Disrupted: Ryn Davis Mystery Series, #4

By AB Plum

Does it matter that the man she shot in cold blood was a psychopath?

He stalked her. Kidnapped her best friend. Tortured a long-ago ally. Left the two cops helping her for dead.

So, she shot him … without a second thought.

The disruption to Ryn Davis's life after she shoots a psychopath point blank swells with the impact of a tsunami. Her chronic insomnia intensifies to crippling. Thrown into a twilight zone between the present and past, she struggles with feeling no remorse.

Her friends and family insist her action was justified.

So why can't she sleep? Forget how much she enjoyed pulling the trigger? Pay more attention to what matters?

When a brutal murder occurs under her own roof, she realizes that everything she values is at stake …

For fans of A.R. Torres, Kate Hewitt, Gregg Olsen, Lucinda Berry, and authors writing about strong women sleuths.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AB Plum
• Release date: Dec 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9798223093503

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The first note came with a dozen long-stemmed, blood-red roses delivered to the hotel. Hours before the story about the grisly standoff with psychopath Chad Gleeson led the Six O’Clock News and headlined The Tampa Tribune. Anonymous, of course. Handwritten. Short and to the point.

Death is never the end.

Her stomach dropped, but then she felt the anger she’d never really gotten beyond boil in her veins.

Here’s hoping that means Chad spends eternity spinning in hell.

Checking in both directions, Ryn Davis stormed out of her suite, carried the gift to the end of the hotel’s spacious hall, and called the general manager to have the bouquet removed immediately, claiming she was highly allergic to all flowers.

Please leave all future packages or floral arrangements with the concierge. No deliveries to her room.

Since she was dropping forty-five hundred dollars a night for the two penthouse suites, the manager assured her a bellhop was on his way. The staff would, happily, comply with her wishes.

She didn’t tell anyone else about the delivery. A mistake probably, but too much going on with visits to the hospital and preparations to return to California. Logic balked at detailing the two murders in her past to the police.

The second note—filled with obscenities and graphics worthy of a horror movie—arrived in her private email account. Like a fool, she forgot to hit delete before the poison shot into her stomach. Her legs threatened to turn on her. But she ground her teeth and jogged into her luxurious bathroom. Staring in the mirrored wall at her bloodless face, she grabbed a plush washcloth, bit down on it, and screamed silently until her jaws ached.

Private means nothing to trolls.

Her phone provided another source of entertainment for the sickos out there wanting her kidnapped and tortured and raped and held in total isolation before flaying off her skin and spreading it, along with her bones and guts, to the four winds.

Chad Gleeson, a true monster, had lots of followers howling for Ryn’s arrest.

Just as Stone Wall, the rock star she’d loved, still had legions of fans who blamed her for his murder.

Even Marta, the former prostitute who loved her daughter too much, had found defenders on the internet.

Ryn Davis provided the common thread that connected her to all three murders and sickos on social media and the Dark Web.

Between visits to the hospital and interviews with the FBI, Ryn replaced her computer and phone, destroying the old ones. Determined to let nothing the trolls threw at her disrupt her life further, she confided in no one.

Surviving the suspicion of her iconic rock-star lover’s murder had left her exhausted but tougher than she’d ever imagined.

Facing the murderer of a young girl at Esperanza House, established to give former prostitutes a second chance, had left her shaken and heartsick.

Killing a monster—Chad Gleeson, who trafficked in women and children and who was possibly responsible for the murder of her own mother—forged her soul-deep fury into an impenetrable suit of armor.

Six days after she shot Chad Gleeson point-blank in the face, she boarded a private jet with her three best friends and three nearly total strangers, intending to protect them all and to pick up the pieces of her shattered life.

CHAPTER 1

The maimed. The wounded. The exhausted.

Taking down a killer and a kidnapper had taken its toll.

Except for the cabin attendant, the pilot, and Ryn, everyone else on board the private jet slept. Silent as a snake, the plane shot above the clouds. None of the rattles or groans of commercial airlines. Thick leather seats adjusted to every conceivable position. Plush pillows absorbed all shocks to the aching bodies. Down comforters, low lighting, and subliminal music invited sleep.

If only …

Ryn rubbed a spot between her eyebrows. She didn’t close her eyes. Unless she kept them wide open, she saw the destroyed face of Chad Gleeson. Blinking too many times in succession brought high-def frames of blood and bones and brains.

