Shielding Kinley

by Susan Stoker

  Kinley rested her head on the seat back behind her and closed her eyes. She was in a middle seat—of course she was—and the people on either side of her had fallen asleep almost as soon as the plane had taken off. Walter was sitting up in first class, so she had the entire flight to relax and not worry about her boss.

  He’d been especially difficult all day. From the moment he’d answered his door after she’d knocked to wake him up, he’d been a jerk. He’d yelled at her, saying he wasn’t ready, and that she should go get him coffee and a pastry for breakfast and he’d meet her at the conference. Once there, he’d bitched in front of the other representatives because his coffee wasn’t prepared correctly. He’d also been surly and disagreeable to the poor driver on the way to the airport, and Kinley had wanted to die of embarrassment when he’d pitched a fit at the airline counter when he wasn’t in the original seat she’d booked for him in first class.

  All in all, she’d been glad when he’d disappeared into the lounge for first class passengers. It had given her a break from his nastiness and let her sit and regroup.

  Kinley hadn’t seen Gage again, which had been disappointing, but maybe it was for the best. It was odd how much she missed him. And of course, it was hard not to compare his behavior to Walter’s. Where her boss was rude and condescending, Gage tolerated her quirks and went out of his way to be polite, not only to her, but to everyone he came into contact with. She hadn’t missed how he’d left large tips for the servers at the cafes, and how, even when she’d stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, he never said a word—and in fact, kept others from bumping into her.

  She even had a small box of vanilla macarons in her carry-on bag that he’d picked up for her simply because they were her favorite, and he thought she might like to have the treats to take home.

  For the first time in her life, Kinley wished she wasn’t who she was. Wished she was the kind of woman who could jump into bed with a man without having her heart involved. That she was more outgoing. More normal. She wished she had someone to talk to about Gage and how he made her feel. If there was ever a time when she needed another woman to help her comb through the feelings coursing through her mind and body, it was now.

  Other women at least had their sisters or moms to talk to. She had no one. Literally not one person she was comfortable opening up to. It was depressing and discouraging.

  Shaking her head, Kinley straightened her shoulders and opened her eyes. No, she wouldn’t get sucked into feeling sorry for herself. She was who she was, and her life was what it was. All the mental boohooing wouldn’t change that.

  She’d worked damn hard to get where she was today and, all things considered, she’d done an amazing job. Kinley had known a lot of girls who’d been in her same situation growing up who weren’t doing nearly as well. She had a degree, a good job, a roof over her head. She didn’t need friends or a man to make her life good. It was already good.

  Clicking on her tablet, Kinley opened the book she’d begun reading when waiting for the plane. She might be a loner, and way too practical, but she loved reading romances. Everything always worked out in the end, and they gave her the emotionally satisfying happily ever after her psyche needed. She’d stick to living vicariously through the lives of the heroes and heroines on the pages of the books she loved. Real life wasn’t like that, and wishing for it was setting herself up for heartbreak.

  She was glad she and Gage had worked things out between them, but he lived halfway across the country. He was also a military man, and from what she’d seen, they were second only to politicians when it came to cheating, abusing their partners, and divorce.

  Feeling guilty she was lumping Gage into the same category of some of the military personnel she’d met, Kinley determinedly started reading. She had several more hours of time to herself before they landed and she had to deal with Walter again.

  Determined to enjoy every minute, she lost herself in the words in front of her.

  Sighing in relief when she finally walked into her apartment, Kinley dropped her bags in the middle of the room and staggered to her couch. She lived in a studio apartment near downtown, and she had never been so glad to be home in all her life.

  Instead of being relaxed after spending the flight in first class, being pampered by the flight attendants, and being able to lie flat to sleep, Walter seemed to be even more on edge than he’d been when they’d left Paris.

  When their driver hadn’t met them at baggage claim—she’d gotten a text saying he was running late—Walter had bitched under his breath about not being able to find good help these days. He’d left greeting the chauffeur to her and hadn’t bothered so much as small talk with the man as he towed Walter’s suitcase toward the limo.

  It wasn’t much fun being trapped inside the limo with her boss while he complained about being tired and jetlagged. She’d also been surprised when, instead of going straight home, he’d told their driver to take them by the office so they could do some work, despite it being late afternoon.

  Kinley wanted to object, wanted to remind him that she hadn’t had a reclining seat on the plane and she hadn’t gotten much sleep, but when she saw how stressed and grumpy he looked, she kept her thoughts to herself.

  At the office, when she wasn’t able to immediately recall some of the names of the representatives they’d met at the conference, he’d gotten even surlier.

  She’d never been more relieved than when he’d finally had enough and called it a day.

  When Walter was dropped off first, he’d climbed out—then completely surprised Kinley by leaning back into the limo and thanking her for accompanying him to Paris. He’d apologized for being so disagreeable and told her to get a good night’s sleep.

  Even with his politeness at the end of the trip, Kinley thought both she and the driver breathed a sigh of relief once he was gone.

