Like a Moth to a Flame: Nick Adamson, #2

By John Daysh

NICK ADAMSON is back in Thailand where psychopathic serial killers are murdering women unchecked and in cold blood in the Bangkok night. Nick is set up by one killer to bring down another but when he is framed for the death of a high profile socialite he must balance the need to clear his name with the need for revenge. With the help of friends, old and new, he plots a series of brutal showdowns to seek justice… for all the victims and most of all, for himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spanking Pulp Press
• Release date: Jun 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533095596

Book preview

This story is dedicated to James A. Newman with thanks for his vision, trust, support, guidance and patience.

THUS HATH the candle singed the moth. O, these deliberate fools! When they do choose, they have the wisdom by their wit to lose.

-  The Merchant of Venice.

William Shakespeare (The King of Noir)

ONE

HEMINGWAY’S BAR, SUKHUMVIT SOI 14,

BANGKOK

THE KILLER sat at the table closest to the door nursing a lemon soda. He slipped down his shades and glared at a couple sitting at the bar. They burst out laughing and she turned and gave him a haughty look and a condescending smirk. The Killer’s heart pounded as the rage began to boil and seethe and he decided at that moment that he would have to kill her. She’d turned down his offer of a drink and waited at the bar, slowly sipping her cocktail until a well-muscled executive type strode over and made the same offer. She linked her arm though his and smiled seductively.

The bitch.

Dead bitch.

He’d had no intentions of making a kill that night and he’d had no intentions of trying to hook up with a lady either, but she was captivating. She exuded class from the way she swung her petite body as she glided on stiletto heels, to the way her floral dress hugged her subtle curves, to the way she wore her designer sunglasses. He thought she looked familiar. Probably some Hi-So model unfairly born into beauty and money. He cracked ice between his teeth and wondered why such a rich bitch would be slumming it in Sukhumvit waiting to be picked up by some foreign ex-pat or body-building tourist.

Must have gotten a taste for white meat, he thought.

He’d show her.

He already had a potential kill he was lining up but it wouldn’t be ready for a while yet. He never killed on a whim. He always identified his victim carefully, gathered information on friends and boyfriends, vices, routines and then plotted until he was certain it could be done. As much a part of the thrill of the kill was ensuring that someone else got the blame; using his superior intellect to manipulate the crime scene and implicate another. But tonight he felt different. He wasn’t used to being belittled by anyone, ever, but she had done it with such ease, with a shake of her head, a smirk and contemptuous look. She hadn’t even spoken a word to him and yet she was able to bring him so low.

Yes, she had to die.

Tonight.

He never killed on a whim but tonight was different.

She turned and scanned the crowd, this time looking right through him like he was nothing. He left a purple note on the table and stormed out the door, fists bunched and legs trembling. He returned to his car and parked it opposite Hemingway’s and waited, his eyes never leaving the door as he watched through tinted windows for them to leave together. When they did, he started the engine as they hailed a yellow and green taxi and then followed them all the way up Sukhumvit Road and onto Rama 4 Road where they turned off up a soi to his apartment. He backed off a little and arrived to see them walking hand in hand over a bridge spanning the Phra Khanong canal into Waterford Park Condos. He laughed to himself. She really was slumming it. He’d only be paying fifteen thousand a month in this aging complex. And The Killer had killed here before. Killing on a whim was a big risk but he felt that the place was right.

He felt at peace here.

He reversed in under the trees beside the canal and waited while he reminisced about killing a Bangkok University student who’d hooked onto an International School teacher here a few years ago. That one had been too easy, and in hindsight, too quick. Just a baton to the back of the head and a shove into the canal. The baton was found under the teacher’s motorcycle seat and he’d lasted less than a year in the Hilton before he strung himself up. It was the perfect two-for-one deal and as far as he was concerned they both deserved it; her for her greed and him for his stupidity and weakness.

He only had to wait a few hours before he spotted her trotting over the bridge, sunglasses still in place, looking around self-consciously. It was 3am and the night was dead. The Killer hid behind his car as she passed and sprang out behind her, plunging a needle into her neck. She folded into his arms and he loaded her into the back seat. Within a minute he was weaving through back-sois into the heart of darkness. He stayed away from the main roads and eventually drove slowly into one of Bangkok’s thousands of No-Tell Love Motels. He cracked his window open and poked currency through to an attendant who ushered him into a parking bay and swept a huge curtain around the back of the car giving complete privacy to do what he had to do.

He carried her into the room and flung her on the bed then returned to the car to get his kit, not much of which he’d need to use tonight. He carefully undressed and laid his clothes on a plastic sheet from his kit. He checked his carefully shaven body and pulled on a condom, a pair of cotton gloves, a hair cap, and placed tape over his eye-brows. Then he removed her heels, and cut off her dress and lingerie and put them in a refuse sack. He left her sunglasses and jewelry on because he wanted to pretend she was conscious as he did it.

