Glimpse, The Angel Shot

By Stephen B King

Seven women have disappeared from bars only to be found murdered after asking for an Angel Shot. Detective Rick McCoy is handed the case after returning from leave following his wife's horrific ordeal at the hands of the serial killer, PPP.

Criminal psychologist Patricia Holmes lost her husband to the same killer and when her current partner makes her life miserable she jumps at the chance to work with Rick again. When they determine a man currently jailed for the crimes could not have committed them the mystery deepens.

But that is the least of Rick's worries. An imaginary alter ego appears warning him his wife is suicidal. Will they be able to solve the riddle of the Angel Shot before another victim loses her life and save his wife from taking hers?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Nov 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781509234363

Stephen B King

I was born in the UK, what seems like an epoch ago, and moved to Australia at age 16. I was a long haired rock guitarist and poet/songwriter, before real life got in the way, and I gave it all up for love. I've always felt I had tales to tell and won short story competitions and published poetry in my wilder, younger days. More recently I've written and published five novels. While they have all been Police procedural thrillers, mainly focusing on Serial killers, they all have a love theme running through them. I believe love, and family are everything. Anything else you gain in life is a bonus. I live in Perth, in Western Australia and am fiercely patriotic, and parochial. My wife is amazing in that she not only puts up with living with a writer, but encourages it. I've been blessed with five children, and I adore them all.

Book preview

Inc.

Rick, she said with a hint of breathlessness. "Oh my God, you’ve done it to me again, I am chomping at the bit to get into this, and I haven’t felt this way about a case since The Biblical Killer. Thank you so much for rescuing me and wanting me to work with you. I promise you I will be everything you want and more."

He gazed into her eyes, fully aware of the double entendre in what she said. He felt the same for her as he always had. He also had the feeling if he suggested going to her place, they could be in bed making love within minutes of arriving, but that was not going to happen. "There is no one, and I do mean no one, I’d rather work a tough case with than you, Pat. But make no mistake; this will be a tough case. On the one hand, we will be investigating one of our own, someone you have had a public falling out with, so our fellow cops won’t be thrilled with us. On the other, the media and public will see us as the whitewash squad, expected to find in favor of the force to protect the officers. You and I know we will give this one hundred percent effort, and try to prove or disprove his guilt, but I doubt anyone will thank us."

"Except Brandon O’Toole, if he’s innocent, Rick. We should also accept if he is innocent, then someone got away with murder."

Praise for Stephen B. King

"Seven years ago a woman was murdered. Rick, a DI with the Australian Perth police, and Pat, a Criminal Psychologist, re-examine this case and wonder if this is a one-off murder or one of a series.

"This is an exciting and fast-moving book looking at motives—what makes a murderer, and how do police come to the decisions they do. Then we hear from the murderer, and what drives him—wow. The murders are background to this involving thriller about who did it, why, and can it be proved. Aside from the police investigation are insights into the personal relationships of those involved. Some fascinating psychology here and details that sent me to Google to read more.

This novel held me to the very last page, and then left a gap in my life as I had to leave Rick and Pat.

~Emma B Books

Glimpse,

The Angel Shot

by

Stephen B. King

The Deadly Glimpses, Book 4

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

Glimpse, The Angel Shot

COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Stephen B. King

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2020

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3435-6

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3436-3

The Deadly Glimpses, Book 4

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

This book is dedicated to a good friend,

and incredible narrator, Geoffrey Boyes.

~

I thought I was finished with the Deadly Glimpses after book 3: Glimpse, The Tender Killer, and had moved on, literally, and was writing Winter at the Light. Geoff had just finished the Tender Killer audio version, and as usual delivered a fantastic performance. He contacted me and said how much he loved the book, and asked what happened to my protagonists next? I replied, I had no idea, I had finished with them. He told me I couldn’t leave it there, there were too many unanswered questions. I was stunned, and after some water under the bridge, I listened to his work, and agreed. Suddenly other readers were demanding another installment too, and there is no greater compliment an author can receive than that.

