Detective Hayden C. Eldridge stared at the crime scene photos the lab had sent. A seven year veteran of the NYPD, he had made detective three years ago and loved not wearing the uniform anymore. Uniforms don’t get to look at crime scene photos. Or see it through to the end. He flipped to the next photo, wondering if he was missing something his more experienced partner might have caught. His excitement at the news his partner would be Detective Justin Shakespeare, a veteran of homicide, lasted for exactly two hours after they met. Eldridge looked at the empty chair at the desk across from his, a chair that was empty far more often than it should be, and shook his head. Following the standard introductions by the lieutenant, Shakespeare had shown him around for a few minutes, then took him to his favorite lunch place. He would learn over the years Shakespeare had a lot of favorite lunch places. This one was a hot dog vendor in Central Park.
“Listen, kid,” he had begun, half a hotdog and accompanying bun, sauerkraut and relish filling his mouth, “I've got less than five years left until I can retire. I'm not puttin' my neck out for no one or no thing. I'll tell you what I know from the comfort of my desk, but I ain't gettin' involved in no big cases.” Eldridge had felt disgust not only over his new partner's eating habits, but his lack of ethics as well. Since then he worked mostly on his own. When assigned a case, Eldridge was left to investigate while his partner chatted up his girlfriend at a small fifties diner in Queens, poking his head in from time to time. Eldridge taught himself the ropes and became quite a good detective if he did say so himself. And little of it thanks to Detective Shakespeare.
But today he wished his partner was here, just to be a second pair of eyes. He had gone through the photos dozens of times, and his lieutenant was close to calling in the FBI on this one. He had convinced him to hold off; he didn't feel it was a serial killer, just some crazed wacko. But if he didn’t make some progress soon, he’d lose the case to the Feds, which would piss him off as it would any detective. The first victim, discovered by a wino in an abandoned warehouse, was identified as Tammera Coverdale, 34 years of age, engaged to be married with no prior record, minimal debts, a good job and two parents, still married. Nothing in her background so far had suggested any motive for her murder. The other two victims from the second video however looked like they were in their late teens. Enhancement showed tattoos, facial piercings, unkempt hair and it looked like it had taken place in a rundown apartment. They appeared to be the complete opposite profile of the first victim, yet he had no doubt they were linked. But how?
He leafed through the photos, the grainy shots obscuring much of the detail. He’d sent the kids' photos to missing persons but he doubted anybody had reported them yet. It may be weeks before they found the bodies if these guys lived in the type of shit hole he thought they did. One tip I'll give you, kid, is ignore what's in front of your face. Look at the background, that's where your clues'll be. Shakespeare he wasn’t, but he had kept his promise of telling him everything he knew, he just never showed him anything. Eldridge looked at the remaining photos, one at a time, ignoring the victims. On the third photo he found what he was looking for. A pizza box, the red logo of a smiling, mustached Italian staring up at him with the company's name emblazoned across the top, the first half covered by one of the victim’s arms. He snatched the Yellow Pages and flipped to Pizza. Scanning the listings, he soon found a small advertisement with the same smiling face, kissing his fingers as if he had just tasted the best pizza pie this side of Palermo. He knew if Shakespeare saw the ad he’d be calling ahead to have a pie waiting for when they arrived. He jotted down the address and phone number and trotted from the squad room.
It took Lance a few minutes to pierce through the fog that possessed his brain, a splitting headache, far worse than most of his recent hangovers, pounded like a high school drummer. The throbbing in his head was a distant second to the excruciating pain in his arms. He looked up and saw his familiar leather handcuffs wrapped around his wrists and over the hook in his bedroom ceiling, a hook he had installed months before for this very purpose. He had obviously taken part in last night’s festivities; either that or his lover knew all his secrets. The thought of having a stalker tantalized him, but the pain in his arms from dangling for an unknown number of hours must mean his lover passed out before taking him down; he would have used his safe word before letting himself be abandoned like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop. He tried to call out when he felt the ache in his jaw from the ball gag filling his mouth. He chuckled as he tried to remember last night. He had woken in this situation a few times before, but only if he’d had too much to drink. He struggled to focus his pounding head. What had he done last night? He didn’t remember drinking that much, he usually didn’t drink very much at all, he found it affected his performance too much—brewer’s droop was not to be tolerated.
