Creepz

By Ruth Bainbridge

"Chilling" -- Michael C Petkus, Professional Reader, NetGalley

 

In 1969: it was Charles Manson.

In 1977: it was the Son of Sam.

In 2021: it's New York City's worst nightmare--CREEPZ.

June 2021. New York is suffering under the worst heatwave in centuries, but it's the barrage of grisly murders that has city dwellers on edge. The homicides don't fit a pattern and the NYPD is treating them as unrelated, but Detective Grace Jarrod isn't so sure. Graffiti left at the crime scenes points to the crimes being linked and part of the same rampage.
 
The delivery of a cryptogram to her precinct proves her theory correct. A group calling themselves CREEPZ takes credit for the deaths and for the war they wage. Jarrod leads the investigation and goes after the madmen that strike at will and profess to kill for love. Little does she know that the cult's leader, a mysterious figure called ODIN, runs a sex ring that extends into the White House and the presidential corridors of power.

CREEPZ is an adrenaline rush of chills, intensity, and mind-numbing suspense. A mashup of murder, CIA PsyOps programming, political sex rings, and Aleister Crowley occult mysticism, the elements combine to produce a non-stop thriller that's a must-read for any fan!

 

"A great story line with brilliant main characters.. I read this book in one sitting as I couldn't put it down." -- Stephanie C., Net Galley

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruth Bainbridge
• Release date: Nov 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386738787

Book preview

In 1969: it was Charles Manson.

In 1977: it was the Son of Sam.

In 2021: it’s New York’s worst nightmare—CREEPZ.

JUNE 2021. New York is suffering under the worst heatwave in centuries, but it’s the barrage of grisly murders that has city dwellers on edge. Since the homicides don’t fit a pattern, the NYPD is treating them as unrelated, but Detective Grace Jarrod isn’t so sure. Graffiti left at the crime scenes points to the crimes being linked and part of a rampage. Then there’s the music that suggests the charismatic leader of a rock group is somehow involved.

The delivery of a cryptogram to her precinct proves her theory correct. A group calling themselves CREEPZ takes credit for the deaths and for the war they wage. They promise not to stop until a revolution is achieved and a new king is named. Jarrod leads the investigation and goes after the madmen that strike at will and profess to kill for love. Little does she know that the group of homeless drifters is led by a genius who believes himself God.

CREEPZ is an adrenaline rush of chills, intensity, and mind-numbing suspense. A mashup of murder, CIA PsyOps programming, political sex rings, and Aleister Crowley mysticism, the elements combine to produce a non-stop thriller that’s a must-read for any fan!

Please check out Ruth Bainbridge’s other titles:

THE CURT SAVAGE MYSTERIES: A Four-Part Series

SAVAGE SUMMER (Part One)

SAVAGE FALL (Part Two)

SAVAGE WINTER (Part Three)

SAVAGE SPRING (Part Four)

THE DEADSPEAK MYSTERIES

DEADSPEAK: Book One

DEADSPEAK: Book Two

THE NICK CROSS MYSTERIES

ONLY ONE WILL FALL: Book One

A DAUGHTER IS A DAUGHTER: Book Two

©2017 by Ruth Bainbridge

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely.

PROLOGUE

"It’s the things right under your nose—

the things you don’t notice

—that get you killed."

—  Detective Grace Jarrod, NYPD

The express train thundered down the subway tracks, speeding past the commuters huddled on the platform. The breeze broke the solid wall of heat, giving the crowd on the underground platform some relief from the steam bath they were caught up in.

A sigh rippled through the human herd as they edged away from the mechanical beast clearing the station. When the last car was swallowed up by the darkness of the tunnel, they eased back into position and anticipated the arrival of a local that would stop at the 72nd Street station.

In the commuters’ minds, getting home took precedence over everything, even the colorful graffiti spray painted on the tiled wall. If only they’d divined the signs right before their eyes, they could have prevented a war.

Chapter One

The summer started like a hellion on crack.