  It was late when she let herself into her apartment and, out of habit, she picked up the remote and clicked on the TV. She didn’t like watching the news, but because of who she worked for and where she worked, she had to keep on top of political happenings.

  Only half paying attention to the newscaster, Kinley was surprised when something caught her eye on the screen. She quickly fumbled for the remote and turned up the volume.

  * * *

  …the fourteen-year-old was found in the Champs-Elysees district in Paris. Cause of death has been determined to be strangulation and, just like the five other young women who’ve been found in the last six months, her blood-alcohol level was four times the legal limit and she tested positive for ketamine. The citizens of Paris are uneasy as The Alleyway Strangler—or L’Étrangleur des Allées—as the French press has dubbed the killer, continues to claim victims. There have been few clues as to the identity of the killer.

  * * *

  Kinley couldn’t tear her eyes away from the screen. While the reporter was talking, a clip was playing of the actual crime scene. A body was covered with a gray tarp, only her feet showing.

  The second the newscaster changed to a new topic, the picture changed.

  Kinley leaped up from the couch and grabbed her carry-on bag, frantically pulling out her work laptop. The wait for it to power up was excruciating, and she couldn’t get the feet of the murdered girl out of her mind.

  The second her computer connected to her wi-fi, Kinley pulled up her search engine and typed in The Alleyway Strangler. All the images that popped up were horrifying and unsettling to see—but it was the most recent victim Kinley was interested in.

  She clicked on the picture of the young woman covered in the tarp in the alley and zoomed in on her shoes.

  For a full minute, Kinley stared at the image, then sank into the chair at her small kitchen table in disbelief. She’d recognize those shoes anywhere.

  She’d just admired them the night before in Paris.

  The woman she’d seen getting into Drake Stryker’s car had been wearing the exact shoes that were on the feet of the mu
rdered victim in the picture on her computer screen.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. She knew the woman from the alley and the victim had to be one and the same.

  A fourteen-year-old girl…

  If she hadn’t admired the girl’s shoes so much, she wouldn’t have thought twice about the news story. Unfortunately, people were killed every day. But she’d not only seen this poor girl right before she’d been murdered…she had a pretty good idea who’d done it.

  Kinley wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. But she did neither. She merely sat at her kitchen table in shock.

  It was possible Stryker had dropped the girl off at home, or wherever he’d picked her up, and someone else had taken advantage of her. But something deep inside Kinley knew that wasn’t true. Picking up prostitutes was one thing, and something way too many politicians did, but this was something altogether different.

  She needed to tell someone.

  But who? Who would believe her?

  She could go to the cops, but all she had to go on was a pair of shoes; the tarp had hidden the rest of the girl’s body, and any clothing she might have worn. As far as evidence went, it was lame at best. Who knew how many pairs of those shoes had been sold and were being worn by Parisian women?

  And Stryker was the US Ambassador to France. He’d been appointed by the president himself.

  Feeling herself starting to panic, Kinley stood up and paced her small apartment. She had to tell someone.

  Then something else occurred to her. Walter had spent the evening with Drake.

  Had the girl been with them? Had he known how old she was? If she was, Kinley had to think Walter hadn’t known her age. He wasn’t the nicest man in the world, but she didn’t think he was a pedophile. He was married, with two teenaged kids of his own. He was a tough boss, yes, but she’d also seen his compassionate side. He didn’t thank her all the time, but he didn’t need to thank her for doing her job.

  He was grumpy when they traveled, but who wouldn’t be?

  Spending time with his friend during his last night in Paris didn’t mean he’d participated in some nefarious rendezvous with an underaged girl.

  But Kinley didn’t know Drake well at all. He could’ve been the one to invite the girl. Maybe both men had thought she was older than she was, and after learning her true age, Drake had immediately escorted her home?

  That had to be it. He’d dropped her off somewhere, and she’d unfortunately run across someone who’d killed her afterward.

  But surely her boss would still want to know about a girl they’d been with being found dead. A victim of an infamous serial killer. He’d need to tell Drake, and they’d both need to go to the authorities. Giving him a head’s up about the situation seemed the decent thing to do. She’d want someone to call her if she were in her boss’s shoes.

  Decision made, Kinley grabbed her phone and clicked on Walter’s number. He wouldn’t be happy being interrupted at home; he’d told her if she really needed to get ahold of him after hours, she should text or email, but this was an emergency.

  The phone rang four times before he picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Brown, this is Kinley.”

  “I’ve asked you not to call me when I’m at home, Kinley. We work hard enough when we’re at the office. Anything you need to tell me can wait until work hours.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kinley said quickly. “But I got home and saw the news. Did you hear about The Alleyway Strangler?” she blurted.

  “The what?” Walter asked.

  “Not what, who. The Alleyway Strangler. He’s a serial killer in Paris. He killed someone else last night.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with me?” Walter asked in a confused tone.

  “I think I saw the victim last night,” Kinley told him in a hushed tone. “I was awake, and my hotel room was facing the alley. I saw your friend, Mr. Stryker, come out of the hotel with a woman. At least I thought it was a woman. I admired her shoes, and when I saw the pictures of the latest victim, she was wearing those same shoes. She was fourteen, sir. Was…was she with you and Mr. Stryker last night?”