He swung himself so he could see the rest of the room and was startled to see someone sitting on his settee, their eyes closed. Charles! Now I remember! But he didn't. He remembered the alley, taking some E, then just when the good times were about to begin, he remembered feeling drowsy and then nothing. And now here I am, bound, gagged, and I don't remember any of the fun!
It never occurred to him to be scared as he grunted to get his lover's attention. Charles opened his eyes, picked up a laptop computer sitting beside him, and brought it over so Lance could see the screen. He pressed a key and a jerky video played, showing the awful beating he had witnessed last year, the comments of those nasty boys who had taken it still sickened him. He started to look away when the video stopped, frozen on the face of a passenger as they turned to shield their eyes from the gruesome beating. It was him.
Charles placed the laptop on the bed and pulled out a cell phone, activating its video camera. Lance was confused, not sure if this was all part of the role playing he was used to, and how the video of what happened a year before had anything to do with it. When Charles pulled a gun out, his eyes bulged as the gag muffled his screams from the neighbors.
As his GPS announced he had arrived, Eldridge pulled into the first spot he saw and eyed his surroundings. Man, I hate this part of town. Most buildings were in a desperate need of repair, a coat of paint the least of their worries. Litter drifted down the streets and sidewalks like tumbleweed, an abandoned lot nearby the home to the shells of several cars, one of which appeared to be the new home to a failed Wall Street broker, or a bum with a sense of humor, the “My Other Home Is On Park Ave” sign replacing the rear window eliciting a chuckle from Eldridge. He grabbed the photos and climbed from his car. He looked around and spotted his destination, a small white with red trim restaurant, the freshly painted-over brick causing it to stand out from its neighbors. A large sign stretching the building’s entire width announced Giovani’s Pizzeria had the best pizza in town. I wonder if Shakespeare knows about this place? If it weren’t for the bars on the windows, it would look almost inviting.
He gripped the door handle and took one last look around, spotting a kid eyeing his car. Eldridge made eye contact with the kid and held open his jacket, revealing his shoulder holster. The kid ran. Eldridge opened the door and stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust but not for his nose. A smile spread across his face as he took in the delicious aroma of fresh baked pizza dough and melted mozzarella cheese.
“A little bit of normalcy in an island of insanity, eh?”
He looked to where the voice came from, expecting an obese, hairy Italian with stained wife-beater t-shirt. Instead, he found a man, clearly willing to risk his own cuisine, but who appeared to successfully resist overindulging too often. With the exception of a very neat mustache, the man was clean shaven, a smidge of flour on one cheek highlighting their ruddy color, a near perfect match for the restaurants red and white décor. He wiped his hands on his flour covered white apron and pushed a tress of hair back under the crisp chef’s hat barely containing his dark, wiry mane. The clean, simple restaurant was a welcome respite from the depression lying on the o
ther side of the door.
Eldridge nodded. “Not at all what I was expecting.” He walked over to the counter and sat down on one of the several stools.
The man laughed. “Welcome to Giovanni's, I'm Giovanni Deangelo, what can I get you?”
“What am I smelling?”
“That, my friend, is the world famous polo pizza, a hand tossed crust brushed with a delicious garlic pesto sauce, topped with mozzarella, onions, hot peppers, black olives and spicy roasted chicken, all baked to perfection in a wood burning pizza oven, by yours truly.”
“Sounds great!” Eldridge's stomach demanded attention. “I'll take a slice.”
“It'll be ready in five minutes, my friend.”
Business first I guess. Eldridge pulled out his badge. “I'm Detective Eldridge, Homicide, I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure, how can I help the NYPD today?”
Eldridge pulled out a photo of each of the three victims and lined them up on the counter. “Do you recognize any of these people?”
Giovanni took one look at the photos and grunted. “Yeah, I know two of 'em.” He pointed to the first photo. “That no good bum is Logan, he worked here until three nights ago. This other one is his equally no good friend, but I don't know what his name is.”
“What happened three nights ago?”
“Nothin' three nights ago, but he didn't show for his shift last night so if you see him, tell him he's fired.”
“Do you know where I can find this Logan?”
“Yeah, he lives on the second floor of that cesspool across the street.” He turned around, grabbed a wood pizza paddle, opened the oven and expertly extracted two pizzas. He sliced them with a large pizza knife then slid an oversized piece on a cardboard tray. Placing it on the counter in front of Eldridge, he smiled. “On the house, Detective!”
