Hunting Gorgeous: A Romantic Suspense

by B. B. Hamel

  “That was where the girl lived.”

  “True.” He let out a breath. “If I had to guess, our guy has brown hair, brown eyes, white skin, dresses in pretty average clothes, the kind of guy you’d never look at twice.”

  “Must be nice, being so average.”

  “Work for a killer, but maybe it’s something that drives him nuts. You know, since he wants attention and love.”

  I chewed in my lip for a second. “Does he really call it his harem?”

  “Yeah, he does. It’s pretty sick.”

  “Where do people get shit like that?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a damaged individual. Something happened to him when he was younger, maybe abuse, maybe something even worse, it’s hard to say. Serial killers tend to come from very broken homes.”

  “I almost feel bad.”

  “Don’t. He’s a monster.”

  We got a seat on a small patio with other tables packed close. One family laughed loudly and nearly shouted about football for twenty minutes straight. We ate and drank wine together, and Nick talked about his home life, mentioning his little brother a few times, but never went into detail about him. I talked about Delia and Gramma in return, and told him a few funny stories he hadn’t heard before.

  “Sometimes I wish I could’ve met your sister,” he said, gazing out at the street.

  “ I bet you do.”

  He looked back at me, seemed confused, then shook his head. “Not like that. More because it would help me, to understand the sort of people CGK goes after. I mean, I saw her videos, but that’s not the same thing.”

  “Del was funny,” I said. “We were really different, but also the same. I don’t know. It’s hard to describe to someone.”

  He reached out suddenly and took my hand. I tilted my head in surprise, but didn’t pull away.

  “Don’t move,” he said. “Smile and lean close to me.”

  I shifted slightly, my heart beating faster. “What is it?” I asked.

  We met halfway across the table. “I think he’s out there.”

  “How do you know?” I was tempted to look. I could almost feel eyes on me then, that bastard, that sick bastard, staring at me as we ate dinner. I had forgotten him for a little while, or at least my anger had receded, but now it roared back to life.

  “Just a guess. Tilt your chin closer. Good. Now look at me like you want me.”

  “What?” I asked, blinking, eyes going wide.

  “Good. Look at me like you want me to lift up that pretty dress and grab your ass tight with both hands. Like you want me to kiss your inner thigh, lick your nipple until it stiffens, bite your ear while I slide my hands up between your legs—”

  “Nick,” I said.

  He kissed me then. My cheeks were bright red, pulse racing. I could feel it pounding and I pressed my knees together, trying to get some control of myself, but I couldn’t. I pictured his strong arms around me, pressing me down against the bed, then my hips moving, my back arching, sweat rolling down my skin, his growl of pleasure as he took me, the sweet pain as I slid down his length—

  The kiss broke off. He lingered, buzzing. I blinked rapidly, trying to bring him into focus again.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “It’s all for show.” He reached out and touched my cheek. “Unless you don’t want it to be.”

  I pulled back then. It felt like the illusion shattered, like the image that we could be something more than this little broken duo, both of us mired in our own tragedy completely slipping away. I lifted my wine glass to my lips, took a long drink, and stared down at the table top.

  I knew I wanted more, but it felt as though that could never happen. Delia would always be there between us, dead and gone Delia, and he’d always have his other obsessions: other killers, other bastards to catch. And as for me, I’d always be stuck here in this town and in these memories, in my gramma’s house trying to recapture one tiny feeling from back then, the feeling of tree bark under my fingertips, Delia’s laughter as we ran around the dining room table, the taste of that first illicit beer on the porch while Del sang some stupid pop song to herself.

  I wanted that back, the youth, the easy care-free days, but they were all gone.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Look up. Smile.”

  I looked up. I smiled. “For him, right?”

  “No, for me. But for him too.” He tilted his head. I could see a question in his eyes, but I didn’t want to try to explain how wrong everything was, and how I didn’t feel like I’d ever come back from this. I wanted to try to find my way, but it was like running through the woods on a cloudy night, each step smashing into a new branch, each fall bringing more cuts on my skin, leaving scars that would never heal.

  We finished the meal. He paid and we walked back to the car. He did most of the talking, and that was fine with me. He talked about nothing important, mostly to fill time, and I did my best to smile and laugh at the appropriate places, but I was only acting, and doing a bad job.

  On the drove home, he looked at me. “I know I said something wrong back there.”

  “It’s fine. You didn’t.”

  “You’re thinking about the future, aren’t you?”

  I laughed like that was the funniest thing he could’ve said. Maybe it really was. “I’m not sure there is a future here. I mean, we could be dead tomorrow, right?”

  “True,” he said. “We could, or maybe we could catch him. And what then? What about after?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You could finish your degree.”

  “Del would’ve liked that.”

  “Forget what Del would want. What do you want?”

  I looked at him in the glow of the oncoming headlights. He stared out ahead of him at the darkened road as the car slowed and pulled onto the gravel path. It bounced over potholes and crunched along beneath the leaves.

  “I don’t know what I want anymore,” I said. “Maybe I want you to come crawling into bed with me.”

  He didn’t look over. “You don’t sleep much, do you?”

