Mason sighed. “Never a dull moment. What’s the word on Wendell?”
“Everything reinforces her criminal record. Sent to an orphanage at an early age after stabbing some kid in school. Then a few overnighters when she came of age. Couple of aggravated assaults here and there. She’s unstable, Mason.”
Mason slumped back in the chair, rubbing his eyes. “Wow. So, you’ll have an address on record?”
Bill shook his head. “We checked it out. She moved a long time ago, and the trail ends there. But we’ve been canvassing the street she lived on, and three different people have said she runs a massage business.”
Mason shot forward, suspicious. “Did you get a name of the business?”
“Nobody knew. Her neighbor said it began with P, but that’s all she remembered.”
Priceless Beauties, Mason thought. When he’d visited before, he spoke to a woman. Was she the manager or the owner? Was it Lady Luck herself? His heart was thumping against his ribs like it was about to explode.
He stood, wincing at the hot pain in his foot as he grabbed his trench coat. “I have to go out for a while. I think I know the place.”
Bill got to his feet. “I’ll come with you.”
“No. You stay here and look after Diane. You keep her safe, okay?”
Sighing, Bill sat back down. “Stay in the shadows, pal.”
“I will,” Mason said, shrugging on his coat. “At least until I have that bitch by the throat.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Mason stood in the street across from Priceless Beauties. Last time he was here, it had been to ask some innocent questions. And now? He was on his guard.
Although confronting this woman head-on would be satisfying, he knew it was counterproductive. With this in mind, he waited long after the sun went down and a couple of women left the building. One of them locked up behind her, but it wasn’t Alison Wendell. At least, he didn’t think so.
The street was now empty, and Mason crossed the road. He checked the door for an alarm system, found none, then broke it in with a forceful shove. It burst right open, and he went inside, propping a nearby chair against it to make it look closed. Who knew if anyone would come by there.
Knowing it was safer than having someone spot a suspicious-looking flashlight, Mason turned the lights on and drew the blinds. The place was his to explore now, but for how long?
His first port of call was the reception desk, where he found plenty of files and invoices, but nothing of substance. Disappointed, he headed through to the back where he found a row of cheap-looking beds with filthy stained sheets. There were curtains to separate them, but they were all drawn back on their rails.
This must be where they do the “massages.”
Mason traipsed over to check the area when he heard a thud from upstairs.
He froze, listening close, hoping it was just his imagination.
But there it was again, loud, like somebody falling out of bed and hitting the floorboards. Mason drew the policeman’s gun from under his coat. He found the staircase, took a deep breath, and crept upstairs.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Hands clasped around the gun, Mason took each slow step with great caution.
It was dark on the staircase, and only a soft light from the landing guided him to the top. With only three more steps to go, the thud came again, this time accompanied by a scratching sound, like a suitcase being dragged on its side. Anyone could be up here, Mason knew, and that included police officers. But he had to find something to help his investigation, no matter what.
He reached the top, peered around, and saw a boy sat on a couch with a video-game magazine open across his lap. The boy—no older than ten—looked up with frightened eyes but didn’t move.
Mason put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Quiet, kid.”
He could never be too careful when breaking and entering. On the chance this boy hadn’t made the banging sound, Mason went from room to room with his weapon poised, ready to fire. The place was dark, a little cold, but there was nothing too out of the ordinary.
Mason stowed the gun away and returned to the boy, who still sat reading his magazine without making a sound. “Hey, kid.”
The boy lifted the magazine to cover his face. His hands were shaking.
Who is this boy? Is this some kind of horrible, lonely daycare? “What’re you doing here?” Mason asked, taking the magazine from him. “Where are your parents?”
The boy shrugged.
Mason knelt down beside him. “What’s your name?”
“L-Luke,” he said, doing all he could to hide his face.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Luke.” Mason shook hands with the kid, attempting to make him feel as though they were equals. He’d never been good with kids, but he understood that if you made them feel important enough, they would level with you. “It’s dark in here, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Do you mind if I sit with you?”
“S-Sure.”
Mason took a seat on the couch. “Where’s your father? Did he leave you here?”
Luke shrugged again. “I’ve never met him.”
“I’m sorry, kid.” Mason felt bad for the boy—if not for being without a father, then for being left alone above a prostitute parlor. “How about your mother?”
“She went out to work.”
His mother is a hooker. Jesus. “And she just left you here all by yourself?”
Luke nodded. “Can I read my magazine now?”
“Of course. Mind if I take a look around?”
Luke nodded, and Mason inspected the room. Against the back wall, shelves and shelves of unlabeled DVD cases sat in black boxes. He wondered what they were for but couldn’t risk taking one. Across the room was a dresser. Documents lay stashed in the top drawer, and Mason skimmed through them. Still, nothing with an address, other than the one he was currently snooping around in.
But then something else caught his eye.
