Go get some rest, he could imagine Evie saying. Mason wanted to take that advice, and he certainly would. But there was somewhere else he had to go first. It was something he’d started earlier that night but hadn’t quite finished.
Now that he was alone, he could finally do it.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
“I hate to say it, Mason, but I’m disappointed in you.” Captain Cox pushed back from the table and went to the door, holding it open for him to leave.
After a few hours’ sleep, he’d returned to give the entirety of his statement and his reasons for terminating his pursuit of Marvin Wendell. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,” he said, shooting a look at Bill, who stood clutching a clipboard.
The three of them left the room together. The captain headed toward her office, while Bill showed Mason to the coffee machine. It felt like a cliché spot for a private discussion, but they had to talk while they had the chance.
“Where were you this morning?” Bill asked, looking skeptical.
“Cleaning up after you. The cameras needed wiping, you know.” Mason just wished the man would be more careful. If they were going to pull this off, they had to work as a team. Any half-hearted efforts could end them.
“Okay.” Bill glanced around, dug into his pocket for the key, and slid it into Mason’s hand. “Make sure nobody sees you. I’ll have to catch up later.”
“When?”
“I’m off duty at five, so hang in there.”
Mason stuffed the key into his pocket and walked toward the side exit. The front of the police station was swarming with press, who had somehow gotten wind of the situation and made it public. That was bad for everyone.
In the alleyway beside the building, Evie stood gazing at the beautiful morning sky. Although she’d begged for an explanation from Mason, he had nothing more to offer her. The best he could do was assure her the killer would move on from San Francisco.
“Get in,” he said, opening the car door.
He drove her back to her apartment and stopped outside in peaceful silence.
“Will you be all right?” she asked.
“I’ll live.” Mason wondered how he was going to convince her that he’d simply shied away from hunting Wendell. After all the judgment he’d received from Captain Cox, the last thing he wanted was Evie to be disappointed with him. “I’m looking at apartments tomorrow.”
“Oh? Not getting back with Sandra, then?” she said, a tone of sadness in her voice.
“I doubt it. There are other things for me out there, you know?”
“Yeah.” Evie sat back in the seat, the half-open door letting the cool winter air in. “That’s great about the apartment though. But how will you pay for it?”
Mason had asked himself the same thing, and now the answer seemed clearer than ever. “I think it’s time to reopen the office. I can take on other cases, ones I don’t associate with my time on the police force.”
Evie smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s what you’re good at.” She climbed out of the car, closed the door, and headed into her apartment building, looking over her shoulder and giving a little wave.
Mason was looking forward to the life he’d just described. It would be dangerous, sure, yet he would miss it if it weren’t there.
But there was still one thing left to finish before he could move on, something he couldn’t possibly have told Evie or the captain.
Checking the key was still tucked away in his pocket, he looked around to make sure he wasn’t followed, then drove to where he needed to be.
Chapter Ninety
The shipping container sat at the back of the lot, where it was quiet and out of the way—no wonder Bill had chosen it. Mason checked his surroundings before sliding the key into the heavy-duty padlock and opening it up. It was dark inside, but Mason had to lock the door from the inside before he could use the internal lamp.
Clunk.
The room lit up, and Mason turned to face the back, where an orange glow illuminated Marvin Wendell. The man was a mess: naked, chained up tight, and silenced by a homemade ball gag Bill had made with a snooker ball and a belt. It looked painful as hell, but it was no less than he deserved.
“Morning, asshole.” Mason stepped forward and removed his jacket, placing it on the upturned crates. “Bill wanted me to wait until he got here, but I don’t see why we can’t just get started.”
Wendell struggled to break free of his chains, but nothing happened.
Mason walked slowly to the gurney, admiring the detail Bill had gone to. He understood the man’s pain, too—Wendell had killed Bill and Christine’s son. That was enough to make anybody crazy for revenge.
“You know, you made a big mistake by hurting my daughter.” Mason pulled the dust sheet off the tray, revealing a pile of rusted surgical tools.
Crying and screaming behind the gag, Wendell thrashed against the chains.
Mason picked up the first tool and held it up to the light. It looked like a bottle opener, a kind of blade with clamps. We’ll start with this. “Now, hold still. You wouldn’t want me to miss.”
When Mason was done, he and Bill would burn the body and try to pass it off as an unsolved murder. It may not be the official closure of the case—they may not even get away with it—but it would bring the Lullaby Killer to the horrific end he deserved while administering justice to all the families he’d destroyed.
Grinding his teeth, Mason got to work on punishing Wendell, blissfully unaware he’d been followed to the site.
If only he knew he’d just opened a whole new can of worms.
Masquerade
Chapter One
Johnny Walker was driving toward his death. He just didn’t know it yet.
Somewhere between Haynes Avenue and Briar’s, on only the fifth or sixth drive of his first car, he’d decided tonight would be the night to get what he wanted. He’d been thinking about it for months—thinking how easy it would be. How anonymously sexy.