“Thanks, but I'll pay, don't want anyone accusing you of trying to offer a police officer a bribe!” Giovanni laughed and watched as Eldridge picked up the slice and took a tentative bite of one of his few vices. Oh my God! Eldridge savored every chew, each one releasing a new sensation, the rich taste of the garlic pesto sauce, the crunch of the sautéed onions and tang of the hot peppers as they clashed with the sweetness of the olives, all combined to produce an experience he never expected could come from a pizza. Thirty years of pepperoni, green peppers and mushrooms or the occasional Hawaiian were blown away, his appreciation for the tired staple of American cuisine turned into a fine dining experience. It pained him to end the experience, but he had to. He swallowed then leaned back from the counter, pointing at the pizza. “That is the best damned pizza I have ever had.”
The restaurant's namesake smiled and took a slight bow, clearly pleased with the response. “Nothin' but satisfied customers for Giovanni's.”
Eldridge scarfed down the rest of the slice and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “The boys at the precinct will definitely be hearing about this.” Eldridge paid his host and headed to the door. He pointed at a decrepit building across the street. “Is that the cesspool?”
Giovanni walked around the counter and nodded. “Yup, feel free to make a few calls and have it knocked down.”
Eldridge smiled and pushed open the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He walked across the street to the building Giovanni had pointed out. Most of the surrounding buildings qualified as dives, but his destination truly was a cesspool. He strode up to the door-bum sitting outside, his hat on the ground in front of him filled with the day's take of twenty-seven cents, and held out the photo of Logan. “Seen this guy?” The man leaned forward, snatched his hat and shook it without saying a word. Eldridge sighed and reached in his pocket. Pulling out two quarters, he tossed them in the hat.
“Second floor, first door on the right.”
“Thanks.” Eldridge pulled open the door, noting the brick propping it open was tagged with a local gang symbol, marking the territory of whoever dealt from this building. He kicked it aside and entered the lobby, the immediate smell of urine and feces assaulted his senses. He gagged as he fished a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth and nose. The dim lighting was intermittent, the lone remaining fluorescent bulb on its last legs. He looked for a means of escape. An elevator to his left looked like it had been pried open one too many times to be considered reliable. He opted for the stairs to his right. He climbed to the second floor and knocked on the door the vagrant had indicated. As he expected, nothing. He knocked again. “NYPD, open up, I need to ask you some questions!” Again no answer. Whenever you need to enter a place without a warrant, listen very carefully for the person crying for help. Eldridge had used his partner's logic a few times in the past and it hadn't bit him on the ass yet. He turned the knob and pushed. The door swung open.
The smell of stale beer, cigarettes and marijuana were overpowered by the unmistakable stench of death, the source not immediately evident, a torn, stained acoustic divider hiding much of the bachelor apartment from view. Pizza boxes, beer cans and unopened mail covered every exposed surface, an overflowing outdoor metal garbage can, no longer able to keep up with the volume, the need to empty it on a regular basis apparently lost on the occupants, filled the entrance closet. The sink, piled high with dishes and the occasional pizza box, swarmed with cockroaches. Eldridge gagged and wondered how many he couldn’t see. He shivered, disgusted by the sty that lay before him, the filth at a level only teenaged boys could stand for any length of time. He stepped around the divider to see the rest of the apartment and found his two victims, tied back-to-back, their heads slumped over, blood and brain matter sprayed across the floor and wall behind them. Nearby lay the pizza box he had seen in the blow up.
Aynslee sank in her chair and let her shoulders sag as she closed her eyes for a moments rest. She slowly exhaled, and even debated mimicking the meditation postures she had seen on TV. She kicked off her shoes and drew one leg up under the other. As she drew up the second leg she realized this position wasn’t meant to be performed in a chair with arms. She dropped the leg, let out a deep sigh, and spun the chair to face her computer. Opening her eyes, she saw a Post-it note stuck to her monitor. “iTunes installed and synched with your iPod! Reggie!” She prayed the strange design drawn under his name wasn’t a heart with a Cupid's arrow through it. Logging into her machine, she saw the iTunes icon on her desktop and wondered how he had managed to get on there without her password. I've got to figure out how to get rid of him.
