“Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” the woman purred, leaning farther over the counter to encourage some extra attention. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in a massage?”
Mason caught a very brief image of Diane flicking through his mind. What is that about? It wasn’t important right now. He shook it off, handing over his own business card. He’d gotten all he wanted, so there was no further reason to hide he was a private investigator. “Thanks for your time. Be sure to call me if you think of anything that may be helpful.”
“Sure will. Bye,” she said, smiling.
Mason groaned as he crossed the street while sending Bill a text message. It read Did Johnny live with his parents?
Chapter Sixteen
Seconds after he left, the woman raised the hinged countertop and walked across to the windows. She had to be sure he was gone—no big surprises today, thank you.
The PI was on his phone now, walking slowly while trying to concentrate. It had been difficult for Lady to control herself, to not take him down then and there. After all, the police were taking their precious time.
But there are other ways…
If she could continue to play with him—the same way a cat plays with a mouse before she kills it—perhaps she could achieve more than just revenge. There could be solace. And for once, she’d be able to sleep at night.
As soon as he moved out of sight, Lady locked the door, turned the multifunctional sign to CLOSED, and pulled down the blind, plunging the store into darkness. She went to the back room, gently prying the blonde wig from her scalp. Her short red hair fell free, and she tossed the wig aside.
Where would Mason Black go next? He obviously had no idea what he was doing, otherwise he would’ve known she was the one he was searching for. It was almost laughable, really, which only fueled her anger.
Lady ducked through the beads, then through another door, closing it behind her. The woman, Melanie, was still tied down. At least that was going the way she wanted it to. It was pleasing to watch, everything from the tremble in her knees to the wide, scared-shitless eyes.
Perfect.
Lady picked up the tattoo gun and heard and felt its teasing little vibration. “Now,” she said as she approached the table, “where were we?”
Chapter Seventeen
As it turned out, Johnny Walker had lived in a shabby, rundown apartment with his parents. His mother was unemployed and under investigation for fraud, and his father was—until suffering a recent leg injury—a gym teacher.
Mason walked down the stuffy corridor, stifling a gag at the stench of sour milk. The place was filthy, the dusty brown carpets reminiscent of an old episode of Columbo. Even the paint on the Walker family’s front door had mostly flaked off.
He gave it a knock and waited.
And waited.
When it eventually opened, as far as the brass chain would allow, a distraught pair of eyes studied him. Female eyes, raw with tears. “What do you want?”
“Mason Black, PI. I’m here to ask some questions about your—”
As fast as it had opened, the door slammed shut.
Mason waited, hopeful he might hear the sound of the chain sliding across and see the door open again. But each passing second made it less likely.
Mason knocked again. What choice do I have?
Then the door did swing open, all the way this time. Now a man stared back at him, bald-headed and gaunt. “Please, leave us alone,” he said, his voice cracking. “We’ve answered all the questions from the police. We just want to mourn in private.”
It was times like this Mason felt like a parasite. If they would assist him by answering a few questions, he stood more of a chance of bringing their son’s killer to justice. But was that really the reason he was working so hard? It was tough to pretend his own reputation wasn’t at stake.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss, but I think you might know something that could help my investigation, even if you don’t realize what it is.”
“No.” Mr. Walker pointed down the corridor. “Now, go away before I call the police and have you sued for harassment.” And just like that, the door slammed shut again, so hard Mason expected the frame to splinter.
Exasperated, Mason exhaled and trotted back down the hallway. Harassment was a stretch, but he still didn’t want his name being called in.
He wondered how far Bill was coming along in his investigation. How long would it be before he was told to bring him in? Not long, he doubted.
The door behind him creaked open, interrupting his thoughts. Mason turned to see a teenager with glasses pulling the Walkers’ door closed and quietly tiptoeing across the hall. “Excuse me. Hey.”
“Can I help you?”
“No, but I bet I can help you. Sorry about those two. They’re torn up, you know?”
“I’m sure. And you are…?”
“Callum Taylor. I’m Johnny’s— I mean, I was Johnny’s best friend. God, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to saying that—was. Have you ever lost anyone?”
Mason thought that was too personal, his parents springing to mind ever so briefly. “No.”
Callum looked at him blankly, as if waiting for more. He soon gave up. “Anyway, Johnny was going to see a prostitute the night he was murdered. I told the police that, but they said it would be impossible to track her down.”
“No kidding.” Mason took the Priceless Beauties business card from his pocket and handed it over. “This was found on his body. Is this who he used?”
Callum looked it over, holding it out in a trembling hand. “No. Wow, I gave this to him. But no, he said he wanted to, but they were fully booked. But then he said something about a backup plan. Macy… Macy something.”
“Marcy Larkin?” Mason’s heart began to thump. This could be good news.
“Yes. Who is she?”
“It’s a street renamed by the locals.” That was as much as he could be bothered to explain. The details were somewhat thicker: a young black girl had been brutally stabbed and murdered in the fifties because of her skin color. After the press referenced the street as Marcy Larkin, after the girl, it just kind of stuck.