She stared at Beau, her oldest friend. Seated across from her, mouth open, he snored quietly. After six days in the hospital, he was entitled. A palette of facial bruises across his jaw and cheeks and forehead ranged from faint yellow-green to deep blue and purple. His right eye was still swelled shut. A few stubby white hairs sprouted in the spot where the doctors shaved his head and closed the gash with a spiderweb of black staples. He emitted a faint smell of odorless hospital soap.

Her gaze traveled down his neck to his right arm, encased in the purple fiberglass cast. Dozens of autographs from doctors, nurses, lab techs, and office workers—all fans of Beau Peep Scott, the legendary drummer with The Stoned Gang—covered the purple surface. She clenched her jaw and forced her gaze away from his sausage-fingers.

Will he ever play the drums, the guitar, the piano—any instrument—again?

The question mocked her. The hand specialist in Tampa refused to commit. Stone, of course, the ego force driving The Stoned Gang to greatness, would’ve railed and ranted at the doctor.

And at her. Beau’s kidnapping, she could hear him yell in her air-born cocoon thirty thousand feet above the earth, was her fault. No one else’s.

Unlike Stone, Beau’s humility made his torture by a bunch of psychos he’d never met until they took him hostage even more brutal. The fury that now always boiled in her bloodstream like lava ratcheted up. Stone’s accusation from the grave was right. Absolutely. She owned Beau’s torture and his broken body. Why had she left him unprotected to chase down Chad Gleeson?

Her leg convulsed and barely missed kicking Beau’s seat. Janine, the cabin attendant, appeared at Ryn’s seat. Ryn waved both her hands and shook her head. She didn’t need—didn’t want—anyone taking care of her.

Janine raised her exquisitely plucked eyebrows. Nothing I can get you?

Ryn shook her head again. God, if she could only sleep. After a thirty-minute nap, her anger might not erupt. Sleep might give her the possibility of repressing last week. Of turning off the taunts that hijacked her brain.

Janine still waited, her blue eyes filled with—concern? Confusion? Fear?

Ryn risked scaring the woman silly and forced her lips up in what she hoped would pass for a smile. Unless Janine lived in a yurt, the media frenzy must’ve given her a few shudders about the scene in Chad Gleeson’s kitchen.

But she doesn’t know I feel glad instead of sad. Or remorseful. Guilty? Not a scintilla. Ryn held the smile in place for another second. Janine finally took the hint, murmured something Ryn blocked, and glided to the back of the plane.

Ryn inhaled to the count of four. Held her breath … seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. She exhaled to the count of eight and repeated the exercise twice. Calm eluded her, but the counting gave her something to do besides think about Chad Gleeson’s head exploding.

Beau moaned in his sleep. The doctors opined that his physical pain lessened during sleep but admitted the reduction was probably minimal. The psychic pain—the trauma from his torture—probably kept him from escaping the discomfort of broken bones, torn ligaments, and pulled tendons.

Bastards. Animals. Ryn’s heart sped up. She pressed her feet against the floor. If she ever met the four Russians who’d dumped him at Chad’s place …

The vibration of her smartphone interrupted the vow—stupid and useless, she realized, her breath hitching. She fumbled the phone off her waistband. This was a new phone. A new number. Bought two days ago in Tampa. No one but Elijah and Angela knew the number. They sat two rows behind her.

A text message danced on the screen.

Think this is over? Think again.

An image of Chad Gleeson’s smirking face grinned so realistically that nausea crawled up Ryn’s throat.

CHAPTER 2

Who? Who? Who sent the text? The question plowed through the denial tumbling at warp speed in Ryn’s skull. Fingers numb, mouth dry, mind looping, she erased the message.

Out of sight, out of mind. Chad was dead. His Russian cronies—according to the FBI—had skipped the country. The text she’d just received was a hoax. Some kind of random hit sent by a rando hacker who got lucky.

Got lucky with a picture of Chad? She edged forward in her seat and stood. The thrum of the big plane pulsated under her feet. She swayed. Without the image, her screwed-up denial might make sense.

Bullshit. No way that text made sense. No way. Her bladder contracted, and she flashed on what muscles she’d called on to keep from peeing her pants after shooting Chad Gleeson. She took a step forward. Her hips and legs and feet belonged to an invalid learning to walk again. She focused on the restroom.

With or without Chad’s picture, the text accomplished what it was supposed to do. The threat had her spooked.

And the lack of sleep had finally caught up with her. She was twisting herself into knots. Someone—someone who wanted to do her harm—had somehow gotten her new phone number.

How mattered less than who and why? The trolls never sleep. But why?