Her BlackBerry vibrated with a new message. She launched her email program on her computer and saw amongst the dozens of emails, a newly arrived one with no subject line. Oh no! She opened the attachment. If it weren’t for the first two emails, she would have deleted this third one after a few seconds of watching, the video of a man, an apparent sexual sadist, ball gag stuffed in his mouth, screaming out in terror or pleasure, similar to some smut-films sent her by friends as a joke. But the fear in his eyes when the gun appeared eliminated any doubt as to it being the genuine article. She closed her eyes as she saw the trigger squeezed. Not again! As with the others, the video ended with a shot of the body, then nothing. The email contained no text and the “from address” had her own email address in it. It contained nothing to indicate who it was from and why they were doing this. Or why they were sending it to her.
She leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, and took a deep breath. How many will there be? She opened her eyes, the images she had just watched merely playing themselves out on her eyelids. She picked up her Blackberry to find Detective Eldridge’s number and hesitated. CNN! Her thumb hovered over the scroll button as a battle of wills raged in her head. You promised! She pressed the button. But what about you? You need this! And he’s already dead. She quickly cancelled the call.
She stood up and yelled, “I got another one!”
You’re so weak.
Reggie heard her beautiful voice ring out across the office. Standing, he watched as she waved toward Mr. Merle's of
fice, a huge smile on her face. And what a smile. His heart raced as he pictured her smiling at him as he gently lay her across his desk, leaning in for a kiss, one so passionate he would be the envy of all of his friends. If he had any. The beginnings of an erection shocked him into sitting down. He snatched his keyboard and covered the obvious bulge in his pants as he looked around to make sure no one had noticed.
“What the hell happened?” The seething voice of Shaw sent his manhood racing for cover as his mouth went dry. Shaw stormed into his office and leant over his desk, his face inches from Reggie’s. “I thought we had a deal?”
It took a moment for Reggie to regain his voice. “I-I'm sorry, sir, but I c-couldn’t do it.”
Shaw leaned in closer. “Why the hell not?”
Because I love her. “It wouldn't be ethical,” he squeaked. Where did that come from? Shaw turned beet red and Reggie felt himself get lightheaded as Shaw’s hot breath blew on his face like the snorts of an angry bull in Pamplona. He bit his cheek. Hard. Shaw glared at him for another moment then stormed from the office. Lifting the keyboard, Reggie looked at the rapidly expanding urine stain in his pants. Shit! He jammed the keyboard back over his crotch and whimpered, wondering if hiding under his desk until everyone had left for the day was at all possible.
It wouldn't be ethical? Shaw couldn’t believe what he had heard. That little shit has the nerve to talk to me about ethics? He stormed into the men's room and slammed the door to one of the stalls shut. He leaned forward against the cold, metal wall, his clenched fists supporting his weight. He banged his head on the wall, his rage consuming him. Desperate for a release, he punched the metal, hard. The pleasure from the resulting dent was fleeting, the searing pain shooting through his hand caused him to gasp. He clamped his mouth shut, trying not to cry out. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths and flexed his fingers, checking to see if he had broken anything. He started at the sound of the bathroom door opening. Through the crack in the stall he saw the little shit, Reggie, standing at the mirror doing something. He threw open the door and stormed from the stall, ready to tear another strip off the kid, but before he could, Reggie spun around, yelped, slapped a keyboard over his crotch and ran into the now vacant stall, slamming the door behind him. Not knowing what to do, Shaw headed to the gym to work off some steam.
Eldridge eyed two soiled mattresses, laying in opposite corners, probably rescued from some nearby dumpster, the ratty beach towels substituting for sheets failing to cover the urine stains from what he hoped were the previous owners. Then again… He picked them up by the finger tips, not confident the latex gloves he now wore would be enough to protect him from the filth. Each corner had a few personal items belonging to the boys, mostly porn magazines with some of the more choice pages pinned to the walls, a poor attempt to turn this disgrace into a home. One corner contained a backpack with “Logan” written in pen across the top. Unzipping it, he rooted around for any identification but turned up nothing except a folded piece of paper stuffed in the bottom. He retrieved it and carefully unfolded the torn foolscap, revealing the beginnings of a letter that read, “Dear Mom & Dad, I want to come home.” I guess life here wasn’t so good after all.