Mason reached up for the photo frame. In the photo, Luke was sitting on his bicycle, the training wheels on and a helmet strapped to his head. But the important feature—the part that had Mason’s heart banging like a drum—was the woman stood behind him. The manager of this establishment.
“Luke.”
The boy turned around.
“What’s your last name?”
Without looking up from his magazine, Luke sighed, and said, “Wendell. I’m Luke Wendell.”
Luke Wendell. Mason sat down before the shock took him off his feet. “You’re Alison Wendell’s son.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Sex or slaughter? Pleasure or torture? Whatever her choice, she needed a drink, so heading to a bar would allow her to make a decision later.
Sporting her natural hair and her hottest blouse, Lady locked everyone up and drove into town. Her thoughts drifted to Luke and how she’d just left him at home. But he would be okay. He was a solitary kid at the best of times, which suited her lifestyle.
The bar she found was a new one at the far end of town. Nobody would recognize her, and nobody would have to see her again after tonight. She ordered a gin and sat at the bar, like a spider lurking in her web for its next meal.
Their mistake.
The first was a young man, maybe midtwenties. His hair was long, thick, and wavy blond. His eyes had a purity that suggested he’d yet to have them opened to the harsh reality of the world.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. He probably had no problem getting women’s attention with that smile.
“You can buy what you want,” Lady said. “Just don’t bother me while I drink it.”
He wrinkled his nose and walked away without another word.
Good. The last thing I need is an age gap to draw attention to myself. Lady downed her drink, ordered another, and waited in silence. It was taking longer than usual tonight. She was about to give up and move to a different bar, when a different man came to her side.
&nbs
p; “Good evening.”
“Hello.” Lady stared straight ahead, smiling.
“Are you new in town?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because this place has been open for a month and I’ve never seen you before.” He pushed his glasses up his nose, and the bartender placed a drink in front of him.
“Great deductive skills,” Lady said. “What else, Sherlock?”
The man laughed, leaned into her ear, and whispered, “I know how women of your variety tend to dress and conduct themselves. You’re not here for pleasure, are you? No, you’re here for work.”
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. Listen, what do you say we cut corners and head back to my place? Whatever your price, name it and it’s yours. I’m a wealthy man, and you could be a wealthy girl. A simple business transaction. What do you say?”
What an absolute pig. Lady wondered what his expression would be if she told him he was wrong, acted offended, and threw a drink in his smug face. She’d come here not knowing whether she wanted the sweet satisfaction of seeing a man die. But sadly for him, he’d just done her the favor or resolving that dilemma for her.
“Come on,” he said, sliding a hand under her elbow. “You might just enjoy it.”
An image poked into her mind—his expression of shock as a blade penetrated his gut. “I’m sure I will,” she said. “Just let me get my coat.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
It was a bad, bad idea, but he had to do it.
Mason knocked on Evie’s door and waited for Diane to answer. When she did, her eyes fell straight down to the little boy at his side. “Who… Erm, hi there.”
They went inside, leaving Luke to sit alone on the couch while the adults talked among themselves in the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Bill asked, helping himself to coffee from the machine. He poured three mugs and handed one to each of them.
“That’s Wendell’s son.”
“What?” blurted Bill and Diane in unison.
“I didn’t have a choice.” Mason peered through the door and saw the boy sitting there, minding his own business but glancing around the room with eager curiosity. “She has my sister. I have her son. We’re nothing close to being even, but at least we have an advantage now.”
“We?” Bill said, slamming down his mug. “I’m your friend, and I have your back, but I won’t take part in a kidnapping. No, count me out. Just— Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Diane sighed, shook her head, and left the room.
“What else could I do?” Mason asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s say, uh, steal an address book or a pocket diary? The last thing I expected you to do was come home with the woman’s son!” Bill waved a finger around. “No, she’s going to hate you for this, buddy. I mean really hate you.”
“Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual,” Mason snapped. “While the police are on a hunt for me, and Wendell is out for blood because of something you and I both did, my options seem to be getting a little thin.”
Bill sucked up a large breath of air and puffed it out. His hands rested on his hips. “Why don’t you just let me take the fall for this one?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can hand myself over to Lady Luck and tell her I killed her brother. Maybe she’ll release Evie, and I can take the punishment.”
“That’s ridiculous. What about Christine? What will she do without her husband?”
“What about Amy? What would she do without her dad?”
Mason grunted. “Good point. But no, you’re not taking the blame for this.”
The room fell silent, the only sound a muffled conversation between Luke and Diane in the next room. Mason scratched his chin. “I need you in on this, Bill.”
“What’s your plan?” He leaned onto the counter with his arms out, stretching.
“I don’t really have one. But if I know anything, it’s that the kid in there is a bargaining chip. For as long as we have him, Evie is safe. Alive, at least.”
“And how do you plan to get in touch with her?”
“Her son is missing. As soon as she discovers that, I’m sure she’ll reach out.”