As he rounded the corner, streetlamps and eccentric neon signs lit up the row of buildings. The area was full of life, much more than he’d expected. This is good, he thought. I’m just one of many.
His hands shook as he turned the wheel, swinging the car to the side of the street. How would he do this? Johnny figured it would be like in the movies—pull over, lean on your horn, and wait for them to come running.
They all look so… so dirty.
Another walked past, and he eyed her up and down. This one had a certain shimmy to her ass, a taunting tease in that little wiggle. But on the other hand, she had greasy hair and her stockings were torn (deliberately or not). Johnny assumed he wouldn’t be the woman’s first customer of the night and passed on the idea entirely.
Until he saw her.
What a remarkable sight she was. Long, wavy red hair that framed a rosy complexion. Her long legs were smooth, her lips red and full. She didn’t look like one of them, so much so he wondered if she even was one of them. After all, he was just twenty-one and had never been in this situation before. Hell, he’d never even been kissed.
After taking a moment to ignite his confidence, he stepped from his car and walked past the group of black men. Their eyes followed him—he could feel it. Or was he being paranoid? Either way, he had to keep walking.
The woman was smoking now, pulling long drags off the cigarette and exhaling a purple-tinged mist of swirling erotic magic. For a fleeting moment, she glanced at him, then looked away while flicking her hair in his direction.
Johnny grew increasingly nervous. The busy street, loud gossip, and rap music blaring from a nearby car wrought havoc on his anxiety. This is a bad idea, he told himself and turned to walk away.
But then…
“Where’re you going, sweetie?”
Johnny stopped in his tracks, took a deep breath, and turned. The woman was looking at him, her piercing green eyes glowing under the neon lights. “Are you…” He almost dared to ask, but fear of being
wrong stifled the question.
She giggled like a playful teen. “Yes, sugar. Are you looking for a gig?”
“S-Sure.”
With the assured theatrical sexiness of Marilyn Monroe, she flicked her cigarette into the road and sashayed toward him, her cleavage on show, all perky and encouraging. “Then let’s go.”
Following a nervy moment of hesitation, Johnny clicked the key button and unlocked the car. Ever the gentleman, he held the door and admired her as she eased her perfect figure into the seat, smiling lustily at him as she did so.
Johnny shut her door and walked around to his. “Wow,” he mumbled under his breath, trying not to laugh out loud at the luck he’d stumbled into.
If only he knew he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Chapter Two
San Francisco looked beautiful at night, but it was also scary. Especially for Johnny, who despised driving near the cable cars, hating how those things rattled his bones. He was already shaking enough.
“First time, sweetie?’ The woman pulled down the vanity mirror and applied some fresh lipstick. It smelled delicious, like cherries.
“No,” he lied.
She flicked up the mirror and sat back, assessing him. “So then, where’re we going? Your house? Or would you like to do this somewhere more exciting?”
Johnny hadn’t thought that far ahead. They sure as hell couldn’t go to his parents’ house—they would not be thrilled about their only son banging a prostitute in their own home. “Somewhere quiet. Any ideas?”
“Sure.”
Johnny drove in silence as the woman—still delightfully mysterious—directed him to a place she would only describe as “a good spot.” This ambiguity conjured images of a whole range of places, further rousing his curiosity.
“Pull up here,” she said, shuffling in her seat.
He stopped the car under a large tree at the back of a desolate parking lot, which overlooked some kind of park. It was an eerie place, dimly lit by a weak streetlamp back at the entrance.
Johnny shut off the engine and sat now in total silence. Looking around, he realized he knew the place, a popular spot for people looking for anything—sex, drugs, and whatever else might go down. He’d even considered coming here himself once or twice.
“So, what’ll it be?’ she asked, teasing her tongue across her top lip. “My hand? My mouth? All of me?”
Johnny felt his chest constrict. “I don’t know.” A shrill, anxious chuckle escaped. Truth was, he was already aroused and knew exactly what he wanted, but he was too shy to say it. Not only that, but he couldn’t keep his hands still. “What do you suggest?”
“That’s cute.” The woman giggled behind her palm and glanced over her shoulder. “It’s pretty quiet up here. Does anyone know what you’re doing tonight?”
Is she trying to make me more comfortable with conversation? “No. Well, my friend Callum knows I was thinking about doing this. Guess I just thought I’d never actually go through with it.”
Her hand drifted over and rested on his leg. She curved her fingers and rubbed gently with her fingertips. “Get out of the car. Let’s make this fun.” Before he could answer, she’d stepped out of the car and walked around to sit on the hood.
Johnny unclipped his seat belt and went to join her, one hand rummaging through his pocket in frantic search of a condom. “Sorry.”
“Come here.” The woman crooked her finger, beckoning him.
Hesitant, scared, and rising swiftly in his pants, Johnny approached her, blocking out a headlight beam. He moved to take her in his arms but was stopped short by her hand against his chest.
“What are you—”
“Shh,” she said, turning and pinning him against the hood. She lowered herself to her knees, staring up at him with those seductive eyes.