  There was a thick silence on the other end of the line for a long moment before Walter finally spoke. “Are you telling me you think that the ambassador to France is a serial killer, and that I hung out with him and his latest victim last night?”

  When he put it that way, it sounded ridiculous, but Kinley stood her ground. “Well, not necessarily. But I recognized the shoes she had on—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Walter interrupted. “I swear to God, that’s the flimsiest evidence I’ve ever heard in my life. No cop is gonna hear that and take you seriously. I’m offended on Drake’s behalf. That man is no more a killer than I am! For your information, we were alone last night. We talked politics and about the conference. We had a few drinks, then he left. If he picked up a woman in the bar downstairs after he left my room, that’s his business. Did you see the woman’s face?”

  “No,” Kinley admitted. “It was too dark, and she had her head down.”

  “So all you’re basing your accusation on is literally the shoes the woman had on her feet,” Walter said.

  Kinley bit her lip and didn’t respond. She could’ve pointed out she’d also seen the girl’s clothing and hair, but it would take a call to the Paris police to confirm if they matched the victim. And considering how upset her boss sounded, she decided to keep her mouth shut. She wouldn’t share that information and risk upsetting him further.

  “Have you told anyone else this preposterous story?” he asked.

  “No,” Kinley said honestly. “I wanted to talk to you first because you’re friends with him, and you were with him last night. I just thought you needed to know.”

  “Right. I was with him last night, and there was no woman—or girl—with us. I’m certain whatever you saw last night was completely innocent. It’s probably pure coincidence that the woman he was helping home last night happened to have the same shoes as the girl who ended up dead in some alley. Understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kinley said automatically.

  “You’re tired after traveling all day. It’s understandable that you’re too exhausted to think straight.”

  “I’m sure that’s it, sir,” she replied grimly.

  “I’d suggest not mentioning this to anyone else. If you do, you’ll be laughed right out of DC.” He snorted. “It would be your word against that of a respected and hardworking man…who just happens to be friends with the president. Get some sleep, Ms. Taylor. You’ll feel better in the morning. Because you worked tonight, I’m giving you the morning off. I’ll see you after lunch.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kinley said. She was glad she didn’t have to go in bright and early in the morning, but she still felt unsure about this whole situation.

  “Thank you for calling and talking to me,” Walter said, his voice dropping and sounding sincere. “I appreciate that you didn’t let this fester in your head, and that you didn’t do something crazy like call the cops. Accusing an innocent man is serious business and wouldn’t have looked good for you—or me. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

  He didn’t give her time to say goodbye, and Kinley continued to hold the phone in her hand for a moment before putting it down.

  Everything he’d said made sense…but for some reason, she couldn’t shake the belief that what she’d seen last night was that poor girl’s last moments alive on this Earth. She hadn’t been steady on her feet, and now that she thought about it, it seemed as if Stryker had practically forced her into his car.

  But Walter’s words were enough to make her second-guess herself. And he was right—who the hell was going to believe her? She had no proof the girl had been with Drake and Walter, and who’s to say the ambassador didn’t pick her up in the bar at the hotel and innocently escort her somewhere?

  Feeling defeated and uneasy, Kinley forced herself to stand and go get her suitcase. She
unpacked and started a load of laundry in her small closet washer and dryer set even as she continued debating with herself.

  By the time she’d changed and gotten into bed, Kinley had convinced herself that she was overreacting. That thousands of people had those same shoes, and she’d simply misinterpreted what she’d seen. It was just the news clip. It had put ideas in her head that weren’t true. The power of suggestion was strong, she knew that from years of working in politics.

  Despite that, she fell into a troubled sleep, visions of little girls crying for help filling her dreams.

  “We have a problem,” Walter told his friend as soon as the other man picked up the phone.

  “What?” Drake asked.

  “My assistant saw you putting that bitch into your car last night.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone for a second before Drake swore viciously. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was she doing up at that hour?”

  “No clue. She’s weird. Probably loves spying on people in her spare time. But she called me all worried because the news over here in the States ran a story about the girl’s body being found, and she recognized her shoes.”

  “Fuck,” Drake hissed. “What did you say?”

  “I told her she was crazy. That there was no way you were a homicidal killer. She called me because she knows we’re friends—and she also knows we spent the evening together. I cannot get sucked into this,” Walter told Drake.

  “Well, it’s too fucking late. You’re involved as much as I am. It’s not like having sex with teenagers is anything out of the ordinary for you,” Drake said.

  “Maybe not, but having sex with an underage girl is a lot different than killing one,” Walter seethed.

  “You were the one who came up with the plan to find an underage prostitute to fulfill your ménage fantasy,” Drake insisted. “Sharing child porn was no longer enough for you, you said. You were the one who set this whole thing up. The fact that I was the one who had to cover our tracks shouldn’t be a fucking surprise.”