No one was expecting it ... no one was prepared. The mild spring weather had lulled the denizens of the Big Apple into thinking it would always be that way. But before they knew it, the fantasy was swallowed by a rapacious heat that burrowed its way into the concrete and wouldn’t let go. And now? Now there was heat. Overbearing, suffocating heat that came up from the bowels of hell and melted the hardest of hearts, reducing them to sweat and then steam.

For two weeks, the people suffered under the sun’s merciless rule, and the weather forecaster’s oral fandango only promised more of the same. A burst of a turbulent red sky at sunset turned that threat into a reality as New Yorkers braced for another brutal repeat of today.

The day dwindled into twilight as the light was snuffed out by a phantom’s hand. A strong ocean breeze pushed the mugginess aside long enough to breathe. The beleaguered New Yorkers were grateful to have survived and sought solace in the blackness of the oasis offered. Apartment dwellers oozed into the streets in droves—all to enjoy the cooler evening temperature crowned by a silver moon tinged by the color of blood.

Da da dum dum da da doo doo hey ...

In the horde of people, the strange little man humming a tune went unnoticed. The crowd at 34th Street was enjoying itself too much to care about one more drifter ... one more oddball that New York seemed to attract.

Myrna Taglione was one of those nomads seeking to recoup from the debilitating effects of the day. Her arms strewn with prizes collected from a nocturnal shopping spree, she took a hit of water and wondered where her boyfriend was taking her tonight. Could be a movie, could be a play—holding back was part of Josh Hogan’s charm. The investment broker liked to surprise his honey bee, and tonight, just maybe Myrna would return the favor by slipping into the red strapless she’d snagged at Macy’s. The sighting of a familiar face put romantic thoughts aside.

The friend Myrna hadn’t seen in ages had just exited the deli when her name being shouted attracted her attention. She twisted in order to discern where the voice was coming from, but the endless mass of people streaming in both directions made it impossible to locate the source. It was only after the light at the corner of Seventh changed to green that the sea parted long enough for her to recognize the young woman with long blonde hair.

Myrcat! Stacy Lyman exclaimed as she rushed across the avenue and gave the sexy girl laden with shopping bags a bear hug.

I thought it was you! Myrna replied with a giggle. Thought maybe you were ignoring me.

No, no. Just distracted. How’ve you been? You look fantastic!

Hanging in there ... still getting paid to make things go viral in-between going on auditions. What about you?

"Really really good, Stacy replied. I got that job ... the one I told you about. That’s why I haven’t been in touch, but it’s totally worth it. I get to choose my own hours and make—"

Hey! Myrna cried as a short scraggly man crashed into her—hard.

The impact sent her slender shoulder forward and the packages dipping to the ground, but before she could say another word, the filthy vagrant shot past her, making his way into the wall of people. The social media expert stood blank faced and confused, while Stacy flashed an icy glare at the stranger in the rumpled coat who gave her an indulgent smile.

What the hell? He did that on purpose! Did you see? The son of a bitch is smirking! Stacy yelled.  

Did he? Why? Myrna asked as she rubbed her shoulder.

Have no idea! You okay?

I think so, but what the hell did he say?

Don’t think he said anything, Stacy responded. Think he was humming.

Humming?

Yeah. Those creeps are all alike. Creep! Stacy shouted, hoping he would hear.

Myrna blew the soft fringe of bangs out of her blue eyes.

Oh, never mind about him. Look, I’m really happy about your job, Stace. Hey, you want to hit Kelly’s with me and Josh on Saturday? A live band’s gonna be there. Can’t remember the name, but they’re supposed to be pretty decent.

Sounds awesome, Myrcat. Call me, Stacy said before kissing her friend on the cheek.

I will! Myrna exclaimed to the girl already backing away and headed to Penn Station.

A glance at Josh’s present on her wrist confirmed to Myrna that she was running late, but it didn’t take long for the girl in the red shorts and white halter top to reclaim the swift pace she’d used earlier. The pedestrians in front of her weren’t in quite as much of a hurry, but she knew what to do. Hanging a left, she headed one block over to 35th.