So, for Geoffrey, thank you dear friend, and those readers who wanted to know what happens next to Pat, Juliet, and Rick, this story is for you. I hope you enjoy it. A very special thank-you too to editor extraordinaire Melanie Billings. Thanks for putting up with me, Mel, and helping me make my stories readable.

By that sin fell the angels.

~William Shakespeare

Prologue

March 26th, 1997

Twenty-two-year-old Ingrid Stapleton woke suddenly after a jarring sensation hurt her back and right hip. She was lying on her side in near-total darkness and had no idea where she was. Ingrid felt groggy; the air was fetid, and there was a smell of oil, grease, and petrol. It was all she could do not to vomit. Ingrid tried to move, but her arms had pins and needles, and she was lying in a semi-fetal position. God alone knew how long she’d been there, hours it felt like by the pain and numbness invading her body.

Another jolt rocked her on the hard, unforgiving floor, and she listened for a sound which might explain where she was. Suddenly, some hints dawned in her clouded brain. She was inside the trunk of a car, and her hands were tied together behind her back.

Ice-cold fear raced through her body, making her shiver. Am I dreaming, or is this real? She struggled to break her wrists free but soon realized it was useless. She couldn’t feel what bound them, but it wasn’t giving a millimeter. She had very little strength left in her arms, anyway. That’s caused by reduced circulation, her panicked mind told her through the veils of terror invading her brain.

She thought back to the last thing she could remember, but it was like trying to look through a thick fog; nothing was substantial. Everything was fuzzy around the edges, blending in with other events, and she had no way of knowing what was relevant. One thing stood out in her mind, but she had no idea what it meant; she had asked for an Angel Shot. Ingrid concentrated. What the heck is an Angel Shot? she wondered, but there was no reply from her subconscious. It sounded like a drink, but Ingrid had stringent rules on never drinking to excess, never midweek, especially not shots, and most especially never on a first date.

Like a slap across the face, she recalled she had been on a first date, with Bret, Brian, no, Brandon. Tall, dark to the point of being swarthy, he was a skinny guy with a slight harelip, who she met on a blind date. A friend at work, Vickie, had fixed her up and things had not gone well. Ingrid agreed to meet him at Holey Hecks at seven o’clock. She always took her car until she got to know someone well enough to be a passenger in their ride. Holey’s, as the locals nicknamed it, was a large bar, come Karaoke, come bowling alley that had a great vibe to it. The drinks were cheap, most nights they had a DJ, and they had excellent bar snacks. The other benefit, as far as Ingrid was concerned, it was only ten minutes from her home in Fremantle.

At first sight, her heart sank; she didn’t fancy him at all, despite the wonderful personality Vickie assured her he possessed. Not that he was ugly, or the slight disfigurement was horrible, he just wasn’t appealing. She should have known better by Vicky’s hesitancy when asked to describe him. Well, her supposed friend assured her, he isn’t overweight; he’s well built, and he’s the strong silent type. He’s got a fantastic personality; he’s my brother’s best mate.

That should have been all the warning she needed and said thank you, but no thank you. The fact was she hadn’t been out with a man for over a month, ever since she broke up with Tom, well, since he broke up with her, was more precise. It took a while to get over the damage to her pride and heart, and possibly she wasn’t emotionally ready to date again yet, hence why she wasn’t attracted to Brandon. Ingrid was, she believed, far too kind for her own good. A case in point when she told Brandon gently she just didn’t feel a spark for him. He wouldn’t accept it. He told her she was a prick-teasing-slag, as if because she had agreed to meet him, she had given permission to let him screw her. Ingrid wasn’t sure on what planet that approach had worked for him in the past, but not on hers; she preferred her men to be a bit more civil. And, if she was honest, the harelip gave him a permanent scowl or sneer. To some, that might have seemed shallow, but Ingrid liked to think if he had been attractive in other areas, such as not acting like he carried the world’s biggest chip on his shoulder, she could overcome his looks.