Warm, soft side lights came on as she slipped into the restroom. The scent of fresh roses surrounded her. A dozen red and white long-stems sat in a crystal vase on a mirrored vanity. Her heart stuttered, but then the invisible wire across her chest loosened.

You gonna hyperventilate every time you see a rose?

Shaking her head, she focused on the bottles of body lotion and creams lining one end of the glass-topped vanity. Enough to fill a Nordstrom cosmetic counter.

Definitely not steerage. More like a three-hour retreat to forget the damn trolls. Ryn lowered her face to the blooms and inhaled.

Had William Ward White owned this jet when he paid Ryn’s private school tuition? What did the plane cost compared to the house he’d gifted her mother in the exclusive Sunset Hill area of Kansas City?

Does he really think Mama was murdered by Chad Gleeson?

Will he insist on tracking down more concrete proof?

Will he expect me to play the detective?

Did he send me that text?

Why would he?

The headache she’d nursed for two days drummed against her skull. Why couldn’t she bring back an image of William White?

Lack of sleep …

The easy answer. Unwilling to dive for a harder answer, she fingered the luxury towels hanging by the hammered copper lavatory. The frenzy of checking her four traveling companions plus Carolyn McCarthy out of the hospital and getting them on board the plane had bathed her in a definite eau de sweat. She stroked the white, full-length spa robe hanging outside the glass-enclosed shower.

God, what she’d give to step under a warm spray of water and wash every image of Chad Gleeson down the drain. Forget William Ward White’s absurd claims that someone had murdered her mother. Her heart missed a beat. She glanced at her watch. They should touch down in San Jose in less than an hour. No time for a shower. She opened the door to the commode and bidet.

Her phone vibrated again. The urge to toss it in the toilet hummed in her fingertips with a physical intensity.

Don’t look at it.

Of course, she ignored the order. Maybe she’d imagined the earlier call. Hallucinations came with sleep deprivation, and she’d experienced her share of surreal visions. Especially after Stone’s murder when her stress level had skyrocketed.

Her hand shook as she looked down at the text.

P.S. Don’t tell anyone about our little secret.

The emoji felt like a smack in the face. She threw the phone on the floor and stepped on it. Nothing. The case remained intact. Impulsively, she picked it up, dropped it in the sink, and turned on the water. She opened a drawer in the vanity, removed a glossy magazine, and sat in front of the mirror and read from cover to cover—turning her brain off, refusing to think.

She finished the last page, stood, removed the phone, and dried it with one of the fluffy towels. Ridiculously, she felt as if she’d won a marathon. She glanced at her reflection and rolled her eyes. She’d probably just lost all her contact info, but she felt great. Alert. In charge. As if she’d slept eight hours.

At least I didn’t throw the damn thing in the toilet. She returned to her seat, smiling.

Within minutes after the jet taxied to a stop, four EMTs boarded, flashed IDs, and explained their procedure for deboarding Carolyn McCarthy. At sixty-seven, in the last stages of congestive heart failure and semi-conscious, Carolyn required an oxygen tank and an IV.

One of the biggest surprises that gob smacked Ryn the past week was learning that Carolyn was her aunt. Her mother’s sister. One of the many secrets kept by her mother. Concealed, even though Carolyn and Molly lived, for four years, less than a mile from Ryn and her mother. Hidden from the girls who became best friends until Carolyn and Molly disappeared—vanished—when Molly and Ryn were in fifth grade.

Thirty years later, they stood side by side in a luxury jet like strangers. When the lead EMT started talking to Ryn, double-checking the address, Molly interjected, Speak to me. I’m the patient’s daughter. The address is 1 East Mocking—

Molly broke off in the middle of the address where Chad had held her prisoner for the past year. She swallowed and shot Ryn a scowl. The lead EMT, Ben, caught the look and the terseness in Ryn’s tone as she recited her address.

Ben, probably young enough to be Ryn’s or Molly’s son, flushed. He invited Molly to ride in the ambulance with Carolyn, advising the trip would take about forty minutes. Any stairs?

Two broad brick steps up to the front porch, Ryn said. She gave directions through the house to the steps off the kitchen deck. A stone path leads to the guesthouse straight ahead.

Ben scribbled notes on an iPad and then turned it to Molly for her signature. He spoke over his shoulder to his three coworkers. They fell in step like a choreographed performance of high-wire aerialists. Each did his thing of adjusting, shifting, moving, and soothing Carolyn as Molly hovered to one side.

Ben checked the belts securing Carolyn to the gurney one last time and announced, Ready. See you there, Miz Davis.