The street was deserted at this hour and that meant making good time. She continued east, towards Grand Central. It was only a few blocks away. The packages hit against her bared legs as her platinum-colored pony tail swayed in the evening breeze.

New York is best lived at night.

It was a Joshism, and he was right.  

Josh.

She should call and let him know she’d be a few minutes late. She fished the phone out of her purse as faint footsteps exploded behind her giving her no time to react. A forceful shove sent her flying sideways into a dark alley. Stumbling, her hand shot out and pressed against a brick wall to prevent falling over.

She was wedged in the tight space and that was never a good thing. Trapped and alone, a shadowy figure blocked her only exit. It was fight-or-flight time.

The dire circumstances caused a split second decision: if this was about stealing her purse, she’d hand the damned thing over and be done with it. But if anything more personal were at stake? It would be over her dead body.

The light low, the man lifted his head enough for her to see his features.

What the—? she sputtered.

It was the man—the one with the tattoo of a teardrop under one eye—the one who’d knocked into her a few minutes earlier. He must have followed her, but why? Money? It had to be. The guy looked indigent ... and he was humming again.

You’ll do-do-do, da-dum, Johnny Muthafucker trilled.

A sinister undertone coasted in along with the incoherent jumble. Although her assailant’s features were babyish, his voice was surprisingly deep, but it was the expression that worried her most. Malice was going on behind those circles of blue.  

This was no mugging.

Her Sicilian father hadn’t raised any cowards. She might be blonde, but he’d picked the wrong victim.

I’ll do what? she retorted as she dropped her packages on the ground. Her purse was next to be jettisoned; the large satchel would only hamper her in a fight.

A filthy hand reached into the folds of the oversized coat and pulled out a gun. Looking down the barrel of it stripped her of all bravado.

Headlights from a speeding car put ideas in her head, but would the driver hear her scream? It would be a gamble, but then life itself was one.

In another second, the light disappeared, taking away the option. The rumble of a car engine faded as her mind struggled to find another solution. Run! it screamed, and it was right.

Da da dum dum da da doo doo hey ...

Da da doo rum ...

Da da doo rum ...

Da da dum dum da da doo doo hey ...

As the short man hummed, she used her toes to push off her heels. She couldn’t run in these shoes. She kicked off the first ... and then the second.

He wasn’t much bigger than she was. With her shoes off, he was only eye level. She could get through him ... she could. Like Stacy said, he was just a little punk—a creep—one of hundreds she’d encountered before. He was only trying to scare her, but it wouldn’t work. She could handle this—if only she could move her fucking feet.

The click of the gun being cocked echoed in her head. A shiver shimmied up her spine; the filthy stranger’s grin widened as he neared and pressed the cold steel into the center of her forehead.

No! she screamed.  

Ya-yo-yes, little girl with no way to go but da-da-down.

But why? Why?

"Because Daniel says so-so-so. It’s adios sad buh-bye time, so maybe you oughta cry."

Please, she begged as tears streamed down her face. Please don’t kill me. I’ll give you all I have. I will!

Haff to blonde hair and not much more. Me and Daniel, we’re goin’ to war, but yah-yu-you? You gonna start it!

Sharp laughter knocked all thoughts from her head as a paralysis took hold.

The man was crazy. Deranged. With no more time to think, she lunged forward, prepared to bash into him. A loud blast stopped her in her tracks and made her ears ring.

The impact of the bullet slammed her backwards. As she staggered one unwieldy step, a blinding light lit up the alley as the bullet smashed through her skull. Her brain emptied and splattered onto the back wall. Limp, a numbness overtook her.

Was this it?

Her eyes crossed as she fell, looking upward at the blackened sky, her question went answered.

She was dead before she hit the ground.

Chapter Two

O ne bullet to the head , Bob Fredericks stated.  

That’s it? Detective Grace Jarrod sighed in response.

Yes. Point blank range, Fredericks added.

I can see that, she bristled.

Then why’d you ask? he retorted.