“Ah, right. So, I hope that helps. Good luck catching the bitch.”
“Thanks, kid.” Mason found himself hopping down the steps two at a time. Although it was dangerous and he knew he could come to regret it, he might need to ask for Evie’s help with this one.
And as it so happened, he was due at hers for dinner tonight.
Chapter Eighteen
The meal was mostly soggy, potatoes and green beans drowned in gravy. Mason’s thoughts were faraway, and the near-bloody steak did little for his mood.
“Is something wrong?” Evie asked, looking at his plate. This was, for her, an extraordinary effort, and the result was at least respectable. However, as was her way, she let her self-doubt flourish.
“No. Nothing,” he said, and there was some truth to it. There was nothing wrong with the meal. “I was just thinking, are you doing anything tonight? After this?”
Evie set down her fork like it was made of crystal, keeping her chin raised—a not-so-subtle attempt at acting upper-class. “Not really. Why, what did you have in mind?”
Mason watched her expression, ashamed of what he was about to ask. She was probably thinking it would be something fun, a movie or a few drinks. He could already feel her disappointment. “This case of mine… I could use your help.”
“Go on.”
Swallowing a forkful of potatoes, Mason dabbed a napkin at his lips. “I need to stake out Marcy Larkin. Some kid—a friend of Johnny Walker—pointed me in that direction.”
“And you need me because…?”
“Well, if you were catching eyes, I could watch from a distance and—”
“You want to use me as bait,” Evie stated—no hint of a question. She wiped her mouth and threw her napkin into the gravy before snatching up her plate and storming toward the kitchen. “Unbelievable,” she m
uttered between rooms.
Mason pushed his chair back across the tiles with a screech and moved to lean in the kitchen doorway. Evie was pottering about, scraping food into the trash before dropping the empty plate into the sink. “Come on, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?” She stopped, placing a hand on her hip. In that way, she was a lot like their mother—sensitive and firm at the same time.
“I just need the help, is all. There’s no pressure.”
“You know I’ve been working really hard to put that life behind me. You’re supposed to be encouraging me, making sure I’m safe and happy. Not throwing me into harm’s way for the sake of some dead kid you didn’t even know.”
“All right, all right. Jesus. I’ll do it alone. No big deal.” Mason held up his hands in surrender and retreated to the lounge. He stood there in silence for a few moments, examining the mantel’s display of photos, and spotted Amelia—Evie’s daughter, who a nice couple had adopted—sitting proudly in a pressed white blouse.
“What exactly do you hope to achieve anyway?” Evie was back in the room now, having cooled down. Although still frowning, she seemed eager to listen.
“This hooker—Lady Luck, she calls herself—has been seen around there. Maybe she deals with women, maybe she doesn’t. But if anybody uses that name, I’d be wanting words with them.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Evie, this woman carved my name into a man’s chest. She probably knows what I look like.” Mason crossed the room and put his hands on her arms. “But there’s no pressure here. You know that.” He kissed her on the cheek, thanked her for dinner, and headed for the door.
“Wait.”
Mason turned on his heel, hiding his grin.
“Tomorrow night. Pick me up at ten.”
Chapter Nineteen
The second his cell phone picked up a signal, Mason felt it vibrating in his pocket. It felt relentless, like a needy child begging for attention and screeching until he got it.
Climbing into his car, he saw he had a load of missed calls from Bill and hoped it wasn’t too important. Mason didn’t think he could handle being interrogated just yet. He needed more to go on. More clues, more witnesses. More hope.
When would the police arrive anyway? Were they at his apartment now, waving a warrant while they picked through his belongings like seagulls at the dump? The very idea of it was intrusive, violating even.
Mason shivered, turned on the heat, and opened the new text message. This one was from Amy, the daughter he was yet to speak to since cutting their weekend short. He figured he should apologize, maybe swing by with a gift or the offer of a movie theater outing. They relished their movie time together. Mostly it would end in an argument about which actress was the prettiest, though Mason always insisted Amy was prettier than all of them combined.
Smiling at the thought, he lowered his eyes to the text.
Dad. Come by soon. I miss you! xxx
I miss you, too, he thought, smiling wider. She was growing up so fast it was scary.
With that thought in mind, he slung his cell phone into the passenger seat and revved up the car. Its roar was glorious and dominating, but Mason liked to drive it as he would any other car—at a sensible, non-life-threatening speed. Not that he cared for his own safety; he just didn’t want to hurt anybody else. Not anymore.
The phone jerked again. A call this time. Mason would’ve missed it were it not for the flashing screen. He pulled over and read the number, but it was unknown to him.
“Mason Black,” he said, raising it to his ear and assuming it to be a new client.
The connection was weak, dropping in and out and crackly at best. He heard heavy breathing for a moment, before a familiar voice spoke up. “Hi. Are you… This is Diane. We met in the parking lot the other night.”