Rejecting the image of hugging Molly, supposedly her childhood chum, Ryn nodded. Whatever relationship she and Molly had in the past, they were now strangers. Molly came with a lot of baggage. At that moment, Ryn had all the baggage she could manage.

CHAPTER 3

After the EMTs wheeled Carolyn McCarthy out of the jet, three attendants brought wheelchairs on board for Beau, Elijah, and Steven White. Angela, Analuisa, and Ryn followed, thanking the cabin attendant and the pilot for a smooth flight.

Angela cocked a brow at Ryn’s request to use her phone as they made their way to the waiting SUVs. Ryn wanted to give Leti, her executive housekeeper, a heads-up. Leti and she had held several conversations while the patients were hospitalized about room assignments and other needs for the convalescents.

Had the nurse she’d hired for Carolyn arrived?

Had Leti found additional staff to prepare meals and clean bedrooms for the five extra people?

Had any last-minute glitches blown up?

"No hay problema, Leti assured Ryn in her bright, sing-song voice. A forty-year-old former prostitute completing requirements for her GED, she radiated confidence. She’d opted out of Ryn’s computer program at Esperanza House. She hoped to study filmmaking at San Jose State beginning next year. Todo está listo. Everything is ready. Maj is waiting in Beau’s room so we shouldn’t have any immediate fights between her and Bella The Wonder Dog."

Ryn chuckled. Beau has promised to have a talk with our favorite feline. Thank you. I know this is a lot of extra work—- [need to delete the leading quotes; leave only closing ones]

Shh. I know a dozen women working the streets who’d kill for this kind of extra work.

Kill sent an icy finger zipping down Ryn’s spine, but she wanted to avoid returning the phone to Angela, so she kept talking. Angela, another savvy female, would demand a full explanation of why Ryn’s brand-new smartphone was on the fritz.

Following her small circus to the exit, Ryn said, You forget I happen to know about your uncanny talent for organization, Leti. I’m serious now. Hire as many staff as you need to take care of this invasion.

Message received. Stop worrying. I’ve made all the food orders for Esperanza House, paid all the bills, and even ordered some extra toilet paper.

Toilet paper?

In case this virus thing—COVID-19—guess you’ve probably missed the news.

You mean the outbreak in China?

Uh-huh. But Washington State is reporting cases also. They’re concerned it’s pretty fast spreading. So … I don’t want us to run out of toilet paper.

Okay. Ryn nodded as if Leti could see her response. Lack of sleep wasn’t helping her track her executive housekeeper’s concern, but she said, "Your call, amiga. I’m three feet from the van. See you in about half an hour."

"Hasta luego."

At the second van, Elijah was giving Angela grief. I do not—repeat—do not—need a wheelchair.

According to the doctor, you do, Angela said. And since you don’t have a license to practice medicine—

I’ve had concussions. He tapped his ebony head with his long, elegant fingers. I’ve managed without a wheelchair.

Well, guess what? You’re not managing without one this time. Angela leaned in, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the mouth.

The young Latino waiting to push Elijah’s wheelchair into the van rocked back on his heels and looked at the neon-blue sky.

Expecting a lightning bolt? Ryn smiled, a bit surprised by the kid’s reaction. Had he never seen a beautiful white woman kissing a black man?

Maybe he’s afraid he’s going to have to perform CPR. They’ve stopped breathing.

Okay, you two, Ryn said, you’re holding up the parade. Steven and Beau parked their egos, so get with the program, Elijah.

Bella The Wonder Dog peeked over the edge of Angela’s bag and barked. Angela made an exaggerated smacking sound and stepped back. Elijah grinned from ear to ear.

Wanna argue some more? Angela drawled.

Elijah threw up his hands. Uncle.

Ryn returned Angela’s high five and approached the van at the head of the line. Beau was already fastened in his seat behind the driver. She climbed into the seat slightly behind him because his extra-large chair required additional space. He had offered no resistance to the arrangement, and his passivity had her worried.

The doctors explained the swelling in his brain had inexplicably and spontaneously decreased to normal levels, but they remained concerned about Beau’s long-term well-being. His lack of verbal engagement with her and Angela especially could mean neurological or psychological or both kinds of damage.

Time …

Fury hijacked Ryn’s brain every time she thought about the Russians’ abuse. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed. Beau’s musician’s ear picked up on every nuance of her speech. If she spoke—and her voice so much as quavered—she’d telegraph her impotence. Beau needed her to be strong. Falling apart was not an option.

She took his uninjured hand and squeezed it gently.

He returned the pressure. You think Angie and Elijah will get married?

Stunned by his out-of-the-blue question, she blinked and then stared. I-I don’t know what I think.