The Medical Examiner had game and not much else. Grace would have liked to tell him, but she was in enough trouble these days without adding insubordination to the growing list of complaints the captain loved to shove down her throat. She considered his constant stream of nitpicking a form of harassment, but Captain Harrison Bell insisted the ridding of bad habits would make her a better cop.

As if he’d know.

The internal lambasting helped relieve some of the tension that came from being assigned homicides, but the heat and the humidity worked against it.

Jarrod’s brown hair was already reacting to the high barometric reading, but it was to be expected. She’d tried flat irons, gels, and threatening violence, but her thick mass of curly hair wouldn’t be tamed. She resorted to the one solution that worked. Drawing an elastic band out of her pocket she fitted her mop through it.

With her unruly tresses secured, she looked down at the young girl. A rush of helplessness cowed her Brooklyn bluster. How would they ever find her killer?

It was the same thought that always ran through her head at the start of an investigation—especially one like this. Murdered on a street in the Big Apple, it could be any one of 8.4 million people, but only one of the bastards pulled the trigger. That thought got her blood pumping again.

Her partner Guy Hudson grazed, munching on a breakfast sandwich bought at a fast food joint. Guy always chewed too loudly and ate too fast, and as for his culinary selections? Grace wouldn’t eat one of those heart attacks in a bag if her life depended on it. She was a bona fide healthnut, and that included reading the nutritional info printed on the sides of packages before making a purchase. The fat content for the crap Guy was devouring would not only choke a horse, it would drown one as well, but his selections had more to do with being a family man. He had to pinch pennies where he could, and it was his health that took a backseat to keeping his wife and kids comfortable.

What about the knife work? Grace asked.

Doesn’t have anything to do with cause of death, Fredericks stated.

Was he bored? Or waiting for a kick in his ass to jump start his brain. She’d be glad to supply it.

I didn’t mean that it did, she snapped. "I’m asking why ... as in what was the purpose of carving up her face?"

Your guess is as good as mine, was the laconic reply.

Ignoring the old codger, she knelt, getting a better view of the damage. Was there a word sliced into her forehead?

C-R-E? she read aloud as she tried to decipher the bloody strokes.

CREEPZ. At least that’s what I think it says. The ME was back in the game and offering a possible solution to the puzzle.

"CREEPS? But the last letter ..." Grace started.

Is a Z not an S. That’s my theory—unless you have a better one.

Guy interrupted what was sure to be a heated reply.

We got a name? he asked.

Yes, his sultry partner answered. ID was found in her purse. Myrna Taglione. I ran the name and it turns out her father is Marco.

Guy’s wife Charlize had given him grief about being assigned to work with such a stunning woman, but she found out what everyone else on the force knew, and that was that Grace was good people. There wasn’t a chance in the world the relationship would be anything but professional.

Grace squinted up at the sun and wiped the sweat off her brow. Rehydrating with water infused with fruit juice and vitamins, the blend was touted to enhance mental clarity—something she could use right about now.

"Is he related to the Taglione?" Fredericks inquired, his Adam’s apple prominent and jiggling. His five-foot-eleven-inch frame didn’t have much meat, but what there was had settled around his midsection.

Second cousins, she stated. Just got confirmation.

Do we think this is related to him? Antony Taglione is a lead player in the Morcato crime family.

Doesn’t appear to be, Grace answered. They don’t usually go after women. There is a code of honor ... then there’s the honeymoon. Should last longer than a week.

Honeymoon? What are you talking about?" Hudson queried.

I’m talking about the meeting Morcato held—the one down by the Piers—at that steakhouse. They divvied up new territory, and from what I heard, everybody got a generous share of the pie. It’s why all the factions are kissy-kissy and celebrating a honeymoon. Can’t see someone breaking it by carving up a relative. It makes no sense.  

It’s nice how you keep your ear to the ground. Saves me the trouble, Hudson remarked.

You never know what’s going to help. That’s why I—

Wait a minute! Did you say her purse is here? Hudson asked.

Sure is, Fredericks answered. Techs already bagged it."

What about her wallet?

Wallet was there along with some cash. Jarrod answered.

How much?

$150 and change.