One hand was hooked onto his belt, as if she was teasing, making him wait—making him harder.
Johnny closed his eyes and tried to relax, feeling one hand on his stomach, another slowly unzipping his fly.
And then he felt nothing.
“Do me a favor,” she said, as if she had a sudden change of heart.
Johnny’s eyes shot open, and his stomach clenched when he saw the knife in her hand. His pulse raced as a flurry of questions flooded his mind. “Is this some kind of joke?” He looked around, wondering if one of the boys from his hockey club would leap out of the trees and yell Gotcha!
“Just shut up,” she barked, serious now, a different person to the one who’d aroused him. “You’re going to keep quiet, hold still, and help me send a message.”
Just as Johnny wondered exactly what kind of a message, the knife flashed up and pierced his jugular. His jaw dropped in surprise, mouth gasping.
Johnny had always thought about death and dying. But he had never thought it would happen to him.
“Quiet now,” she whispered.
It was the last thing he heard before he hit the ground.
Chapter Three
Mason Black—San Francisco’s most notable detective turned private investigator—reclined with his feet perched on the coffee table and his teenage daughter lying in his arms. They were watching some movie about a cappella singers. Amy’s favorite, not his.
“How much longer is this?” he asked, glancing absently at his watch.
Amy tilted her head back to look up at him. “Don’t you like it?”
“I don’t mind it,” he said. It was mostly true. The movie sucked, but any time he could spend with his daughter was special. He got to see her so rarely now, since her mother had won the custody battle. Most people would have felt bitter resentment, but Mason was making a point of learning to be more optimistic. Anyway, Amy seemed happy, and that was all that really mattered.
“You don’t like it!” she said as a matter of fact and got up to remove the DVD.
The patch where she had been lying turned cold at once. Mason sat up, adjusting his shirt. “It’s fine, honey. I swear.”
“It’s no big deal, Dad. I’ll find another movie.”
“If you say so.” Mason watched her fumble to remove the DVD from the tray and grinned.
“Die Hard, or James Bond?” she asked, holding up the DVD cases with a smile of her own.
Mason smirked, about to choose Bond, but was interrupted by a pounding on the door.
He looked at his watch again—just after ten. Who’d turn up at this time of night? Groaning as he stood, Mason went to the door and opened it to a familiar face. “Bill.”
Detective Bill Harvey was a friend—a good one who’d helped him track down Marvin Wendell, the Lullaby Killer. What they did with the body when they found him was still a secret only they shared.
“Sorry, Mason, I know it’s late. Can I come in?”
“Of course.” He held open the door and took a step back.
“Hi, Amy.”
“Bill!” Amy clambered to her feet and ran toward him, enveloping him in a tight hug.
“Mind if I borrow your father for a minute?” Bill asked, pulling away.
“Sure,” she said and made herself scarce in the spare bedroom.
They moved through to the kitchen. “So,” Mason said, flicking on the kettle. “It’s good to see you, Bill… Dare I ask?”
Bill’s forehead creased.
Mason just nodded, unscrewed the coffee jar, and spooned the granules into a mug. “I’m guessing you need help with an investigation?”
“Actually,” Bill said, moving into the doorway. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I’ve been assigned to investigate you.”
Chapter Four
Mason studied the mass of photos spreading out before him. His coffee had gone cold and he’d barely noticed—he was far more interested in the murder scene he was looking at.
“These were taken a couple of hours ago,” Bill said, sliding over the photographs one at a time. “As you can see, the neck was sliced from ear to ear.”
“Grisly.” Mason
studied the scene behind the body. “Why does it seem familiar?”
“The steps?”
“Yes.”
“Because you worked there for a long, long time, Mason.” Bill slid over another picture, this one taken from a distance. It showed the police station, a line of patrol cars parked in a perfect row along the left wall, and a crowd gathering by the entrance. That was where the body had been dumped and, as expected, where the body lies the crowds gather.
“Has the body been identified?” Mason felt himself reaching for his cigarettes, which weren’t there. It was force of habit—he’d given up years ago and forgotten about them entirely. Until now.
“Johnny Walker, twenty-one, rich parents.”
“You think somebody had beef with the folks? Took out a little revenge by hitting where it hurts most?”
“That was my first guess until I saw this.”
One last photo came sliding across the dining table, stopping right in front of Mason. He took it, lifted it to the light, and felt his body go weak at the sight. “What the hell is this?”
“That”—Bill stood and began to pace—“is why I’m here now. So… what do you make of it?”
“I’d say it’s some sick fucking joke.” Mason looked at it again. He let his eyes crawl over it—the pool of blood, the sliced flesh, and the message scribed into the torso of a corpse:
MASON BLACK IS A MURDERER.
A smaller message was carved beneath it:
FROM LADY LUCK.
Mason’s mouth went dry. “Lady Luck?”
“An alias, probably. But it gets worse. There was another photo.”
“And where is it?” Mason looked up, impatient.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 18