Jeepers Creepers my head hurts. Her mouth and throat were dry, and she made saliva so she could scream to attract attention. Not that it would probably do much good as they were driving; she was fuzzy, not stupid. But maybe when the car stopped at a set of traffic lights or something, she could kick the sides and yell out to get someone’s attention. To stop from vomiting and to help keep a lid on the fear which raced around her body like a ball in a bagatelle, Ingrid tried to remember how she ended up in Brandon’s car, which she assumed, was the one she was in. Stay calm, Ingrid, let’s think this through. She tried to calm her raging, madly beating heart, and forced her mind to remember more details from earlier.

She recalled how he turned a bit nasty but tried to hide it by saying he was kidding around, and she should Take a chill pill and Don’t be so uptight, as if his offensive behavior was all her fault and she should, Go with the flow. The last thing that happened from her memory was she gave an excuse to go to the ladies, and he said he would go with her, to make sure she was safe, but that only made her feel more uncomfortable, not less.

There was nothing else, no matter how hard she tried to remember except the Angel Shot. She wracked her brain for what it meant. Had she ever heard of a drink by that name? Nope, I don’t believe I have, so why the hell would I ask for one on a first date?

The noise coming from underneath the car changed tone, and it took a moment to figure out what it meant. Gravel, idiot, he’s turned off the bitumen road and is now on gravel. Her fear returned and increased tenfold, as the obvious question surged in her mind. Was he taking her somewhere to rape and murder her, and was that why her hands were tied? There goes my chance of shouting out for help, she cursed.

When eventually the car comes to a halt, as it must soon, and he opens the boot lid, I have to fight, she decided. Scratch him, bite, and kick, anything to make him leave me alone. Ingrid opened and closed her fingers, trying to regain the use of them. She realized her thigh was hot; must be from where the exhaust muffler runs underneath the trunk, damn, it’s burning. Ingrid wriggled around to shift her weight to avoid the heat, and so her legs would work instead of being dead from the pins and needles. She used the movement to stretch her arms to see if there was anything she could grab to use as a weapon, a tire iron, wheel spanner, anything. But Ingrid couldn’t find anything other than a scrunched-up piece of what felt like paper. She bit her lip in determination. She would make sure she hurt Brandon, show him she wasn’t the kind of woman to meekly submit without a damned good fight.

Time passed; Ingrid had no idea how much. The car shimmied and slid around corners, dipped and bounced over ridges until finally it skidded to a halt and the engine turned off. Here he comes, get ready, take no prisoners, and give him hell. None of those clichés made her feel any better. Ingrid was terrified but determined not to meekly give in. She heard what sounded like a key rattling around the lock, and the next second, the trunk lid sprang up high. She was dazzled somewhat by the night sky, which was ablaze with stars.

She could only see him as an outline, backlit by what light there was, but he looked much bigger than she remembered Brandon to be. What do you want from me; what do you want? she pleaded as she steeled herself to lunge at his face, head butt him, knee him in the groin, anything.

You, you stuck up snotty bitch, he replied, and his voice wasn’t Brandon’s. Two things dawned in her terrified mind at once. Firstly, she remembered his identity. Secondly, she remembered what an Angel Shot was.

Book 1

The Long Road Back

Anyone who seeks to destroy the passions instead of controlling them is trying to play the angel.

~Voltaire

Chapter 1

Elementary, Dear Chicken Shit for Brains

Patricia Holmes was angry, frustrated, and almost ready to resign from the police force. Her partner, Detective Sergeant Clive Peppercorn, was, without doubt, the most obnoxious, bigheaded, sexist, chauvinistic pig she had ever had the displeasure of not only working alongside but sharing oxygen with.