Add in these packages, he said, pointing to the bags scattered on the ground, means merchandise left behind.

I see where you’re headed, Fredericks responded, his blue eyes bulging more than normal. But the robbery might have been botched ... mugger might have gotten scared.

I’m with Hudson, Grace argued. I think it was a sexual assault gone wrong. He pushes her into the alley, she starts screaming, perp thinks he hears somebody, and pow! She gets popped in the head. The threat disappears, and then this. He takes his frustration out on her.

Squatting down, she examined the ragged edges of the cropped hair. But why cut her hair?

You think her hair was cut? the ME asked.

You don’t? Look at the way she’s dressed ... and made up. Everything’s stylish except the hair which looks like it got caught in a weedwhacker.

But there’s no hair around, Fredericks responded.

Look, see, she said, twisting her head and grabbing her pony tail. All you have to do is cut above the band holding the hair and it stays together.

Hudson nodded.

Gray Halpern, the police photographer, continued to snap as the temperature climbed. Not much past seven, it was already sweltering. The sound of the shutter repeated in bursts as she took another look around. Making her way to a side wall, she cocked her head to take in all the colorful graffiti covering the brick.

In the background, Hudson and Fredericks were going at it, reigniting the argument over what got the young girl killed. She helped herself to more cool water; it tasted good going down and so she chugged more as she wandered to where Halpern was taking shots of the back wall.  

The photog moved to the left allowing the words shadowed by black paint to be seen. Jarrod stopped drinking and read.

THE WAR HAS BEGUN

CREEPZ

What the hell did it mean?

Chapter Three

FIVE YEARS AGO — The Hamptons, Long Island, New York

The party slept, but never stopped,

Only pausing in its ceaseless progression, even now, while most participants crashed in the mansion’s upstairs bedrooms, there was a group on the beach that eschewed sleep and had stayed up all night. Daniel Rudiger regarded the five as he regarded the rest of the world— with contempt.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. You don’t even know what’s going on, he mused about the quintet that were as scholarly as fruit flies. Although he had no idea what the discussion was about, it had to be as inconsequential as the people involved. That was how it was with the underclass. They were so used to being pitted against one another, they no longer knew how to converse about important topics that could transform their lives.

What about being free? Aren’t you interested in that?" he condemned.  

It was sheep like these that were responsible for the condition of the world. They couldn’t stop being distracted by shiny things. Whether it was cars, homes, or over-priced clothing, possessing trinkets took precedence over possessing power. But it was the penchant for falling asleep and conforming that he hated the most. It made them so loathsome ... so malleable ... so perpetually caught up in fostering pretentious dreams. They slaved to earn money that they willingly handed over to gluttonous pigs.

Most of the time.

Every once in a while an exception slipped through the net of indoctrination, and instead of the brainwashing stunting the mind, it produced a genius.

Daniel was that exception and an answer to the overlord’s pathetic rule.

Glowing and luminous, he knew things that others didn’t ... saw things that they could never see. He was a prophet who recognized his calling and gathered to him those he would lead in accordance with his vision ... the vision that had already attracted the attention of a god.

His gray eyes trained on the ocean waves that today matched his in color. He was at peace with himself and what he was going to do. How many people could say that about their lives?

Ionized air swept through the open doors to the deck, cleansing his spirit and filling him with a serenity of the ages. Stretching out his long limbs, he spread out his legs even further as he settled back on the kiwi green couch and drank coffee the housekeeper Francine had served. He’d gotten quite close to the maid, but that was part of his secret.

Always be nice because you never know who you can use.

The simple tunic and jeans stolen out of the master bedroom’s walk-in closet helped secure a stylish image. Anyone witnessing the scene would mistake him for the owner of the luxurious waterfront estate, and not a penniless pauper who crashed the festivities two months ago and never left. Except for brief sojourns into New York, the mini-palace in the Hamptons was command central.  

Manager/producer Fritz Spangler trotted down the spiral staircase, yawning and rubbing a thatch of light brown hair as he went. He smiled upon spotting the lanky youth; it was most people’s reaction.