Why would you be calling me? It was a surprise, but a pleasant one. “Oh, yes, sure I remember you. Is everything okay?”
Diane cleared her throat. “Well, yes, actually. I just wondered if you… if you might like to go for a drink on Friday night. I mean… only if you want to.”
“Sure.” He said it before even considering whether he might be busy. For all he knew, he could be behind bars by then. But still, the idea of seeing Diane again made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Happy.
“Great.” She sighed with relief. “Shall we say, Barlow’s at seven?”
Barlow’s was a respectable place on the other side of town, renowned for its more date-like ambience. The lights were always low and the music always classy. It was suggestive, to say the least, though Mason didn’t mind. “I’ll be there. Until then, Diane, take care.”
“You too.”
He hung up, staring down the hood of his car as if in a trance. Friday. Me and Diane. It felt like an incredible turn of events, and right on time. Just what he needed.
Slinging the car into first, he pulled onto the street and continued home, barely aware of his own childlike grin.
Chapter Twenty
The dreams were threatening, frightening and bold. Mason didn’t remember them exactly, only that they ended with a car upturned on its roof. He’d been using his heel to kick through the glass, but it seemed unbreakable.
The thud of his kick softened into knocks on the door as he phased out of the dream world and into his own.
“Get up, get up! I know you’re in there. Your car’s outside,” yelled Bill from the other end of the apartment.
“Hold on.” Mason groaned and climbed off the sofa, where he’d fallen asleep after sinking a few beers. He went to the door in yesterday’s clothes, eyes still adjusting to the harsh light when he opened it.
“What the hell have you done?” Bill let himself in, then stormed through, checking every room. Finding they were empty, he came back and handed over a file. “Another one. This one doesn’t have your name on it.”
“Then why are you here?” Mason yawned, flicking open the file. “Oh.”
“Exactly.”
The file contained a number of photos alongside information on the latest victim: Melanie Fry, a thirty-one-year-old kindergarten teacher. In her profiling photo, she was a beautiful blonde with sharp blue eyes, and full of life. In the crime scene photo, all that had been taken from her.
The victim’s throat had been sliced from ear to ear. Her eyes were still crossed with an expression of horror, and her jaw looked to have been snapped open into a twisted scream. Across her chest, a messy and bloody tattoo read TIME TO PLAY. Mason didn’t know the meaning behind it.
“They’re still looking at you, thanks to the message carved into Johnny Walker,” Bill said. “It could be wise for you to disappear for a while. Are you still researching?”
“Yes.”
“Then hurry up about it. The captain’s orders are coming in.”
Mason paced around the room, reading more about the victim and hoping something might leap out at him. Nothing did. He couldn’t even make sense of the message, much less whether this one was aimed at him. “Hmm.”
“What?” Bill snapped his head around.
“Interesting that the victim was alive while this happened to her.”
“She was?”
“It’s pretty messy here. See where the ends trail off, and the joins are too wavy? I’m guessing the victim was moving around as Lady Luck did this to her. Whoever she is, she’s one twisted bitch.”
Bill blinked hard. “Listen, I need to know you won’t be confessing to burying Marvin Wendell. If you go down, I’m going down with you. I don’t want that.”
“Pal, if I’m forced into a corner and have no choice but to admit what happened, your name won’t be coming up. I’m your friend, Bill. Loyalty is a part of that.” He handed back the file and stretched toward the ceiling. “As I can expect you’re doing everything you can to give me a little more time.”
Bill stared at him thoughtfully, then turned for the door. “I’m doing
everything I can, sure.” He paused. “But I don’t think that’s going to be enough.”
“Where are you going?” Mason asked, struggling to take it all in at such an early hour.
“Out. I’ll be in touch. Meanwhile, get the hell out of here. It might not be me at your door next time.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Night had come quickly, and Mason sat in the car, his gaze fixed on Evie a distance away. She’s right, this plan was stupid and dangerous, he thought, already regretting it.
His view of her was clear, thanks to the lack of traffic and his outstanding eyesight, but it made him feel uneasy. It didn’t seem right to see his sister dressed the way she was—knee-high boots and far too much flesh on show. However, it’d been her idea—apparently it would make her more appealing.
“Just tell me where to go,” she said through the Bluetooth headset.
“Trust me,” Mason said. “And stop talking. You look suspicious.”
Evie didn’t respond and continued walking farther up the street. The working girls were out in full force tonight, as if they were going out of their way to make things difficult for them. This woman, Lady Luck, could be any one of these, like a needle in a haystack.
One woman—thin and petite—crossed the road in a hurry. Her head didn’t turn to look for oncoming vehicles, and she was heading in Evie’s direction.
“Don’t look now,” Mason said into the phone, “but somebody’s coming your way. Stop with your back to the wall and don’t look at her.”
Evie did as she was told. She must have been terrified, but she hid it well. It was something she’d always been good at, those years of being caught bunking off school honing her skills.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 21