He outranked her; he was a sergeant with fifteen years’ experience, and she had to bow to his seniority. But kowtowing to a complete moron was not something she thought she could handle for too much longer. Her last partner, Detective Sergeant Rick McCoy, had listened to her, applauded her, and dared she say, even respected her. Pepperdick, as Pat liked to think of him, was the opposite. He took every chance to make obscene innuendos, swear like a sailor, and ignore her psychological profiling ability while lording his rank and experience over her. Pepperdick treated her like a schoolgirl on work experience who he wanted to bed, rather than a criminal psychologist with master’s degrees in psychology and psychiatry who had interned with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. The fact she spurned his advances with obvious disdain and a half-hidden laugh he could be that stupid very early in their working relationship only made him more disgusting in the way he treated her. Things had rapidly gone from bad to worse as if he was God’s gift to female police officers, and she was an idiot for knocking back his charms.

Clive wasn’t the only sexist pig in the police force; that was blatantly obvious. Truth be told Pat had to concede there were lots of them, but he was by far the worst. He made her blood boil, and not because he continually insisted she make him coffee or fetch things, but because he wouldn’t listen to her during investigations. True, since she had returned to the job after recovering from being shot, the cases had been mundane, so did not require her intellectual expertise. But she was still a better cop on her worst day than he could ever hope to be on his best. Pat knew she was a good intuitive investigator, if only Pepperdick allowed her to use her skills rather than stifle them.

She and Pepperdick had closed cases together, and he had taken all the credit and plaudits even though it had been her interpretations of clues and witnesses they’d used. So far as the higher-ups in the department were aware, she was no more than Clive’s assistant, and that burned her up. Pat had an ego, a large one, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. She had devoted nine years of her life to university to gain her double masters’ degrees, while Pepperdick had left school at sixteen. Not that she objected to his lack of education per se, more that he acted so damned superior to her because he was a man, and she was a mere woman.

Slowly, her enthusiasm waned, which was tragic. It had been her dream to be an investigator, which caused the separation from her husband and led to his murder. Soon, the untenable situation would result in her resigning altogether. She would not work where she was neither appreciated nor valued, and especially where she was not happy. She had ceased lecturing and treating violent, mentally ill patients for her chance to be a detective with The Major Crime Squad, and Pat knew she had a talent for understanding the criminal mind. Pat, partnered with Richard ‘Rick’ McCoy, had unmasked three serial killers. Therefore, Pat reasoned, would it not be a loss for the police department if she resigned? The truth was she had no idea if she was appreciated anymore, not since Rick began his ‘stress leave,’ and she returned to work to be Clive’s partner.

In her personal life, Pat was enjoying a relatively new relationship with Lawrence Horricks, a man she met through friends. He owned three Mauritian Restaurants in the city, and one of her friends had been trying to get her to date ever since she recovered from the shooting. But Pat had her issues to resolve, such as the guilt she suffered over her husband’s murder, and more importantly, that she had lost her chance to be with Rick. The relationship was far too new to move in with Lawrence, but she was seeing him two or three nights a week, and they had recently alternated which home they slept in.

To Pat’s dismay, Lawrence urged her to follow her heart and quit the job she was currently so unhappy with, which was the logical thing to do. But that only served to prove he didn’t understand her, and possibly never would. In the interim, she thought of him as a pleasant distraction. Pat tried to explain the juxtaposition that it had been her lifelong dream, and she hoped the next case would require her expertise and she would gain respect; then she could again prove her worth. But that case seemed a long time coming. Lawrence countered with the obvious reply, with her money, and station, she didn’t need to work at all, let alone in a job which made her unhappy. Pat became angry, which led to their first real argument. They didn’t speak for days. Lawrence had failed to grasp sometimes all she needed was to have him there for her to vent. Pat didn’t require him to try to solve her problems, merely listen while she told him about them. Like many women working in stressful jobs, she didn’t want a man to solve her problems, just pay attention to them.