Daniel played the part of chameleon better than anyone. He could adapt to any situation and frequently did. He was the touchstone ... the Holy Grail in uncovering unspoken needs. He fulfilled them all the while serving his own. It was a perfect arrangement, but then so was life—once you understood its purpose.

Daniel! Spangler called out as he made his way over. That was interesting stuff you talked about last night. I’d like to hear more about these theories of yours.

Mysticism. That had been the hook to draw Spangler in, but he was only a pawn in a game he didn’t know existed or was being played. That was why the voices directed him here—to the home of the rock group that was taking the country by storm.

It seemed an impossibility that two such worlds would collide and collaborate, but for Daniel the impoverished state was purposeful and temporary. Survival was best learned from the bottom up.

Wealth was the easiest thing to acquire while wisdom was not.

Of course, Fritz. Anytime, he responded. 

How about now? I’ll just get some coffee, he commented as he turned. One, two, three steps were taken before it hit him, but that’s how it worked with the divine. Even the angels were pulling for Daniel to win.

Did you hear the new CD? Spangler queried. I have a demo if you’d like to hear.

I’d love to have a listen, he replied with a smile.  

The disc was passed from Spangler into Daniel’s shaking hands. 

PALE RIDER

C reepy title, right ?  

Daniel nodded in agreement as a burning fork of lightning seared his brain. The sound of Spangler’s voice competed for attention with what the voice in his head was saying.

"Don’t know where they got that title from, but it’s pretty damned amazing. It builds on the first album WE COMETH IN PEACE, but takes it farther. I know they’re heavy metal, but this ... this is taking it to the edge." 

Yes, to the edge, Daniel muttered as he fingered the plastic and pressed the CD to his chest.

It was going to be fine.

The world would have a new king.

Chapter Four

A m I in some kind of trouble?

Joshua Hogan’s square jaw flexed. The slightly tanned skin flushed underneath, turning the color to burnished gold. His brown windows to the soul were riveted on Jarrod.

Jarrod and Hudson were at Hogan’s place of employment. Somebody had to tell him his girlfriend was dead.

No, no, trouble, Mr. Hogan, Jarrod assured. This visit is in connection with Myrna Taglione. It’s our understanding that you were dating her.

Something switched on behind the young man’s eyes. He was no longer a corporate zombie.

Yes, I’m dating her. Why? Has she been in an accident? Is that why she didn’t show up last night?

His speech was rushed and not at all how he spoke when he first entered. A vein in his temple pulsed as the earnestness shifted into alertness. He was on guard and on edge. He was the dog you see tied to the post behind a chicken wire fence.

Ms. Taglione was attacked last night. I’m sorry to inform you that she’s dead.

"Dead?"

A vacant repetition of stated facts done to play for time and process what was said. A vein on the left side of his temporal region joined the one on the right. Unsynchronized, the two ticked off the seconds as his mouth went dry. His eyes rapidly blinked before the perfect military bearing caved in. He was no longer a youngblood ... no longer a warrior capable of defending the castle keep. His shoulders rounded, his hands pressing together as his elbows slid forward and leaned against the table for support.

Mr. Hogan, would you like a few minutes? Guy asked. To get coffee ... water ...

No, no, I’m all right, but Myrna ... you said this happened last night ... why am I hearing about this now?

Because her body wasn’t discovered until this morning, Jarrod explained. Sanitation workers found her.

Where?

On 35th. Between Seventh and Broadway.

She was outside ... in the street ... all night ... by herself, he murmured as the color drained from his face.

No doubt he cared. It was one of the things Jarrod hoped to learn.

You know, maybe I will have some water, he blurted before springing up and running to the water cooler. Filling a small paper cup, he chugged it down, before crushing the cup and throwing it away.

How was she killed?

He was back, the anger lighting up his features and narrowing his eyes.

Gunshot. To the head, Jarrod replied.

Did you catch who did it?

No, that’s why we’re talking to you.

