gen hadn’t lied to the detective. She came here too damn often for case discoveries. It was easier for her to come to see a prisoner than it was for them to come to her. There were no shackles or armed guards involved in her stroll down the hallway to the third door on the right. Well, there were corrections officers, but they were posted outside the rooms of the prisoner they escorted. She nodded at a man in the familiar black uniform two doors down and then shoved inside the small interview room.

  Unlike an interrogation room, it didn’t have a two-way mirror, thank goodness. Gen hated those things. Not knowing for certain who was behind them. Not knowing who was breaking her privilege by listening in. She moved around an anchored metal table and sat in the chair facing the door. The fluorescent lighting burned her eyes, but she didn’t dare squint. When Sanchez was in there, she couldn’t give away any hint of weakness, and it was always better to practice how you played. She staved the urge to check the time. In these blank confines, those numbers were the last kind that mattered. Besides, phones weren’t allowed. So she placed her hands on her lap, engaged her best posture, stared at the painted steel door, and waited.

  Less than ten minutes later, the small lever dipped and the door swung wide. A surprisingly short young man stood in the opening. Until now, she’d only seen him sitting in the back of a police cruiser or behind a table much like the one in front of her with guards flanking his sides. He wore a tan long-sleeve shirt and pants, and his dark hair was slicked back into a long ponytail. A silver chain encircled his waist and imprisoned his cuffed wrists with short leads at a loop in the front, leaving his hands to hang insolently in front of his hips.

  Menacing, near black eyes narrowed on her. A smile cracked the hard line of his mouth. He grunted like an animal, a monster, and it spoke of excitement and approval. It scaled Genevieve’s spine, digging sharp claws into cartilage between the vertebrae. She remained perfectly still. If she revealed any sign of weakness, he would win, and she was quite fond of winning.

  He stepped inside the room. Shackles clanked.

  The officer who stood sentry behind Sanchez also gave nothing away. Most of the corrections officers checked their captive’s chains and made some sort of threat before leaving the room, but this one gave no effort beyond closing the door behind the detainee and turning to stand in front of it. Instead of getting angry, she focused on the man she needed to see.

  “Edger Sanchez, do you realize you have the right to counsel, now or at any time during our discussion?”

  Sanchez moved slowly toward the table as though deciding on whether to take a seat in the available chair or on her lap. He moved like a man who owned the room and had no reason to fear her. If he was stupid enough to think she posed no threat, her job would be ten times easier.

  “Oh Roja, I don’t plan on sharing you.” He pulled the chair back from the table, pushed his thighs against the unmoving metal, and leaned across the table.

  Let him underestimate you. Let him think he has the upper hand.

  “No recorder? No notebook?” He grabbed a handful of his crotch, arched his hips, and shook it at her face. “Looks like you’re here for a piece of me.”

  Adrenaline ran like wildfire through her veins. The familiar sensation of fight or flight warmed her like the arms of an old friend. Her gaze zeroed in on his handful of pants, cock, and balls.

  “If you ask me, that’s nothing to boast about.” Gen deadpanned.

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha!” His exaggerated laugh was forced through clenched teeth. He released his crotch, adjusted the chair, and sat hard. “You’re funny. I always enjoy our talks. Haven’t seen you since before the trial.”

  “It has been a while.”

  Sanchez reclined in the seat. “I liked those meetings better. The police have better snacks than these privatized hijo de perras.”

  Gen wasn’t fluent in Spanish but understood enough to decipher the whispers from her informants and spoke enough to get her into trouble. Yes, lawyers—at least, the good ones—had people on the inside. They listened and reported pertinent information. They’d reported chilling accounts of Edger Botella Sanchez, and she’d expected nothing less from the son of a rising Mexican cartel leader.

  “I alerted your lawyer to my visit. Why isn’t he here?” There was a slim possibility that dear old dad had had enough of his son’s blatant bullshit and left him to rot this time.

  “Because I told him not to come.” His brows waggled. “Like I said, you’re mine, and I don’t share.”

  She ignored the empty threat.

  “I don't advise skipping counsel.” Even though it would make the meeting easier, it went against the grain.

  “Should I be afraid of you?” Sanchez used a bound hand to point at himself and then turn the finger on her. It was another scare tactic, but she wasn’t afraid of the half skull tattooed on the back of his hand. In fact, it had the opposite effect. The etched nose, gnarled teeth, and jawbone almost made her laugh. Only when the tattoo was held to its owner’s face did it read correctly, but his hands were imprisoned.

  “Only if you’re smart.”

  The cold-blooded murderer smiled. A simplistic, effective threat. Fear mounted Genevieve like a stud. She shoved it off and focused on the task ahead.

  “The police turned their suspicions on Perry and released you months ago.” She let her gaze dance around the room. “Seems you squandered your free pass.”

  “They won’t get me on this. No witnesses.”

  “You stabbed Carlina Martinez in broad daylight at a public park at her own family’s reunion. There’s video.”

  “A bad angle.”

  “There are dozens of witnesses.”

  “Only two now.” He shrugged. “We’ll see if it goes to trial. You know parents will say anything to protect their children.”

  Ice crystals formed in Gen’s fragile stomach. He’d scared off all the witnesses except the woman’s parents.

  “Parents will also do anything to protect their children. That whore threatened to take my son away. I was protecting Eddie.” He smirked.

  “Eddie is Carlina's son. You're not on the birth certificate. No way you're getting off, and if you do, I'll be next in line.”

  His sadistic smile fell.

  “I'm sure you're aware that Perry Carter Jr. was acquitted on all charges against him.”

  “Have to be dead as that stuck-up gringa GeGe Carter not to know.”

  Gooseflesh rose all over Genevieve’s body, and her legs shook. Only a close few knew Perry's nickname for his wife. In his mind, and then later hers, it had a dark origin. In the beginning, they’d laughed and called it love at the first lap dance. As the years wore on and Perry rose in esteem, made partner, and aspired to politics in the future, the joke became taboo along with the nickname. That ti
dbit soothed Gen’s growing worries about Perry’s behavior and his innocence. He was learning how to get on with his life. This man was learning how to eliminate lives.

  Genevieve leaned forward. “Good. I want you to know I’m coming for you.”

  Sanchez’s chains jerked taut. His hips jumped forward and banged against the table. Over and over, he thrust, fucking the table. “Yes, Roja, come for me.” He simulated sex only feet from her face. “You come for me, but I don’t hear you screaming. You’ll scream … when I kill you.”

  For the first time, she let her controlled façade slip, and laughter rumbled up her throat. She braced her hands on the table. “Empty words for a cock-worn man in shackles.”

  His thrusting hips stilled, and he leaned in, leveling his eyes with hers only inches apart. “I’m no one’s bitch.”

  She lifted her hands and shrugged one shoulder.

  Again, his chains jerked and shook.

  “Your DNA is at the scene. The DA went after the wrong guy, but don’t think for a second they won’t circle back. I’m going to make sure they put you in the ground. And I never lose. So sit down, answer my questions without another gesture to your crotch, and I may let you skip the death penalty.”

  He sat and wrestled with his restraints. His angry gaze never wavered.

  “How did you know Pamela’s nickname?”

  The anger flowing from him didn’t dissipate, yet a smile tickled one side of his mouth. His head tipped to the side. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and licked his lips. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

  “I know about GeGe the same way I know that your best friends are Larkin Ashford, Marlis McCain, and Libby Irish. The same way I know your sister got fucked by the same court system you proudly represent.” He hit his stomach and puffed his chest like a gorilla. “The same way I know she OD’d on heroin trying to forget the pain and humiliation.”