When he was finished he washed himself thoroughly in the shower before carrying her in and dumping her on the tiled shower floor. He removed her sunglasses and turned the water to cold, hovering over her with his hands held loosely around her throat, waiting for her to wake up before he killed her. He tried to place her, knowing he’d seen her somewhere before. As her eyes fluttered open he realized who she was and started to panic. She began to struggle and his killer instinct kicked in. He squeezed as hard as he could and began slamming her head repeatedly into the tiles until her head cracked like an egg, her eyes rolled back and the tiles became the bed in a lake of blood.

TWO

A ROOM,

SOMEWHERE IN BANGKOK

SHE’D BEEN known as The Beauty of Bangkok.

The daughter of one of Thailand’s richest businessmen, the niece to one of Thailand’s most powerful Generals, the heiress to a massive fortune, the darling of the media and the masses, as well as stunningly beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated and generous. She’s become the socialite poster girl for the new military regime; pious, happy, respectful, loyal and industrious. She worked with the poor and gave generously to charities. She graced catwalks and premiers and shook hands with visiting dignitaries. She was the focus of news stories and magazine spreads, and was invited to social engagements at a rate that kept her vast PR team racing to stay ahead. She was The Beauty of Bangkok. And now she was dead.

The Killer knew he had to move and move fast, but with diligence and care. He’d made a mistake; committed a crime of passion; killed on a whim. Now his greatest challenge was to turn it to his own advantage. He had no fear of being caught, as the initial investigation had turned up very little.  The crime had been clean in itself. The only witness was the motel attendant and he’d been high as a kite and could remember nothing more than taking money from black sedan with tinted windows. The DNA in the room was vast and various, such was the nature of activities that took place there on an hourly basis, but none of it would be traced back to him. All they knew was that she’d been injected and sedated, had recently had sex, and had her skull crushed by multiple impacts with the tiled floor. The man she’d picked up at Hemingway’s had voluntarily come forward and had been cleared by CCTV surveillance of her leaving Waterford Park alive. The media were told that he worked for an NGO that supported orphaned children and that they were simply having a late night strategic meeting about how she could do more to help.

The people were mourning and the Army was angry. The Police were scurrying around trying to find a killer while The Killer was plotting to help them.

THREE

ROOM 611, MIAMI HOTEL, SUKHUMVIT SOI 13,

BANGKOK

THE ROOM was dense with cigar smoke. Three men in suits stood at the foot of the bed. Propped up in the bed was The Fat Man in a white wife-beater singlet blotted with yellow stains. His hands shook as he reached for a glass of amber liquid on the bedside table. He grasped it and slugged it down. The crusty brown blanket pulled up over his waist was dotted with cigarette burns. His lank, greasy, grey hair fell around his face, sticking in sweaty clumps to his soft jowls. He scratched at his groin. His women had been banished to the pool downstairs. One of the suited men wrinkled his nose as the man belched loudly, sending a rotten stench his way.

What have you got? he growled as he motioned for his glass to be refilled.  A Suit jumped up and diligently poured a healthy measure of Johnnie Black into the chipped hotel glass and offered it to him. Don’t be mean, he barked and the Suit filled the glass to just over half and raised an eyebrow.  The man nodded his assent and snatched the glass away. Another Suit passed him a plain brown manila folder which he opened. He tipped out some photos and scanned a couple of typed documents. You sure we can get him? he said without looking up.

We need an insider, Sir. We think we have found one, said a Suit at the foot of the bed.

This guy? the man said as he lifted a photo.

Yes, Sir. He fits our criteria perfectly. We’ve done a full psychological profile. He’s one of Canada’s top investigative journalists and as of now he’s the Editor of the South East Asia Globe. And we’ve set him up with a local writer who knows the scene.

Who? spat The Fat Man.

You remember that trouble down south some years ago? A bunch of tourists and drug dealers killed? Foreigner, a Kiwi, disappeared off the radar for a while. Ended up in Sweden.

I remember. So what?

He’s the local writer. Turned up in Bangkok just over a year ago. No further trouble but he knows people, knows the scene.

He re-read the documents then stuffed it all back in the folder and tossed it aside. A Suit leaned over and picked it up off the bed. The rusted air-conditioning unit bolted to the wall stuttered and then rumbled on over an irritating squeak.

May I ask, Sir, how this is any of our business? asked a Suit. The man scowled at him, drained his glass and then hurled it at his head. The Suit coolly swayed to the left and the glass thudded against the wooden wall only shattering when it hit the floor. The lizards on the wall above didn’t flinch while the cockroaches scuttled under the fridge.

It’s our business because I say it is, he bellowed. Sometimes a few backs have to be scratched in this god forsakin’ hell-hole of a country. If you didn’t notice, the Army are in control now, you idiots. Now, get out! The suits scuttled away. The man reached for the bottle and took another bite.

