Simon Says... Hide (Kate Morgan Thrillers Book 1)

by Dale Mayer

  He kept looking up at the sky, wondering if he would be lucky enough to miss the deluge. As it was, he was inside one of his other buildings, when it started to pour. He delayed his exit until the rain eased, and then he made a quick run to the next building. He could have taken a cab or even driven, but neither appealed to him today. Fresh air, even if it was damp and spongy, was still better than vehicle exhaust and the pain of parking.

  By the time he had finally finished doing what he needed to do, he stood and stared at the weather for a long moment. The rain had eased off; the evening sky had darkened with clouds, and the city lights shone on the water. Vancouver was almost completely surrounded by water and enjoyed a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean and the mountains behind.

  It was truly a wondrous geographical location. But, like every big city, there was an underbelly. Anybody could come and make a living here, but not everybody could come and make a killing financially. Although plenty were doing well, a lot more were closing down businesses because they couldn’t handle it. Opening a business was not a get-rich-quick scheme, although a lot of people opened with that attitude. He wished them luck, but he also knew that it wouldn’t likely work.

  Vancouver was a hard city, a tough city, even harder for newcomers. A lot of people came for the glitz and glamour but forgot entirely about the fact that every city had problems and that every big city had those who thrived on those in trouble. It sucked, but it was the way of the world. Predators were everywhere.

  He turned and headed home. He was a good twenty blocks away, and it would take him a good hour to walk. That’s when he remembered where he was, and—if he scuttled down two blocks and over two blocks—he would come out to Mama’s place, one of the few restaurants that thrived in Vancouver. It was said that one restaurant closed and another one opened every day of the year in the city.

  Mama’s place had defied all logic and had managed to stay alive for seventeen years. Mama, the Italian woman who he appreciated far more than most, had married a Mexican man, and together they had blended their flavors, along with their personalities, to become a successful small mom-and-pop restaurant. Simon supported as many mom-and-pop shops as he could, just because they struggled so badly.

  He enjoyed a nice high-class restaurant sometimes too. The glitz and the glamour were definitely not a part of his regular world, and at times he was happy to be in the trenches. As he walked into the restaurant, Mama saw who it was and cried out, coming over to give him a big hug. He wrapped his long arms around her ample curves and hugged her gently.

  “You’re all wet,” she scolded him. “You could get sick.”

  “I hope not,” he said, with a smile. “Really can’t afford it.”

  “Of course not, of course not,” she muttered, busy brushing water off his jacket. “You’re staying for dinner?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

  She stopped, looked at him, with such an expression of horror on her face.

  He chuckled. “But I was hoping you could do me up a take-out order.”

  “It’s not good for you,” she said. “You need more than just taking food home. Best is to stay and to relax, with good food, good friends, and a good glass of wine.”

  “At least this way I get good food,” he said gently. “Otherwise I’ll just end up going home and not eating at all—or ordering pizza.” The genuine look of shock on her face had him laughing gently. “Go make me something,” he said. “I don’t mind what. Whatever it is that you think I should have.”

  She frowned and said, “We have a new special.”

  “Perfect,” he replied. “Just make sure it’s lots.”

  She chuckled. “Have I ever sent you with less?” That was the one thing she always did—made sure he was well-fed. He paced the small room, looking out the window, as the rain pounded down once again. When she returned with a large bag and two small take-out containers, he just shook his head. “I don’t need that much.”

  “This way, you will have lunch tomorrow,” she said comfortably. “And, in this weather, we won’t get many customers,” she said, “so we will have lots of leftovers.”

  He quickly paid for the order, gave her a smile, and said, “You are too good to me.”

  “No, it’s you who is good to us.”

  With that, he walked back out into the rain. He made a mad dash for a couple blocks, until the rain eased, and then he slipped across into one of the lesser-known areas, taking a shortcut across the city. Most people didn’t walk through this area because it was well-known for drug deals and back-alley attacks, but a lesson he’d learned a long time ago, from another life, was to stiffen your spine and to walk like you mean it.

  “Nobody will attack you if you look like you’re ready for trouble. They have to be twice as strong, twice as fast, and twice as mean to make sure they can handle what they are dealing with,” he murmured out loud, imitating his grandmother’s voice.

  Another trick his grandmother had taught him was to draw in his energy tight and to turn it ever-so-slightly red, giving it more of an angry tone. Anger lent extra energy to anybody, which meant they had more fuel for a fight than most people wanted to take on. And, of course, nobody disturbed him.

  When he came out on the other side, he was only one block back from the high-end part of town. It always amazed him that a strip of blocks separated low from high, the wrong side from the right side. He was comfortable in both but definitely preferred the high side. Poverty sucked.

  As he walked up the steps to the front door, the doorman raced to open it for him. Harry took one look and said, “You always refuse to take an umbrella.”

  “I always forget,” Simon said, giving his head a slight shake, sending water droplets everywhere. “At least I remembered food.” The doorman walked ahead and pushed the button for his elevator. As he stepped inside, Simon said, “Have a good evening, Harry.”

  “You too, sir. Make sure you dry off, before you catch a chill.”