You saw my messages ... on her phone. That’s how you found me. Hudson nodded as Josh paused, rubbing his chin. I waited outside her apartment until ten. I thought about calling her parents, but why get them involved if she was only hung up at work.

At ManiforU? Hudson queried.

Yes, ManiforU, Josh confirmed. It’s a social media marketing company. She was always working overtime.

His hands clenched into tight fists.

Was anyone at her workplace giving her trouble? Jarrod asked.

Nothing serious, if that’s what you mean. She mentioned some petty stuff, but, no, she was happy at her job.

And I take it you weren’t?

His head turned. Eye contact was back on. Jarrod caught her reflection in the glass surrounding the conference room. While most found the face staring back pleasing, all she saw was her mother.

No, I was not. I thought she was capable of a lot more than what she was being asked to do.

Did you tell her that?

Yes, he stated.

And?

And she said it was a stepping stone to what she really wanted to do, so why make a fuss?

What was it she wanted to do? she prodded.

Acting. She was all about the acting.

What about her personal time? Hudson broke in. Any problems with friends?

No, no one I can think of.

Ex-boyfriends? Stalkers? Anyone with a vendetta?

No, she was a chill type girl. She avoided confrontations, Hogan replied.

And your relationship? How was that going?

I was going to ask her to marry me. That should answer your question.

The revelation caused a moment of silence before Jarrod broke in.  

What about her hair?

"Her hair?" Wrinkling his forehead, he was perplexed.

Yes, was it long ... short ...

Long. I thought you said you found her body?

He’d been waiting for a chance to lash out and here it was. Jarrod didn’t take offense. It was all part of the grieving process. She’d been there herself.

Drawing a close-up of the back of the victim’s head out of a folder, she slid the photo towards him.

Then it didn’t look like this?

He fingered the picture, the sense of bewilderment increasing.

This is Myrna? Jarrod nodded. Someone cut her hair? Why would they do that? What the fuck is going on!

The photo dropped to the table as he massaged his brow.

That’s what we’re going to find out, Mr. Hogan, Grace assured as her partner agreed.  

Chapter Five

The underage blonde cupped her breasts and arched her back hitting a pose too provocative for her tender years.

It was Lolita’s business to know what her clients liked, and Dawson was digging what she was doing. If the look in his eye didn’t tip her off, the bulge in his pants did.

The forty-seven-year-old saluted her efforts with a half-filled shot glass before swallowing more. He was almost there. Time to take the barely there lingerie off, but not too quickly. She tugged at the two cords that kept the black, see-through teddy in place. The bow gave way, the silk melting over her shoulders and exposing creamy breasts.

The seductive weapon floated to the floor, the breeze from the open patio doors keeping it alive during her sultry walk through the living room and into his arms.

Catwalk. Milan. Paris.

That was where she imagined herself. Walking the catwalk in one of the fashion centers of the world with all eyes trained on her.

The teen craved attention, but it hadn’t always been that way. Four years ago, Sandra Langley had been a shy thirteen-year-old living in Michigan, but the trusting of the wrong person led to a gang rape that served as an induction into the sex trade.

She’d cried and cried, begging to go home, but her pleading fell on deaf ears. She was transported to New York where the beatings and rapes continued. More tears were shed, but the drugs shot up her arm took the edge off her emotions. Eventually, she learned what her captors already knew, and that was that you can’t stay hysterical forever.

That was when she went numb and when the nightly appointments with clients began. She’d dismissed her handler’s claim about there being an upside to illicit sex. There wasn’t any she could see, but after the first few men, she recognized the wisdom in his words.

It’s all a fantasy ... a game, he’d said. You get out of it what you need.

Once she accepted that truth, everything fell into place and her life got better. The trysts gave her a chance to escape ... dream. She could be anything she wanted to be, and she seized the opportunity to do just that.

Her aquamarine eyes were painted in smoky shades of gray, the light pink gloss on her lips balancing the palette out and keeping her from looking like a whore. Dawson Rhodes hated girls looking slutty. Fresh was his buzzword, and she’d been successful at achieving it. That was why after three years, she was his favorite, and why she meant to keep it that way.