––––––––

FOUR 

ROOM 912, SURINDRA MANSION,

SUKHUMVIT SOI 22,

BANGKOK

NICK ADAMSON, and his sweetheart Jan were lying in bed and had finished for now.  Nick would like to call it ‘making love,’ but in reality it probably wasn’t.  Probably.  Possibly.  If it wasn’t then it was damned close.  This passion shouldn’t exist when there was a price tag attached.  That was why he had broken the three-time rule.  She was either a fantastic actress or.... 

It didn’t bear thinking about. 

She lay her head on his shoulder and started teasing his chest hair.  He knew she’d want to talk now.  She always did this.  She was a pillow-talker and Nick had learnt much about her life over the past few months as he lay back smoking post-coital cigarettes and listened.  She’d roll off him in a moment and lie on her stomach beside him, propping herself up on her elbows because she liked to look him in the eye when she talked.  This was why he trusted her sincerity.  He loved this part of their nights together as much as he loved the sex before.  He knew that when they were finished talking and laughing and teasing and lamenting, they would make love or fuck or have sex or whatever the hell it is that they did so well together and then they would drift off and sleep well into the next afternoon.  She could leave now if she wanted because he only ever offered payment for short-time but she always stayed.  He knew she was lonely.  They both were.  If this was his girlfriend experience then it was also her boyfriend experience.  It was real but it was also an illusion because tomorrow she would go back to work and have sex with the first guy who offered her money and maybe even the second or third if she was ‘lucky.’  He’d be sitting at a bar with Chris or Ronny or a random Bangkok acquaintance or a stranger, looking at naked women and contemplating sleeping with one of them.  And while he was contemplating he’d think of Jan and wonder if she was thinking of him. 

But despite his weakness he wouldn’t see her two nights in a row because he knew it’d turn to three and four and he wouldn’t be able to let go.  He knew he should have kept to Ronny’s limit but as she rolled off of him and lay on her front propping herself up with her elbows, looking at him with those big, beautiful, sad, brown eyes and smiled, his sense of regret dissolved.

How much you pay for room, Nick?

You’ve asked me this before, Jan.  Seven thousand a month, plus water and electric.  About nine thousand because I use the A/C a lot.  How much do you pay for your room, Jan?

Three thousand, but I share with sister, now.  Electric not much.  Have only fan.  Why you not share room, Nick?

Because I don’t have a girlfriend, Jan.  You know that.

Sure?

Sure.

"Have wife?

You know that too, Jan.  I had before but not now.  Finished.

You have two wife before?

Yes, Jan.  You remember.  Two wives and I’m only thirty-five.

I not understand.  She looked at him mistrustfully.  Marry two time, finish two time.  Why?

How’s your boyfriend, Jan?  She thumped him on the chest.

I not have!  He not my boyfriend.  I tell you before.

Yeah, but he thinks you’re his girlfriend still.  She shook her head.

Finish.  Sure.

He hasn’t made any trouble for you?  She shook her head.

He make some money on motorcy taxi.  Have enough to go home, Isaan.  Two week before, she says holding up two fingers.  "Maybe he not come back Bangkok.  I don’t want him come back Bangkok, Nick.  He no good.  He take my money, smoke yaa baa, want to boom-boom my friends."

Yeah he sounds like a complete waste of sperm and eggs alright, Nick muttered.

What you say, Nick?

You want another line?  More coke?  She nodded her head eagerly. 

I like too much.

You mean you like it a lot.  I like it too much, Nick said but she looked confused so he just got up off the bed and chopped a couple of lines on the lid of his laptop.  Just a quick buzz to get her talking. 

Piece by piece she’d given him quite a bit of her background but there was more he wanted to hear.  She’d get to a point where she felt she had said too much already and stop.  He sensed that she felt it was a betrayal to her family to tell her story.  But he wanted to know and felt that he needed to know because he was definitely weighing her up.  To what end he would not admit to himself, but he wanted more.  He told himself that he was building knowledge and experience and collecting stories and unraveling the culture. 

She bent naked over his desk with a shortened 7-Eleven straw up her nose and he admired her perfectly lean, long and lithe figure and thought about the sexual connection they had.  He wanted so much more of her.  Maybe it was the charlie urging him on.  She turned to him snuffling and rubbing her nose and her eyes were wide and then her smile was too.  He pulled her down on the bed and she giggled so sweetly and he kissed her and she responded with the passion that shouldn’t be there.  But it was.  Maybe it was the charlie urging her on. 

He didn’t care. 

He’d reflect later.  Right now it didn’t matter. 

Then they lay with their faces inches apart and played that silly game where you hold eye contact for what ordinarily would be uncomfortably long periods.  Sometimes their eyes smiled and danced, sometimes they yearned, and sometimes they reflected sadness and hopelessness. 

This intimacy shouldn’t exist when there is a price tag attached. 

He backed out before she did and lit a cigarette.

FIVE

EXTERIOR, TILAC BAR, SOI COWBOY,

BANGKOK

NICK WORE polished black Italian leather shoes, dark blue jeans and a black shirt. He was sitting at a