For Pat, money had never defined her; her intellect and insightfulness did. Whether she was worth twenty million or twenty thousand didn’t matter a fig to her way of thinking. So, her money shouldn’t be the motivating factor in what she did with her life. Her deceased husband, Tom, had been the opposite, and much more controlling, which led to their separation before his murder. Pat was determined not to end up with another man who wanted her to live by his rules; she wanted to live by hers. She yearned to have a relationship as an equal, and in her heart, she believed the best candidate she would ever find, was Rick. It was almost a week before Pat took Lawrence’s call and welcomed the massive bunch of flowers which he sent to say sorry, and he had learned a precious life lesson. While she accepted his apology, Pat believed he hadn’t learned anything; he just wanted to be with her for the sex.

Pat had two strings left to her bow, which she could use to try to bring about a change in her worsening situation. Firstly, she could try to talk to the head of the Major Crime Unit, Detective Chief Inspector Colin Harris, to request he pair her with another sergeant. The DI had always been supportive in the past, and Pat couldn’t see why he would decline now. If that didn’t result in reassignment, she would try to draw Rick back into the department, though she was intending to do that regardless, but for different reasons.

She knew a time would come when Rick would be climbing the walls with boredom, stuck at home, being a full-time husband and father rather than a results-driven detective. She knew him well enough to know he suffered unbearable guilt for what had occurred to his wife. Juliet had been through hell at the hands of the serial killer PPP; that was undeniable. The madman who had been responsible for the body in the suitcase murder, and many others, raped and tortured Juliet in their home. Pat believed Rick needed to work for his sanity, and she also believed Juliet would be mentally stronger if she stood up and fought her demons, rather than surrender to them. Juliet wouldn’t do that while Rick stayed home with her; that just permitted her to hide from her problems. Pat was well aware psychological issues tended to worsen for victims who avoided facing up to trauma by running away from it.

Patricia Holmes had to admit she also had her selfish motivations, which she wasn’t too embarrassed to admit. She needed Rick back to fight in her corner and make her superiors see she deserved better than the treatment she was getting at the hands of the chauvinistic Clive Peppercorn. Her problem was without Rick to support her, everyone else in the department wanted to keep her at arm’s length, yet Pat had no idea why.

Earlier in the day, a vitriolic Peppercorn suggested they would have had a better result in their investigation into a drug-fueled murder if she had only Got your tits out during a witness interview. Worse, he suggested, not offering to do so meant she wasn’t a Team player. After his outburst, Pat made her decision to begin phase one of her plan.

Pat patiently waited for the next Thursday when her partner left early for his weekly poker game. Pepperdick always relied on her to complete the day’s reports and finish the outstanding paperwork. Perish the thought she could ever leave early for any reason, no, only male detective sergeants are afforded that privilege.

She tapped on Colin Harris’s door, and he beckoned her in. He had his tie undone, his hair was a couple of weeks overdue for a trim, and he looked haggard and tired. Paperwork lay strewn across his desk, and he appeared irritated at the interruption, though with the permanent scowl he wore, it was hard to tell. Come in, Pat, he called, and she entered quietly and sat where he pointed.

Sorry to disturb you, sir, she began nervously. Her boss didn’t like long preambles, and he could quickly lose his temper if he thought his time was being wasted. I’d like to formally request being reassigned. I cannot work with Sergeant Peppercorn; he is a sexist, arrogant pig of a man, and I am sick to death of his unwanted sexual advances.

Colin Harris stared momentarily, his expression gaunt. The detective chief inspector then tossed the pen he was holding onto the open spreadsheet on the desk and rubbed his eyes with the fingertips of both hands. Is this a formal complaint against a fellow officer? In which case, you need to talk to Internal Affairs, which I can refer you to.

She took heed at the tone of his voice and took a step back. No, sir, I do not want to have him charged for misconduct or bring any embarrassment to the department. I just don’t want to work with him. It’s like I need a shower to wash the filth off me three times a day. She shuddered to show her sincerity.

Have you spoken to him about the way he makes you feel?

She wriggled in her chair; the conversation wasn’t going as she hoped it might. For the first time, Pat sensed hostility from her boss, where he had been supportive in the past. "Oh, yes, I’ve let him know I’m not the slightest bit interested in being his sex slave, but that’s only made him more intolerable. Now I’m his assistant: do this, do that, bring me a coffee. I’m not his equal; I’m his servant. Last week after the unsuccessful Joel Winters witness interview, he blamed me because I didn’t get my tits out, and I wasn’t a team player."