  “No,” I said, “not really.”

  “I don’t either. I lie there, pretending, but I’m thinking about what it would be like to pull the covers off your body.”

  “I think about that too.”

  “Do you want it? Do you want me to come in the middle of the night?”

  “I think so.” I felt wild for saying the words, even if I knew they amounted to nothing. What I should have said was, no, we can’t, we have to maintain a distance if this is going to work, but that wasn’t what I really wanted. I needed a night, one single night, even if there was no future, and I was too far gone, too cut and bruised. Even if I still lived in the past, and all the haunted moments I’ve lost.

  One night would still be night. His body, his lips. His hands. He could leave new bruises, new scars, new marks—blemishes I’d be proud of.

  He parked the car, killed the engine, and looked like he wanted to say something, but his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, glared at the screen, but answered.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?” He listened for a few seconds. “Text your address. We’re on the way.”

  He hung up and started the engine again. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Starch got a message.”

  I felt a pulse in my gut. “CGK?”

  He nodded and pulled out again as his phone vibrated.

  13

  Nick

  Detective Starch lived in a quiet neighborhood not far from Rose. There was a big wall of small metal postal boxes on the right. There were single-family homes in the first section, cute suburban buildings with garages and small yards. Starch lived in a townhouse in the latter half of the development. Her car was in a tiny driveway, and the lights were all off. The whole place looked quiet, though each of the townhouses were built practically right on top of each other, the entire structure chaining along and around the bend.

  I got ou
t and Rose followed. “What did she say?” she asked.

  “Sounded spooked,” I said as I approached the door. I had Rose’s gun tucked into my waistband. It was smaller than my own, easier to hide. I was tempted to pull it, but Starch didn’t sound like she was in immediate danger. “Said CGK left her a note.”

  I rang the bell and the door opened a second later. Starch looked out, wearing her detective outfit, minus the jacket. The shirt was unbuttoned at the top, and her hair was down. Her eyes looked tired, and she glanced at me, then at Rose, and gestured with her head.

  “Where were you two?” she asked. “Dressed for a night out.”

  “Went to dinner,” I said as Rose followed me in. The place was dark except for one light in the kitchen. A tiny sitting room was on the left, a staircase leading up on the right. It smelled like cedarwood and cotton candy.

  Starch walked down the hall and paused next to her round table. The kitchen was decent, granite countertops, but the place was sparsely furnished, like Starch put in only what was necessary, and not a bit more. The walls were mostly bare, except for generic black and white photography, like she’d left the sample images in the frames.

  A piece of paper sat on the table, folded three times. Starch sat down with a glass of something brown and pushed the page to me.

  I picked it up and read out loud for Rose’s benefit. “Hello, Detective, you know who I am, I don’t need to remind you. Lovely home, very gorgeous. Darling Detective, you must do me a favor, or more girls will die, any girl I choose, they all come to live with me down here, forever in the otherland. Get that nasty man away from my Rosepetal, my Gorgeous Girl. We are working on our homestead. Building Blocks. Or else my harem grows without her. Love, your Wild Creep.” I stared at the handwriting, and I knew it was his, cramped and girlish. I handed the letter off to Rose and let her take a look.

  “What do you make of it?” Starch looked rattled, like she’d seen her own ghost.

  “He’s struggling.” I put my hands on the table. “It’s an empty threat.”

  She shook her head and swirled her drink then knocked it back. “Twenty years in law enforcement, and I’ve never had a suspect break into my goddamn house before.”

  “Ever deal with a serial killer before?”

  She gave me a look. “Not that I know of.”

  Rose tossed the paper down on the table and wrapped her arms around herself. She leaned back against the counter. “He’s desperate,” she said.

  “A girl’s going to die,” Starch said. “He’s going to kill again. And this time it might not be some cam girl that gets it.”

  “He won’t break pattern,” I said. “That’s not in his profile. These girls, it’s not just a victim to him—it’s a member of his family. He won’t add someone to his family like that.”

  “He said he will,” Starch said. “Why think otherwise?”

  “He’s bluffing,” Rose said. “I think Nick’s right. It makes no sense for him to start killing at random.”

  I watched her and felt a strange stab of pride—then a wave of dread. “Unless there are other cam girls around here.”

  Starch rubbed her face. “I have no clue with the good citizens of Foylestown do in their spare time.”

  “Not just here, but anywhere nearby,” Rose said, a tone of panic in her voice. “That last girl, she wasn’t famous, right? He could go for anyone. I bet he’s watching girls right now.”

  “Problem is, he has to find someone he’s sure lives around here, then find out where she lives. That’s not easy to do on short notice.” I stood up and paced a bit, thinking. “It’ll be someone in the city. That’s easier to narrow down. Lots of girls make references to what they do for fun, that sort of thing.”

  “You should warn Cal,” Rose said. “They can make up a list of potential victims.”

  Starch sighed and tilted her head back. “You two are conveniently passing over the fact that some psycho broke into my fucking house.”

  I looked at her and made a face. “Suck it up, detective.”