I think it would be great, Beau said as the van pulled away from the curb.

Because? Ryn raised her eyebrows. Beau had never been married. Never spoken about getting married—though he’d expressed his wish that she and Stone should’ve tied the knot.

Because I think they love each other, Beau said, interrupting frame after frame of the silence and withdrawal after most arguments with Stone. They’re lonely when they’re not together. And they really like each other. I don’t think they keep secrets from one another.

Ryn’s heart stampeded. For a second, she felt dizzy and focused on the horizon. Afternoon heat shimmered on the asphalt. Maybe Beau’s comments signaled a step forward in his brain’s recovery. His observation about keeping secrets, though, pinched a few nerves.

I think, she said, choosing each word before speaking, Stone and I kept too many secrets. We thought revealing our secrets left us exposed—gave the other too much power …

Beau yawned, and then mumbled, I hope Maj is in the mood for some quiet time.

His sudden change of subject opened a vent into her lungs, and she released a long, quiet breath.

I asked Leti to put a new bag of treats in your bedroom. They should help you reason with Maj.

Good. I’ll have to feed her a bunch. She won’t like me calling Whit. Since we’re setting up a small hospital in our house, I invited Whit to stay with us for a while.

Ryn’s jaw dropped.

Think about it. Beau turned to stare at the open space whizzing by as they sped along I-280.

Beau had seen the trees and rolling hills and patches of green grass dozens of times, often voicing the opinion that the rural scenery contrasted sharply with the urban sprawl and glimpses of San Francisco Bay along Highway 101.

Now, he studied the sun-soaked landscape as if for the first time and shut Ryn out.

CHAPTER 4

Ahead of them, flashing blue lights distracted Ryn from Beau’s bombshell. Their driver tapped the brakes, slowed, and spoke into his shoulder mic too quietly for her to hear. He brought their van to a complete stop—behind a red Porsche.

What’s going on? Beau asked.

A big rig blew a tire, the van driver said.

A CHP trooper approached the Porsche, leaned in, spoke a few seconds, and then strolled back to Ryn’s van. He spoke to the driver. Fifteen, twenty-minute delay. Turn off your engine.

What about the EMT ambulance? Ryn scooted to the edge of her seat. The patient they’re transporting’s on oxygen. It’s pretty warm even with the AC.

Yes, ma’am. That’s why I’m asking the three other vans in the caravan to shut off their motors. The EMT bus can leave theirs on. I’m headed back to speak to the driver now.

Each word rang with authority—crisp without being rude but inviting no response. The trooper tapped an index finger on the brim of his hat and left.

I’ve got water, juice, and soda, their driver offered, turning off the engine.

Beau opted for sparkling water and cranberry juice. Ryn chose plain water. She turned to the van behind them but could see only the driver. She saw no one in Steven White’s van.

I’ll call Angie. Beau set his drinks in holders, released his seatbelt, and fished out his phone. You can call Steven White.

Before she could explain about her phone, the first notes of Hanging in There, The Stoned Gang’s first megahit, filled the van.

Hey, Angie, you and Elijah stayin’ cool? Beau sounded so normal that Ryn thought maybe the doctors were being overly cautious.

Or maybe she’d misinterpreted their concern. She tried to deny reality, but the lack of sleep messed with her reasoning. Add the stress—Don’t you want to know about your mother’s demise, Ryn?

Chad Gleeson’s taunt faded. She exhaled and focused on Beau. His right thigh jiggled as he talked. Aviators hid his eyes. Perspiration beaded his hairline. Listening to his end of the conversation with Angela, Ryn felt her eyelids droop. Her chin fell toward her chest. Her breathing slowed.

The thought flitted through her mind to remove her jacket, but lifting her arms posed too great a challenge, and she forgot the idea. The sun blasted through Beau’s window and turned the van into an oven. She glanced at her watch.

Ten minutes? Obviously, we’re not having fun.

Beau, on the other hand, showed no signs of fatigue talking to Angela. Were they chatting about jigsaw puzzles for God’s sake?

Anger boiled up in Ryn’s stomach and head. What if one of them still faced hours of interrogation from the FBI about Chad Gleeson’s death? Could either of them figure out how to provide a place to recover for three injured men and two seriously hurt women? Had either Angela or Beau gone without eight hours of consecutive sleep ever in their lives?

Whine. Whine. Whine. She jiggled her leg, caught herself, stopped, and closed her eyes. Her nose wrinkled. For whatever reason, she couldn’t shake the memory of the dank waters in Florida.