I See You: An Olivia Darrow Mystery, #2

By S.L. Waters

Detective Olivia Darrow should be able to rest easy with her billionaire ex, Kane Cassidy, behind bars. Unfortunately, his constant harassment continues, threatening all she holds dear. But she's not the only one with a stalker. Olivia has taken the case of junior lawyer, Piper Daniels, who has become the target of death threats and an onslaught of menacing phone calls. Delving into the mystery, Olivia learns the young lawyer has secrets of her own that are preventing her from cooperating in the investigation. With her own life nose-diving into chaos, can the tenacious detective uncover who is tormenting the troubled attorney? Or will her divided attentions end in a fatal mistake?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Bakshis
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393979401

Book preview

I See You

An Olivia Darrow Mystery, Volume 2

S.L. Waters

Published by Ann Bakshis, 2020.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

I SEE YOU

First edition. September 8, 2020.

Copyright © 2020 S.L. Waters.

ISBN: 978-1393979401

Written by S.L. Waters.

I See You

An Olivia Darrow Mystery, Book 2

S.L. Waters

Copyright © 2020 by Ann Bakshis

A novel by S.L. Waters

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living and dead, actual event, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Description: Description: PonahakeolaPress.png

Published by AB Books, 2020

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

One

Oh God, Dean, I moan, arching my back and closing my eyes while I bend my knees as they grow tired from my legs being in the air.

I love our morning routine, he gasps, sweat soaking our bodies.

He grunts loudly as he comes, then collapses on my chest, his fingers playing with my breasts. I slowly relax my legs, which are tight, and my hip muscles ache.

You owe me a massage.

You know where that’ll lead, he responds, kissing me. But I have to head into work.

He gets out of bed onto very wobbly legs, which causes me to chuckle, then goes into the bathroom to shower while I use the bedsheet to clean myself off, tossing it in the corner onto a pile of dirty towels in need of washing. After stripping the bed, I throw everything in one mound before making my way into the bathroom to join him.

What are your plans for the day? he asks as I lather his short, dark hair.

I have an appointment with Bev this morning, then I’m heading to CSB to use their fitness center.

It’s been three months since I was shot. I’m done with physical and occupational therapy, but still need to build up my arm strength before my recertification test next week.

Don’t forget Luke is having a fundraiser at his house tonight. Dean’s hands wander every inch of me. He needs me there beforehand, so you’ll have to drive yourself.

And what shall I wear? I ask, wrapping my arms around his neck.

Surprise me.

After a few additional minutes of petting, he rinses, then steps out to dry off while I continue to bathe. He’s dressed and out the door before I’m done. I put on my robe, grab the pile of sheets and towels, and take them to the laundry room next to the door leading into my garage. Once I have them going in the washing machine, I head into the kitchen, pour some cereal, then sit in the living room to watch a little bit of television before getting dressed. When I’m in my walk-in closet, I select a pair of black yoga pants, a dark gray sports bra, and a pink tank top. Summer is upon us and I want to stay comfortable. I slip on sneakers, toss my IDs and cell phone into my purse, shove the towels and sheets into the dryer, then open the hangar-like door for the driveway at the front of the house, as I have two—one on either end of the garage. I haven’t driven my beloved Rune, a streamline motorcycle, since before the shooting. Mainly because I don’t trust my upper body strength to hold the bike steady. I grab the keys for the Nimbus—a sports car with a sleek body, blue light accents, thick tires, and soft interior—toss my purse onto the passenger seat, and leave, making sure to close the door, then setting the alarm from the dashboard of my car before getting to the end of the driveway.

Traffic is light for a Tuesday morning, but it’s well after nine so the majority of people are already at work. I make my way to Eleventh Street, which will take me right into the medical district in Vale Sector. Dr. Beverly Randall’s office is on the fourth floor of the Grove Medical Center on Simons. I’ve been seeing her weekly since I was nearly killed, and it’s mandatory per CSB, Civic Security Bureau, regulations. If I want to retain my position as a homicide detective, I have to succumb to their demands. I actually began seeing Bev as a teenager when I started having discipline issues as I never received the help I needed after my mother was murdered. Detective Frank Corro, who was in charge of her case and is now my boss at CSB, forced me to start seeing her. I don’t want to think what could’ve happened to me if he hadn’t.