Colin Harris stayed silent for a while, seemingly considering her words from all angles. Pat, he eventually began, I’m going to talk to you off the record, do you understand? This isn’t me being your boss, it’s me being a fellow officer, and someone who has a lot of respect for you, is that all right?

Yes, sir, I’d appreciate your thoughts. The sinking feeling in her tummy told her things weren’t going to end well.

I’m glad you’ve agreed, but please don’t interrupt until I’m finished; there are several points I want to make and have you think about them all in their entirety, is that all right?

She nodded her acceptance, and he began what she later thought of as a lecture. Just so we are clear then. Pat, you’re not going to like all I have to say, but there are some things I feel must be made clear to you. First, you are not Clive’s equal, he outranks you. I know him, he is rough around the edges, what some might call a man’s man, but he’s always been a good cop with a decent arrest record. Next, you did not come through the ranks, you got a free ride to a badge, and I’m not saying it wasn’t deserved, but there are people in the job whose noses got put out of joint over your meteoric rise to detective status. Among that element, the only way to gain respect for what and who you are is to earn it, not expect it to be handed to you. To some extent, working with Rick, you gained that, but… He leaned forward in his chair. You’ve been badly wounded twice in the line of duty, and those same people against you might say those woundings prove you should not be a cop. Further, they think had you risen through the ranks, you would not have been hurt, you would have been more street-savvy, do you understand what I mean?

Pat sighed deeply. Yes, I think I do, sir.

Of course, in the real world, you had good reasons for acting the way you did, however, on one occasion you were not even a police officer yet knowingly went to Paul Rankin’s home when you should not have done so, which resulted in him stabbing you. The second time, you forgot all your training, with good cause I know, but charged an armed man in a blind rage, and he shot you. If not for the quick thinking of Rick, you would have died. So, unfortunately, some of your fellow officers see you as a liability, and they don’t want to work with you, in part because they fear you may get them hurt, and also they would have to watch you like a hawk to protect you. Clive was happy to take you under his wing, and while he may be a sexist pig, he wanted to work alongside you. That should stand for something, don’t you think?

Pat had to blink to stop from crying and blinked rapidly to hold back her tears. She had no idea most of the detectives believed she was a liability, and worse, feared working with her could get them killed. Pat had never even considered the possibility. Some psychologist I am; I couldn’t pick up they thought of me as a jinx. Her mouth was open, and she closed it before speaking. So, that’s it? I’ve got to work with the only detective who will pair with me, and he treats me like something you would tread on the sidewalk and scrape off? I believe he wanted to work with me because he believed I’d be an easy lay, and when I didn’t turn out to be so, he resorted to sarcasm and nastiness. I had no idea I was a leper with everyone else; I thought the work I had done would count for something.

He shook his head slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was softer. Pat, every single officer in this squad knows your powers of perception; your insight into criminal minds, especially maniacal murderers, are incredible. You’ve done some astounding work, and by your actions alone, stopped three people killing more victims. That is not in dispute. You must see while some may feel nervous about you, everyone appreciates your abilities. I, for one, am delighted we have not had another serial killer for you to evaluate since Bobby Cornhill, but in a way, that has been to your detriment too. We simply haven’t had anyone to whom we could apply your outstanding profiling talents. Who knows when we will? Never if I had my way. But, if, and when we do, and especially if you don’t get shot or stabbed during their capture, I’d say you will notice everyone will see you in the light you deserve to be seen in.

While Pat didn’t like what he’d said, in a way, she could see the logic in his words and stayed silent, looking down at her feet as she digested things.

"Pat, if you don’t mind me saying so, you are a beautiful woman, working in an environment with a lot of testosterone-laden men who know they face danger every single day. How you handle unwarranted advances from your male colleagues will determine how much, or how little,