  “Fuck you.” She stood, grabbed a bottle from the counter, and poured another drink.

  “He’s stalking us,” Rose said. “He’s only using you to try and get closer. You’re not in danger.”

  “Doesn’t feel that way.” Starch took a long drink. “What can I do to help?”

  “Talk to Cal, tell him about the letter,” I said. “Call him as soon as we leave and get him a copy. Call your forensics boys, have them comb the place. And maybe have someone wait nearby in a cruiser, just in case.”

  “I thought I wasn’t in danger.” Starch sounded bitter.

  “You’re probably not.” I looked at Rose. “But who knows.”

  “This whole thing’s more complicated than I like, Agent.”

  “I know it.” I looked at the letter again. He was unhinged, without a doubt, unmoored and trying desperately to find some semblance of stability. I was sure he’d seen us earlier at dinner, talking and laughing, probably saw the kiss—and he likely raced out here to leave his note out of frustration. Hell, he might still be watching at this very moment.

  It was working. My strategy was slowly winnowing him down, making him lash out, riling him up. He’d get reckless sooner or later, and when he did, that was when he would make his move.

  I had to be ready for it.

  “Make the calls,” I told Starch.

  She glared at me, but pulled out her cell, and called her office first. I leaned against the counter next to Rose as Starch explained the situation, drinking while she did it.

  “What do you think?” I asked softly.

  “I think he’s losing it, that’s for sure. It’s such a dumb risk to break into a detective’s house. Has he ever done something like this before?”

  “Never. He broke into plenty of victim’s places, but never law enforcement. That letter was the closest he came to us.”

  “The strategy’s working then.” She gave me a grim smile and tilted her chin in my direction, and I thought of kissing her again, gently touching the slope of her neck, or resting my hand on the small of her back.

  “Forensics are on the way,” Starch said, pulling my attention away from Rose. “I’ll call your partner next.”

  “Good. I can warm him up first, if you want. I doubt he’ll be excited about this.”

  “That’s not necessary. I can handle an annoyed fucking fed.” She finished her third whiskey and sat down at the table, staring at her hands.

  Rose drifted over to her and put a hand on her back. Starch looked up, surprised, and let out one wretched sob and covered her face. Rose hugged the woman, wrapping her arms around her, and let Starch cry against her shoulder.

  I left the room, giving them some privacy. I knew what Starch was going through, and Rose knew even better.

  It was a violation for someone to break into your house like that, and even worse when it was a goddamn serial killer. Starch had every right to be upset. Didn’t matter how long she’d been on the force, what she’d seen in that time, how hard she was—this wasn’t something that rolled off your back.

  I felt for her, I really did. I guessed she’d be a little messed up about this for a while. A home security system was in her future, if she stayed in this place at all, and a gun was going to be in her bedside drawer for years and years.

  I knew that was how I slept, at least, loaded pistol within reach at all times. Even in Rose’s room, I kept it under her bed, right where I could grab it.

  The cops came a while later, after Starch had gotten herself together. They combed the place but found nothing. I knew they wouldn’t. I guessed CGK got in through the back door, but there was no evidence of that. The bastard was good, really good. There was a reason we hadn’t caught him yet.

  Rose yawned when we left an hour later, cops still swarming Starch’s place. She stretched her arms up, and although her hair had fallen, and her eyes were slightly bloodshot from being so exhausted, she still looked gorgeou
s in that dress. I took us back to her place and hurried her inside.

  She walked into the kitchen, poured herself a drink, and downed it standing over the sink.

  “What do we do now?” she asked. “It’s like we’re hostages, you know?”

  “We wait,” I said. “Get some sleep. Hope Cal can protect those other girls.”

  “And Starch? She’ll be okay?”

  “I think so. She’s tough. Been around a bit.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” She didn’t sound certain.

  “I’m going to stay up a while, look around a bit, make sure it’s all quiet. Why don’t you head up.”

  She covered her mouth and stifled another yawn. “Yeah, okay, fine.” She hesitated and looked at me. There was more between us, a lot more unsaid. I didn’t want to push it, not when she was clearly still struggling. She walked past me and up the stairs, and I caught a glimpse of her legs as she went, then disappeared.

  I knew with certainty that this was my last chance. I couldn’t let that girl down—couldn’t fail her, or else I would fail myself and all the victims that had gone before.

  This was my last stand, and I’d make it count.

  14

  Rose

  I kept staring at the ceiling. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that letter again, and felt Starch’s thin, bony frame heave with each new sob.

  I tossed and turned until I heard footsteps in the hall. The door opened and Nick came into the room.

  Like always, I pretended to be asleep.

  He didn’t fall for it this time. Maybe it was obvious, or maybe I’d stopped trying. Sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon, not with this low-level buzz of stress that seemed to lay all over my body like a blanket. I heard his belt buckle jangle and sat up onto my elbow as he stood next to his mattress in a t-shirt and black boxer briefs. I could see the outline of him in the moonlight that came in through the window, and his skin seemed to almost glow, deathly pale and ghostly, like he was more spirit than man. But then the light shifted as he came closer, and I knew he was solid and real: the only solid thing in my life.