I pull into the parking lot of the wide complex, finding a spot somewhere in the middle. I grab my purse, lock the car, and make my way inside. All psychiatric offices are on the fourth floor, and I’m always self-conscious when someone is in the elevator with me when I have to push that specific button. Today I’m alone, which causes me to breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. It’s not like I know any of these people, but in my lines of work—other than being a police officer—you never know who you might run into. Being a detective doesn’t pay for the toys I like to have around my house, so I also work at a strip club called Verdigris where I bartend and occasionally waitress in addition to helping my other boss, Joe Ambrose, and his wealthy clientele when they need police assistance, but refuse to actually get CSB involved. I make decent money at it and could easily afford to leave the bureau, but I love the work, even if it comes with some officers who lack morals… one in particular comes to mind, and so far I’ve been able to avoid him.

When the doors part, I turn right and meander down the winding hallway until I arrive at door 420. The sparsely decorated waiting room is empty except for the young receptionist behind the lone desk who checks me in. It’s a few minutes after ten when Bev opens the door, waves me over, and I take a seat on a beige couch I want to steal. I refer to it as my napping couch whenever I’m in the room because it’s so damn comfortable.

How have things been? she asks, after closing the door and sitting on the chair across from me.

They’ve been good. I’m looking forward to returning to work.

The bright room is airy, but with an underlying chill from the cranked-up air conditioning. I wrap my arms around myself trying to retain the warmth I brought into the room with me. Bev always keeps her office impeccably neat. Her books all face the same direction on the shelves around the room and her computer sits at an angle on her desk. There isn’t one thing out of place in her perfect little world.

When is your test? She picks up her notepad from the table beside her, scribbling on the yellow paper as she speaks.

Next week.

Have you been to the firing range at all? I sense apprehension or unease in her question, though I don’t know why.

Dean takes me to Foxtail Park every week. It took me a bit to get used to the new CSB-issued weapon since my other one is stored in the evidence warehouse.

Where’s your new gun now?

At home, as I’m not permitted to carry it while on leave, unless it’s to the range.

But you can still have a personal weapon on you, right?

Yes.

Her tone turns terse. Do you have one now?

No, I respond hesitantly.

Is there a reason? She begins spinning her pen between her fingers, waiting for me to respond as I figure out my answer.

I just haven’t removed one from the safe in my garage.

If I want to be honest, it’s because I’m leery about having it, but I haven’t been able to figure out why. I’m sure it has everything to do with Kane, or maybe even Riddle. I need to get over this non-existent fear to get at least a bit of normalcy back into my life.

Are you still having nightmares?

Not as many now that Dean is living with me. If I do have one, he’s able to calm me down rather quickly.

They plagued me incessantly for a month before finally subsiding. It’s always the same one with only slight variations. It starts out with me succumbing to the gunshot wounds Brooke inflicted on me, but then it changes to me being tortured by those who claimed to have loved me. This isn’t limited to Kane, but Dean, Richard Cassidy, Glen Growsky, and my father often make an appearance. I’ll be glad when it stops completely.

How are things with you two?

Pretty good, actually. I don’t know if I could’ve gotten through these months without him.

Bev lets silence permeate for a few moments before speaking again. You know what I’m about to ask.

And I still don’t want to discuss it.

Olivia, you must. You’ve been avoiding it for far too long. We don’t have to tackle all of it in one day. We can take baby steps. Overcome the small things before we confront the larger ones.

I knew this topic was approaching since it does every session. It’s hard to talk about my mother’s death now that I know my father is responsible. I had my suspicions, but never wanted to admit the truth. He did that for me in his suicide note. Frank still asks on occasion when I’m going to look through the storage unit where his possessions are being housed. I keep putting it off as I want nothing to do with the man. He took everything away from me, leaving me nothing but pain and anguish.

Olivia, what are you thinking? Bev asks, noticing my quiet demeanor as I’ve retreated into my head.

Frank keeps asking about the storage unit where he and Joe placed my father’s belongings after cleaning out his apartment. He doesn’t have anything I want, and I still don’t understand why those two decided to pack it all when I specifically told them to throw it in the trash.

Maybe they’re hoping you’ll find some happy memories buried under all that pain.

I just want the past to stay in the past. Nothing my father has can rectify what he did or how much he fucked up my life in addition to his.

What does Dean think?

He wants me to go through the unit, I grouse. He’s offered to help me like Frank has, but I keep shutting them both down.