Turning his attention to the bodies, he raised his hands to make the frame of a camera and positioned himself to approximate where the killer must have stood. He crouched a bit to get the angle, making him think he was taller than the killer by about half a foot. He heard voices on the other side of the divider as the officer controlling access to the scene acknowledged someone’s arrival.
“Hey, Detective, where's your partner?” asked a sarcastic voice from behind the divider.
“Ha ha,” said Eldridge to the grinning face of Vincent “Vinny” Fantino, a criminalist with the Crime Scene Unit, as it came into view. Eldridge and Vinny had become quite close over his years as a detective. Vinny had been on the force for over fifteen years, and knew his stuff. Eldridge considered him his “go to” guy if he wanted a quick, accurate answer. He also considered him a friend.
“If I know that waste of space, he's probably stuffing a Philly sandwich in his mouth or his tongue down the throat of that girlfriend of his.” Vinny shook his head as he surveyed the scene. “Why any woman would want to kiss that fat bastard, I’ll never know.” Vinny’s eyes settled on the victims and became all business. “So, what have we got here?” he asked as he looked for a clean spot to place his kit. Giving up, he settled on a less dirty spot instead.
“Not much I'm afraid. According to the pizza guy across the street, this one is named Logan and worked for him until a few nights ago.” He pointed to Logan’s presumed roommate. “No idea who the other is. How long would you say they've been dead?”
Vinny snapped on some latex gloves and examined the gunshot wounds, gently moving aside some hair matted down with dried blood. “Based upon the insect activity, I'd say two, maybe three days.”
Eldridge nodded. “That fits the timeline. The Logan guy showed up for his shift at work three nights ago but never showed last night. The video was emailed two days ago.”
“I’ll get a more definite answer when I get him back to the morgue.” Vinny rose and moved to the other victim as one of his techs entered the room with the photographic equipment.
Eldridge headed to the door, pulling off his gloves. “Make sure you guys take measurements of everything. We should be able to tell how tall this guy was from the angle of the gun in the video and the surroundings.”
Vinny didn’t look up. “Will do, I'll let you know if we find anything helpful.”
Chelsie waited by the rear employee exit, eyeing the poorly lit parking lot through a tiny window in the door with trepidation. Earlier in her shift a customer had sat alone for hours sipping a bottle of Chalk Hill Chardonnay, all the time never taking his eyes off of her. It had creeped her out, and his hundred dollar tip hadn’t helped. Guys sitting alone in bars, even high-priced wine bars, who gave big tips to young waitresses, usually wanted something. And sometimes, especially after an entire bottle of wine with no food, they waited outside in their cars to get it.
Which was why she now waited at the exit for Denis, the bouncer. Denis rarely had to lay a hand on anyone, the sheer enormity of him scaring most people straight, but whenever there was an altercation, it never lasted long, and he never lost. Her boss, Yannick, was a great guy and always insisted on Denis walking the waitresses either to their cars, or in her case, the nearby subway station, just in the event a patron was thinking with the wrong head. Most nights she was of the opinion Yannick was a bit too paranoid, and she sometimes missed her train by having to wait, and Denis, who would insist on waiting until she stepped onboard, was not much of a conversationalist. But tonight was different. She looked at her watch and as if on cue, Denis lumbered around the corner. “Sorry, Chelsie, Mr. Leroux had me moving some cases of wine.”
“No problem, Denis, there's plenty of time.” There wasn’t, but Denis, more brawn than brains, took any hint of criticism to heart, so she decided a little white lie couldn’t hurt. He opened the door for her and followed her outside, all the while making sure no one was around. Their footsteps echoed on the pavement of the nearly empty parking lot, only a few staff cars and vehicles abandoned by intoxicated patrons remaining. The rattle of a car starting at the far end sent her heart pounding a little harder. She quickened her pace as she dialed her parents' number, knowing her mother would never get to sleep if she didn’t. It rang twice before her mother picked up. “Hi, mom, just a quick call, I'm heading to the subway now. I'm really tired so I'm not going to call tonight, okay?” As they crossed the street she listened while her mother prattled on about getting her rest. “Gotta go, Mom, love you!” she said, cutting off the now repetitive conversation. She loved her parents but sometimes they worried too much. As she was about to enter the subway station she looked back toward the parking lot and saw the car pull out and head away from them. Breathing a sigh of relief, she gave Denis a quick h
ug, her arms barely reaching his shoulders, and raced down the platform and onto the just arriving train.