  As the elevator opened up at the penthouse, Simon wondered why everybody was so concerned about his health. He hadn’t been sick in decades. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but again he had learned a lot of tricks a long time ago, and nobody would understand. So it was a trade-off.

  Life itself was a mystery, but certain corners of it he definitely knew how to manipulate. Inside, he put down the take-out food, quickly stripped off his jacket, and loosened his tie. He grabbed a towel, gave his head a light scrub, tossed the towel back on the hook, and he walked to the fridge, where he pulled out an already opened bottle of wine. Popping the cork, he poured himself a hefty glass and then tossed the cork. He’d finish the rest of the bottle tonight.

  With his wineglass, he walked over to the table. As he sat down, Mama had given him something like tortillas and nachos or something; he wasn’t exactly sure. Foil packs of something. Tortillas had been in one, and, when he opened up the others, he found raw veggie strips and then meat. He quickly made himself a wrap and tried it.

  It was delicious, he was still figuring out the myriad tastes. By the time he hit the middle, he was loving it, and, when he finished with the first one, he was already reaching to make a second one. After he’d had three, he put the rest in the fridge. Then he picked up his phone, walked over to the couch in front of the full-length windows overlooking the city of Vancouver, and sat down with his second glass of wine.

  He was tired and still not sleeping well, but at least he hadn’t woken up with any strange woman in his bed—or anybody else for that matter. Just then his phone rang. He glanced at it, winced. His ex-fiancée. He ignored it, and it stopped, but it immediately rang again. This time he reached for it, picked it up, and said, “What do you want?”

  “Good evening, Simon. This is Detective Morgan calling.”

  He stared down at the phone in confusion. He’d been so damn sure it had been his ex. “Did you just call me a few minutes ago?”

  “No,” she said, “calling you once is enough f
or me, thanks.”

  His lips twitched. Just something about her abrasive tone always made him feel better. Which made no sense. “What can I do for you, Detective?” he asked, as he settled into the corner of his couch, with his glass of wine.

  “I need details,” she said briskly. “More details.”

  “Why? You didn’t believe me in the first place,” he said, stiffening slightly at her words. He felt himself immediately building up walls to push her away, to push it all back. He’d worked hard these last couple nights to not have any more of those damn nightmares and to try and forget her.

  “I may have found a connection,” she said, “and I need more details.”

  “Connection?”

  “A connection between the different kids you’re seeing.”

  He sucked in his breath. “What connection?” he asked harshly. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m not calling out of joy,” she said sarcastically. “I’m sure you have a pretty damn good idea why I am calling,” she said, “and it’s sure as hell not some social call.”

  “That’s too damn bad,” he said lightly, “because I’m pretty sure we’d be really good together.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” she said, “because that’s not happening.”

  Instantly a vision ripped through him—the two of them hot and sweaty in the sheets. Lust drove right through his groin.

  “Cut the bullshit! Can we get back to the question at hand?”

  His eyebrows rose, and he felt the smile tugging away at his lips again. “I don’t have any details. Remember? I told you these were just bad dreams.”

  “Bad dreams that have disturbingly eerie details,” she snapped. “In your dreams, did you ever see a mark on the wrist of one of the children?”

  He frowned and sat up. “What kind of a mark?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t give a shit if you believe what I’m saying or not, Detective, but I don’t play games.”

  “This is a game to you?” she asked. “Something about a child’s life is just one big game to you? I don’t know what the hell makes you tick, and I don’t care—except for these cases. If anything leads you to believe these cases are anything other than a dream, you need to concentrate and get me more details,” she urged.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in psychics?”

  “I don’t,” she said in a tight voice. “You’re all con artists after people’s money.”

  “So you’re giving me money for the information I give you, right?”

  “Of course not,” she said, just as smoothly. “But rest assured, I’ve met plenty of cons, just like you.”

  “Yet you called me tonight,” he said. “So isn’t that a bit of a contradiction there?”

  “Depends on what kind of information you give me.”

  “Nothing,” he said, and, pissed in spite of himself, he ended the conversation. He tossed the phone on the couch and glared down at his body, reacting to her voice, to his vision. “Like hell,” he said. “You can think about something else next time. Because she is out of the question.”

  When his phone rang again, he ignored it. It finally stopped ringing, and ten minutes later it started again.

  He glared.

  He picked it up to see his ex-fiancée’s name. No way he was answering that. When his doorman called from downstairs, he didn’t want to answer that either. “Hey, Harry. What’s up?”

  “A lady is here who wants to talk to you.”

  Simon reached out to touch the bridge of his nose, sure that it was the damn detective again. “If she’s got a badge, you pretty well have to show her up,” he said. “But I’m not happy about it.”

  “Badge?” Harry said in surprise. “She hasn’t flashed any badge.”

  “Then it’s a hell no. I don’t want to see anybody,” he snapped.

  Harry hesitated.

  “Who is it, Harry?”

  “It’s your ex,” he said.

  “I definitely don’t want to see her.” And, with that, he hung up. As he walked away from the intercom system at the door, it rang again, and he started to get furious. “Harry, I said no.”