A black garter belt held the $200 pair of thigh-high stockings in place. It was only the best for Dawgie, otherwise he’d complain. He’d only complained once, about her hair being dirty, and the bruises she’d received took a week to go away.

She fell back into the role of supermodel. Her black stilettos made light tapping noises as her legs flashed to an internal clock. Her long blonde hair was up in a French twist, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Rhodes liked to take it down and pull it until she called out his name.

The trappings of success were all round her. The richness of the fabrics, the solidity of the stylized furniture that reeked of money, and the chandeliers that dripped crystals over her head like a crown. The show of wealth was what Senator Rhodes was accustomed to—and what she was accustomed to now.

Her fantasy switched. The man in the tailored pants and initialed shirt was a teacher—a professor she lusted after. How to get his attention and prove she wasn’t a child?

Her tongue ringed her mouth and then washed over her white teeth. Flashing a smoldering look of obsession, she half-closed her eyes, and reached into his glass. Fishing out an ice cube, she licked it before running it down her chin and neck and touching it to her breasts. The freezing touch made her nipples pop. His brown eyes fixated on the reaction as his smile went away. The ever-increasing bulge in his pants told why.

Backing away, she spread her legs. Moans of passion were emitted as she circled her vaginal opening with the square chunk of ice quickly melting. Pausing, she straightened and walked back to where he stood. Grabbing hold of his hardening member, she kissed the frozen water before inserting it in his mouth. The man whose name was synonymous with success crunched down, crushing it apart with his teeth.

Her fingers rumpled the curly golden hair precision cut to highlight the bulk and volume. The tight body he honed from daily sessions at the gym responded to her touch.

Casting his drink aside, he swept up the one-hundred-five-pounder and carried her into the bedroom, laughing as he tossed her on the bed. She unclasped the garter belt as he rid himself of pants and shirt. He flipped her on her stomach and fed her wrists through the velvet restraints attached to the headboard. Spanking her until her skin turned pink, he entered from behind.

She screamed from the pain and excitement. There was no need for fantasy now because she was finally someone—someone important enough to please a big shot. The tips he bestowed kept the dream that this was getting her somewhere going strong.  

He’d made her promise to keep the extra money for herself and not report it to her handler. At first, she was afraid she was being set up, but he was good to his word, and so she kept the gifts secret.

A profanity-laced shout from the man pounding into her preceded ejaculation. The warm spray coated her rectum before dripping down the inside of her thigh. She stayed on her belly, waiting for him to join her on the mattress and vent about problems at work. It was his usual routine. Her eyes closed as he freed her hands of the soft holds, but the anticipated weight next to hers wasn’t forthcoming.

Clean up in the shower, he ordered. Your hair, too.

Rolling over, she lifted her torso and fingered the long hair he’d taken down. His back was to her as he rummaged through the walk-in closet. Throwing an outfit at her, she picked up the crumpled mass, discovering a cheerleading outfit.

Put it on, he added.  

Yeah, sure ... anything you say, Dawgie.

He waited until the water was running before hurrying into the living room. With cell in hand, he made the call.

Daniel?

Yes. Is there a problem? Daniel Rudiger asked.

With Lolita? No, no problem, Dawson replied. Well ...

Well, maybe? the handler prompted.

Dawson exhaled in frustration, running his hands through his thick blonde hair.

"Look, she’s a sweet ... girl, but she’s been with me a long time ... and ..."

It had been a long time. Too long. Before this call, Dawson had always used the word kid to describe her, but now it was girl. Sweet girl and not sweet kid.

Time and tide, Dawson. Time and tide.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror over the mini-bar. Pivoting his head, he made sure he looked good from all directions before heading out on the terrace. An evening breeze swept over his naked body. It was a welcome relief from the day’s punishing heat. When the heatwave would subside was anyone’s guess so he stayed inside as much as possible.

His 26th floor penthouse gave him a bird’s eye view, and didn’t he just love looking down at all those people that wanted something from him. Wouldn’t they be surprised to know that he didn’t care what they thought. It was what the