“You’d better know what you’re doing. I’m here for you—you know that—but you should make damn sure you don’t mess this up. It’s not just your own life you’re toying with here.” Bill’s phone rang, and he took it out of his pocket. “Everyone’s involved now. Excuse me.” He went into the hall to take the call.
Mason was left staring at the wall, weighing his options. Maybe it was a stupid idea after all, but what difference did it make now? The kid was here, and he had to use that fact as best he could. If he messed up…
Well, the consequences would not be pretty.
Chapter Fifty-Five
“You’re married?” Lady gawked at the ring on his finger.
“She’s away for the weekend.” The man—whose name was Roger, which suited his old-fashioned Clark Kent look—slid the key into the lock and invited her into the apartment. It was the penthouse suite, every bit as classy as his clothes. If only his attitude had been this nicely polished. Still, at least it was evidence he might pay well.
Roger closed the door behind her and took her straight to the bedroom, where Roger swept in and kissed her neck.
“Nu-uh,” she said, pushing him back with a seductive smile. “You, on the bed. This is my show.” She unhooked the top button of her blouse, pulled the handcuffs from her purse, and crawled over him.
Roger was on his back, his hands above his head. When Lady cuffed his wrists to the bedpost, he had nothing to say, only a momentary look of confusion, followed by one of satisfied understanding. “Well, I hope it’s worth my money.”
“Speaking of which, I’ll need to know how much you’ll be paying.” She moved down so her mouth was by his crotch, but she wouldn’t perform yet. First, she needed a number, which was always at its highest when the men were at their hardest.
“My wallet’s in my jacket.” He nodded toward the chair in the corner of the room.
Lady Luck climbed off him and went through the wallet. There was over a thousand dollars in there. What kind of man carries that much money? A man who knows what he’s heading out for—that’s who. “All of this?”
“Sure,” he said. “Now get over here and show me what it’s worth.”
She held the wallet, knowing she was also holding the power. The fact he was a sexist pig made it all the easier to do this to him. “It’s not enough.”
“What do you—I mean, that’s all I have on me.”
The fancy apartment suggested he was just being tight-fisted. He could afford more, and they both knew it. “You think that’s all I’m worth? A thousand dollars?”
Roger’s erection was visibly sinking. “I can go downstairs and withdraw—”
“Why don’t you just tell me your digits? That way, I know you can’t worm out of it.”
He huffed. “It’s my date of birth. Eleven-zero-one.”
How original, she thought as she checked his driver’s license. It seemed he was telling the truth.
Just then, a door clicked open in the other room.
Roger sat up, his cuffs pulling him back.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice, very close.
“Shit,” Roger whispered, turning crimson. “It’s my wife.”
Lady hid behind the door and watched it open. She didn’t want to be seen, but somehow felt it would be unavoidable. She slipped the credit card and cash from the wallet and discarded the rest.
A dumpy brunette walked into the room and stood mortified as she assessed what was happening. Lady tried to sneak out, but the woman turned and spotted her. She threw her bag down as anger filled her eyes.
“What the hell is going on in here?”
Too late. She’d seen her face. Lady reached into her boot, where she kept the pocketknife she’d taken from Evelyn Black. As soon as the blade flashed out, the wom
an rushed at her, knocking it from her hand. They both went tumbling to the floor with a crash, the knife spinning under the bed.
Roger, humiliated and furious, ripped away from the bedpost, wood splintering in all directions. “How dare you attack my wife!”
Lady hustled to her feet and reached for her purse, but her fingers slipped. It was too late—she had to get out of there. A clump of her hair was grabbed from behind, but she struggled free, losing a chunk of hair as she did. Hurrying to the door, she burst outside and rushed down the stairs, making her escape at lightning speed.
Whoever had been chasing her (probably both of them) had given up. They would no doubt call the police now and fight about it later. Regardless, Lady had to get away from the scene pronto. She dove into a cab and held Roger’s credit card up to the light.
That was a mess, Alison. A big fucking mess.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Mason closed the door behind them, leaving Diane to look after the kid.
“You think she’ll be okay?” Bill asked as they headed down the hallway.
“She’ll be fine. Tell me where we’re going.”
“An apartment in Presidio Heights. A married man went home with some woman he met from the bar as his wife was out of town. She comes home, finds out what he’s up to, and goes berserk.” Bill held open the door, and Mason walked through.
“I’m guessing this mystery woman was the elusive Alison Wendell?”
“Judging by a fistful of her hair, yes. The DNA matched.”
Mason exhaled and climbed into the passenger seat. They were heading to the scene, after Bill had instructed the officers to leave. That way, Mason would be free to tag along and search for anything that might be useful to him.
They arrived across the street and stayed put. Police cars still sat parked outside as the cops finished up their business. Mason imagined them comforting the victims and telling them that a detective was on his way over. “I suppose it’s lucky the wife came home. Think Wendell would’ve hurt him?”
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 27