  “Please,” his ex-fiancée cried out in the background. “Dear God, please.”

  Something about her tone made him stop and freeze. “What the hell?”

  “I know. I know,” she cried out. “Please, just listen to me.”

  “Are you kidding? After all the shit you’ve pulled?” he said. “Why would I listen to anything you say?”

  “Because I’m desperate,” she said.

  “You’re always desperate,” he snapped. “Nothing new or different.”

  “It’s not me,” she said. “It’s my nephew, Leonard.”

  “What about him?” he asked.

  “He didn’t come home from school today. It’s Wednesday, and he had nothing scheduled for after school today.”

  Instantly he froze. “And?”

  “You know,” she said urgently. “You know.”

  “I don’t know anything about your nephew,” he roared. “Why the hell would you dare to even suggest such a thing?”

  She burst into tears, and he heard the sobs in her voice. Through the phone, Harry spoke again, “I’m really sorry, sir. I’ll make sure she doesn’t come back again.”

  “You damn fucking well better not,” he said, and he slammed down the phone. He tossed back the rest of his wine and walked over to the bottle and refilled his glass. That killed the bottle, but it sure as hell wasn’t doing much for his mood. He sat back down on the couch, staring at the wine, as it swirled in his glass. When the phone rang again, it was his ex.

  A text came through next. He is missing. You can help.

  Simon didn’t answer. Just stared at the message.

  You know you can. Please.

  He got up and, carrying his wine with him, walked into the bedroom, put the glass down, and stripped down, heading for a hot shower. As he stood under the hot steaming spray, he let it slosh over his body and directly onto his face. The hot beating water pounding his skin. But the pounding in his psyche wouldn’t stop.

  Absolutely nothing would stop this, would it?

  He desperately wanted all these people to go away. To have some control, hoping he could get it to slide back into oblivion. But it was too late. Something inside had broken free and had opened up, and there was no going back.

  He didn’t like people. Didn’t trust anyone. Especially himself and whatever this weird ability of his was. It had been wrong before. At a time when he’d needed it. No way he could depend on it now.

  Especially not if children’s lives were at stake …

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday Evening, Late

  Kate stared at the phone, wondering if she should try calling Simon St. Laurant again. He was avoiding her, and that pissed her off. She hoped he went to bed tonight and woke up covered in sweat from the nightmares. Mean of her maybe, but she needed answers, and she didn’t know whether he was responsible in some way or not. However, if he had anything more to offer, she wanted it.

  Working with a charlatan went against everything she believed in, but, to get justice for these kids, she’d deal with him. Since she didn’t believe in psychics, the only other answer in her mind was that he was part of this. And, if he was, she would make damn sure he paid for it.

  She covered one wall of her apartment with big sheets of butcher paper and then posted pictures of the children, the victims, along with her notes and timelines. It just made no sense. Huge gaps were in between, like several years even, and she didn’t know whether that meant that she was missing more victims or the victims had been kept longer back then or something else had interfered with the perv’s murderous activities. Was it random, or was there a pattern to this? The unknowns were really driving her crazy, but then they were what drove her to find the answers. It’s what made her a good detective, while driving everybody around her nuts.


  Her personal methodology was more like that of a lone ranger than a team operative. When she’d had her detective interview, they had asked her about that. She told them that she could work with a team, but she was more effective on her own. It had been made clear to her that she needed to include everybody on the team. All she could say was, she was working on it.

  She stood back and studied the nine cases on the wall, Jason’s and the other eight that were similar. She knew in her heart of hearts that there were more. Possibly a lot more. The only thing she had to go on was that weird mark on the wrist, and it was really faded on some—to the point of nothing visible at all—yet always a piece of clothing that didn’t belong to the victim was with the bodies.

  It made no sense, but then serial killers didn’t ever make sense. Not to her. That didn’t mean it wasn’t still important to figure out why these people did what they did. If anything, it was even more important because somebody had to stop them. To do that, she needed to understand these killers.

  It was late. She didn’t want to go to bed, yet she was tired, but these kids—her gaze flitted to the wall and away—they were eating into her psyche. She was starting to dream about them. Nightmares really. That brought St. Laurant back to mind. She shoved her hands into her pockets. If Simon were involved, she hoped his actions choked him to death.

  But, in the meantime, she would do everything she could to stick close to him. Tomorrow was her day off, and she planned to see what he was up to. And that meant she had to get to bed. As she checked her watch, she groaned. It was already two in the morning. How had it gotten to be that late?

  *

  Thursday Morning

  When her alarm rang at seven the next morning, she groaned, rolled herself out of bed, and stumbled into the shower. She made herself a pot of strong bite her in the ass coffee, poured it into a thermos, and headed out the door. She was in front of Simon’s False Creek North penthouse apartment building by 7:30 a.m. According to the doorman, he usually went for a walk in the mornings. Some days he was gone all day; some days he left again in the afternoon. She didn’t know what the hell he was up to, but something was going on because she’d done a full rundown on him and hadn’t come up with much. He owned a company, Novel Investment, which said nothing. He was just too damn clean for her liking.