Why? What are you afraid of finding?

I don’t know, I answer honestly.

That’s what I’ve been dreading since everything happened… the fear of the unknown. I thought I knew my parents, only they kept so many secrets from me and each other that it ripped our family apart. Mom’s affairs, her getting pregnant by another man, Dad’s drinking, his temper, him killing her, then distorting the truth during my entire childhood. I’m afraid what I learned several months ago is simply the tip of the iceberg. I can’t handle anymore betrayals or deceits, and I fear that’s all I’ll find when I go through his affects.

Maybe set a day aside in the coming week to look through at least one box of your dad’s belongings, Bev comments, bringing me back to the present. You can do it at the storage facility, or bring it to your house, but you need to do it. If it’s too overwhelming to go to the locker yourself, have either Frank or Dean go and select a box for you. That may be easier. Can you do that for me before our next appointment?

I think I can handle one box, I respond, unsure if what I say is true.

Now the other topic you keep putting off.

I’m not discussing Kane, I refute, annoyed.

Is he still trying to contact you?

I bite my lip. Does it matter?

Yes, Liv, it does. Part of his plea agreement is he’s never to contact you in any form. If he’s violating the deal, then the district attorney needs to be notified. You know this. Especially since you’re a detective.

I know! I shout. "And I have told Lane about it, but the bastard keeps finding ways around his seclusion."

What has he been doing?

He’ll send me charms for a bracelet he bought, or flowers, or a simple card where he drones on about how much he loves and needs me. They all get directed to the club since Kane knows Dean is banned from there and won’t ever see them.

Joe doesn’t toss them in the trash before you find them? she asks, perplexed.

He tries, but Kane has gotten crafty. He’ll send his presents with someone who’s going to the club. I usually find them sitting on top of the bar, but I never see who puts them there and the place is too crowded for the cameras to pick up him or her.

What have you been doing with the items?

The flowers I toss in the dumpster behind the building while everything else is sent to Lane. He’s keeping them as evidence for when he files stalking and harassment charges against Kane. Hopefully this will convince the court that he needs to be moved out of state. So far, they’re not budging because of who his father was. Somehow they feel they have an obligation to look after the misunderstood, millionaire, playboy narcissist. I wouldn’t doubt if Kane is bribing them somehow.

All his assets were frozen and turned over to CSB for redistribution and auction. His attorney doesn’t even have access to them.

Then, how is he doing it? Where’s he getting the money to pay for all the shit he sends me? I ask, tears falling as I begin to shake.

Have you discussed with Joe about stepping away from the club for a while?

I need the money.

No you don’t, Bev retorts. You were provided with a settlement from Kane’s estate as part of the Victim’s Reclamation Act and it was quite substantial. Do you still have the money or did you give it away?

I have it. It’s in a retirement account, but I act as if the money isn’t there because Dean doesn’t know about it. I’d like to keep it that way.

I didn’t want the money, initially. Somehow Lane Murray, the lead district attorney for our state, managed to convince the courts to award me over five million dollars in damages. I was stunned. Frank convinced me to invest the money as pensions from CSB are shit and I can’t work at the club forever. I can easily access the funds. I just refuse to.

Then what are you doing about Kane if you’re not going to cut off his access to you?

Why should I be the one who runs and hides?

You’re not running or hiding, Liv. Look at it as a break from that part of your life. We all need one.

What if he starts sending them to my house? How do I control Dean when he finds out? He’s already threatened to kill Kane, or at least have one of his officer buddies do it while they’re visiting the prison. I just don’t ever see it ending regardless of what I do. The court needs to step up and handle this matter.

Do you know when Lane is going to make his motion?

No, not yet.

Talk to him about it.

All right, I grumble.

I hate having to do everything, or even rely on others for assistance. If I could take care of the matter myself I would, and it would be with Kane in a pine box six feet underground.

Now, you have your homework for next time and I want you to do it. No more putting this off.

Fine.

Bev states our time is over, so I leave without feeling any resolve, which is how most of the appointments end. After retrieving my car, I head into Hunnat Sector where CSB’s headquarters are located, park in the garage across the street, and go inside. In order to access the elevator core in the center of the lobby you have to pass several receptionist desks. I wave my credentials, and they buzz me through. The fitness center is on the fifteenth floor, but I stop off on the sixth since that’s where my workstation is, and place my purse in the bottom drawer of my desk. Detective Gabe Foster is the only other person in the room. His desk is next to mine, and he waves as I leave since he’s on the phone.