Taking her seat on the subway, thankful to find one empty for a change, Chelsie turned up her iPod and closed her eyes, imagining herself at a Duran Duran concert, even though she wasn’t alive when they were last popular. Retro Eighties nights at the bars were always her favorite, the music so much more upbeat and fun than the depressing music that came out of the nineties or the rap crap posing for music today. She could dance for hours with her girlfriends, belting out the lyrics at the top of their lungs until they were hoarse the next day. She smiled at the thought and made a mental note to text her friends when she got home to set up an outing for tomorrow night. As she eased in for the long ride home she felt the day's tension slowly melting away. She hated her waitressing job, but the tips were good and the courses she was taking would eventually get her a better gig, but for now she had no choice but to stick it out. Leaning her head against the glass, she felt the subway vibrate as it sped to the next terminal, the periodic clicking of the tracks gently pulsing against her scalp and through her body, acting as a poor man’s massage chair. She quickly eyed a new arrival as he sat beside her and settled in. Not bad, too old though. But then anything over thirty was too old to her. He smiled at her as he opened a copy of the New York Times. Returning the smile, she resumed her position at the window, singing Hungry Like The Wolf on stage with Simon Le Bon.
Chelsie opened her eyes slightly, as she often did, just to make sure nothing she should be concerned about was happening, and could have sworn the man beside her was slightly closer than she remembered. She looked at him and cringed. His eyes were closed, head tilted back slightly, nostrils flared. Is he sniffing me? Ew! She shuddered. Good luck, creep! She laughed inwardly. Okay, that was mean. He opened his eyes and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and straightened himself, giving his nose a quick wipe. She immediately closed her eyes, feeling kind of silly, and guilty at thinking the worst of some innocent guy who just had a runny nose. She stole a quick glance to see if he had caught her staring. He shuffled his paper and flipped to the next page. Okay, he’s not that old, but still old enough to be boring. He looked at her and smiled. Embarrassed at being caught, she blushed, and quickly averted her eyes. She looked at her watch. Treats? She nodded to herself, pulled the headphones off and stood. The man looked up at her and smiled again, swinging his legs into the aisle so she could exit. She scooted past him, and this time there was no doubt. She could hear him draw in a deep breath, through perfectly clear nostrils, as she squeezed by.
Double ew!
She hurried to the exit as the subway came to a halt. The doors opened and she stepped through, tossing a quick look over her shoulder at her former seatmate. He was staring directly at her, but didn’t move. She rushed onto the platform and up the stairs, all the while stealing glances behind her. As she emerged on the street, she breathed a sigh of relief as she hurried toward the small corner store, her strange encounter now over.
This wasn’t her usual stop, but she wanted a treat since she wasn’t feeling tired, and there was an all-night corner store here, only a few blocks from her apartment. And tonight it had the added bonus of getting her away from some bum sniffing freakazoid. Her mother would probably flip if she knew this was a frequent routine of hers, but she found walking at night, alone, exhilarating. She was never scared in her own neighborhood. It was only ten minutes at a brisk pace to her apartment, and the few people out at this time of night had yet to give her any problems.
She grabbed a few toiletries and a tub of Cherry Garcia, paid the bored clerk, then strolled toward her apartment, her purchases swinging at her side, her mind on her music, turned low so she might hear any goings on around her, as the events on the subway and at work slowly drifted into the past, memories to be forgotten over the coming days. She crossed a small side street and looked up at the night sky, seeing if she might catch an errant star in the light polluted sky of New York.
She started at the sound of a van's sliding door. She spun toward the sound and gasped as two hands reached out from the dark interior and yanked her inside. She opened her mouth to scream when something jabbed her in the leg, the unexpected pain from the needle piercing her skin silencing her. Looking down in shock she saw a needle sticking out, her captor’s gloved thumb pushing the plunger down, injecting its contents into her. Her mind still wasn’t processing what was happening, the situation so unexpected, the events happening so quickly, she didn’t know what to think. What the hell? Almost immediately a warm, relaxing sensation rushed through her veins as if she had just downed a large shot of JD. Within moments, as every muscle in her body loosened, she felt the van slowly spin, then the world go dark, the clunk of the van door slamming shut a distant echo sealing her fate.
FOUR
Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 4