When I reach the fitness center, there’s only a handful of people, many running on the two-lane track that encompasses the outer portion of the floor. Heavy, thick columns break up the open space, strategically placed to support the many floors above. Around the elevator core are dozens of machines, training benches, dumbbell and barbell sets, and thin mats, along with exercise and medicine balls in various sizes and weights. Selecting a station that has an empty barbell, I attach fifty-pound weights to either side, clipping them on so they don’t slide off. I lie on my back and slowly lift the barbell up and off, bringing it close to my chest before doing ten reps. I do this several times with a few breaks here and there, then begin curls while sitting. I eventually stop to get a drink of water from the fountain in the corner.

Looking good, Darrow, Growsky says, smacking me on the ass. The bastard is an officer for Station Three in my home sector of Range. He’s in his early fifties, balding, overweight, and dons a horrendous brown mustache that almost resembles a worm. Everyone despises him, including his fellow officers. He cheats on his wife incessantly, though I don’t see why any women would voluntarily fuck the slob.

I turn around and hit him. Fuck off.

Bitch, he utters, massaging his jaw as his lip begins to bleed.

You had it coming, Glen, someone on the track says, snickering. It takes me a second to recognize the tall, muscular man as Detective Bryson Reynolds from SVU as it’s been a while since I saw him.

Stay the fuck away from me, I nearly shout at Glen.

I try to move past him when he grabs my arm, pulling me close. Maybe I need to teach you a lesson about respecting your fellow officer, he growls, leering at me with hunger in his eyes. And I wouldn’t mind giving you that lesson in my bedroom.

I knee him in the crotch, then backhand him across the face, sending him to the floor. I raise my foot to kick him when arms wrap around me, dragging me away.

Don’t, Olivia, Bryson says. He’s not worth it. Growsky, get your ass out of here before I report you. Bryson holds me until Glen disappears in the elevator. I wish that asshole would get fired already.

You and me both, I say as he releases me.

At least his wife finally had enough. She filed for divorce a couple of months ago.

Really? I hope she takes him to the cleaners.

How’s the arm?

It throbs every now and then, but it’s almost at full strength.

Hope you’ll be back to work soon. He nudges me, then returns to the track.

I spend another half hour on the weights, retrieve my purse from my desk, and head home. Luke’s party isn’t for several hours, so I decide to take a nap making sure to set an alarm, giving myself plenty of time to get ready.

Two

After showering, I don a dress I bought specifically for this occasion. It’s sleeveless with straps crisscrossing my back, the hem at mid-thigh, a plunging neckline, and is covered in blue sequins. I leave my dark blond hair cascading down my back, apply makeup, put on uncomfortable six-inch heels, and tuck my phone, IDs, and money into a black clutch. Before getting into my car, I make sure all the doors for the house are locked, then drive away after setting the alarm and closing the garage.

The fundraiser starts in twenty minutes, so I’ll arrive a little late. I hate being too early or even the first one, though Dean is already there, so it wouldn’t be too awkward. When I reach the guard station for the bridge that’ll bring me to Waterside, I show them my CSB credentials. They raise the gate, allowing me passage onto the seven-mile expanse. If you don’t live on the island or have a pass as an employee or guest for someone who does, you can’t get onto the bridge. Wealth pays at times.

The sun is beginning to set, reflecting off the azure waters of the coast. When I reach the island I turn right onto Trent, passing a high-end retail mall before going left onto Lyons, then another right onto Cascade where Luke has his estate along the cliffs. Cars line the road in a procession, so it takes me a bit longer to reach the valet stand at the end of the lengthy driveway. I hand over my keys, receiving a ticket in return, which I shove into my clutch.

I’ve never been to Luke’s house, so I simply follow everyone else into the grand foyer that reaches three-stories, an elegant glass chandelier dangling from the ceiling. We move past a pair of staircases reaching for the second floor, through a sunken living room, and out onto a back patio. Bar-top tables with padded stools line the deck around the pool toward the back of the property as strings of lights dangle from the canopies covering the area. A champagne fountain rests among several tables of fresh fruit, hand-carved meat, freshly baked rolls, steaming vegetables, and every dessert imaginable. Down to the right of the pool is a cabana where