Cross Cut

by Rivers, Mal

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses and places are either of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  ALSO BY MAL RIVERS

  FALL CHILDREN SERIES

  (Young Adult crime thrillers)

  Black Light

  First Light

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to Darren and Lucy for their insights into the wonderful world that is California. Any questionable depictions within this novel are most assuredly down to my own (mis)understanding.

  KLJ for his help with anything related to certain authorities and procedure. While I chose to neglect a certain degree of accuracy for fictional use, I still owe foundational understanding to you.

  The people at SE and SK. You’re all nuts and so am I.

  For AC

  Contents

  Copyright & Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Prologue

  A dizzying glance at the ceiling and the victim groans in despair, awaiting her fate in this, her own private hell. For what might as well be a tomb or crypt, it is assuredly in the purest form of darkness. She can feel the dust and the scent of damp mold in the air. Her eyes will try to focus elsewhere, but she can only see her attacker, and with some small effort, a small cloud of smoke from the corner.

  She struggles against the binds on the table. If she could get but one hand loose, she might survive. But the killer is watching her. With the blade in his hand, he looks down at her, searching over her body like a bird of prey, looking for the precise moment to strike. Looking for the area of attack.

  He walks around the table and glances from each side. The knife twists in his hand as he considers the incision. A momentary gaze toward the door and he blinks. Nothing there but darkness and smoke, and he continues.

  From her right side he pulls the knife closer to her, and finally makes the first incision.

  She cannot feel anymore. She dare not look. She feels the knife explore her body, but her brain fails to tell her where. The blood will run across her skin, as if to provide a warm, and then cool numbing sensation before it is all over, and then it will pour to the floor.

  In her last moment of clarity, she senses a flash of light run through her eyes. It has come to take her away from the darkness and the pain. The light will stay with her until her body escapes this place. It will pick her up, it will comfort her.

  1

  Guy Lynch was fifteen minutes late for his appointment with Kendra Ryder. This was his first mistake. He made his second shortly after, as I showed him into the office. He sat in the main, black leather chair in front of her desk, without invitation. I could scarcely keep from grinning as I saw the Boss’ eyebrows lower with irritation.

  I address her as Boss for a few reasons. One, it annoys her, and that is a large part of my job description. Secondly, I can rarely bring myself to address her by either of her names. I dislike the sound of Kendra, and it can only be shortened to Ken. I tried it once. It was met with the same look she was giving the poor sod sitting in front of her. And, for whatever reason, she not only refers to me by my first name, Adrian, she also uses the nickname I’m accustomed to—Ader. To address her by her surname would make me sound at a disadvantage. Don’t get me wrong, I know she’s the Boss. But I try not to reinforce that point. She does it often enough herself.

  Lynch was about to go for, what I like to call, the hat-trick. That’s because I’m British and like football—soccer, whatever your preference. I suppose most people around here would call it three strikes. Three acts of ineptness, impudence and disrespect. Any potential client that manages to reach this milestone within a day gets shoved. Ryder preferred to throw away a large fee as opposed to dealing with rude people. So you can imagine my amusement when Lynch was about to reach strike three within a minute.

  His third mistake was he spoke before she did. No introduction or anything, and this riled her to no end. I was making my way to the sofa at the east side of the room when he spoke. He looked like an old fashioned, down-on-his-luck businessman with his tweed suit and white shirt.

  “I think I’m being followed,” he said.

  Normally, I watch the potential clients, because it’s my job and it’s educational. If Ryder took on a client, chances were I’d be spending time with them, whether I liked it or not. This time, I watched her. She always wore a black blazer in the office and perched her elbows upon the desk when greeting potential clients. Hands clasped together beneath her chin. Short black hair in a bob cut, trimmed to scientific precision. Her eyes were the giveaway. The tighter they got, the closer she was to exploding.

  She contained the rage, however, then took a breath and said, “Followed, sir? I’m afraid you have the wrong address. I’m a private detective.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here, to sort this out,” he said, biting his thumbnail. He then put his arms down by his side and tried putting his hands inside his suit pockets, fumbled, and then settled for placing his thumbs inside the flaps.

  “Surely not, sir.” She raised a finger. “The clue is in the title. I detect matters. If you already know you are being followed, then there is little for me to do.”

  “But—” he said in a panicky voice. “I want to know who—why. I want it stopped. Isn’t that what you do?”

  I felt a yawn emerging. I’d heard Ryder recite a thousand times that she is neither a bodyguard nor a bully. That being followed is either trivial at best, or perilous at its worst.

  “I regret, Mr Lynch, there is little I can do for you. I’m a detective, and as such, the only service I can provide for you is to detect the person following you. Nothing else. At the minimum rate I charge, I wouldn’t advise it. Ader—that is, my assistant, will gladly give you contact information for other agencies that deal with protection issues. I would strongly advise you contact the police as well.”

  I got out a sheet of paper from my desk drawer with the information on it. Photocopied years ago. God knows I’ve handed out hundreds of them. I didn’t stand, because it was clear this guy wasn’t through, and I was right.

  “But—you’re the best,” he said. “I need you to find out who it is and stop them. I don’t know why he—” He stopped.

  Ryder stood behind her desk and still kept her voice calm, which was peculiar. I’d been in her service for two years and seen her flip over less. I always admired her way. It was a dying art. An intellectualism mixed with old fashioned mannerisms. Yet, she always stopped short of being elite or condescending. In front of a brutish guy like Lynch, an onlooker would assume her to be small and delicate. How wrong they’d be.

  “Mr Lynch,” she said, �
��I think you should calm yourself and leave. The best detective in the world does not entertain paths that never end. If I do find your alleged stalker, what do you suppose would happen? Very little, I would suggest. You say stop them—stop them from what? If you are being harassed, then you require a different authority entirely. If it is danger you are worried about, then I’m at a loss as well. If indeed you are in danger, then it will find you. I am a detective, not an oracle. Even if I’m half as good as people say, I cannot wave a magic wand and prevent events from happening. Events have to take place first. That is my area of expertise.”

  It was a dull speech, not entirely original either. I’d heard her say the same thing to a guy from Oakland who had a female stalker. To an actress from Hollywood who was so paranoid, she ended up stalking me. Not that it bothered me.

  At this moment, I stood and walked over to Lynch. I handed him the information and he simply stared at me for a while. It was strange really. I half expected him to have another pop at Ryder, but he backed off and walked out the office without a word.

  “Bit rude,” I said to Ryder.

  “See him to the door, Ader. It’s almost time for me to leave.”

  I complied and watched the front door slam shut before I could shout out to him. In the study beside the hallway we keep our surveillance equipment, so I looked at the monitor for the camera directly outside the door. The man known as Guy Lynch walked down the path and out the gate. I nodded for my own benefit and left the study, content we’d likely never see him again. The security measures we have in place might seem extensive for a beach house in Newport Beach, but they aren’t entirely without merit. Ryder has put many unsavory characters behind bars. The murderers won’t be out for a long time, but some of the white collar ones have since received parole. Some have a chip on their shoulder as you can imagine.

  Given this, I often feel uncomfortable when Ryder leaves for her daily ritual—pier fishing. Every day at 6AM, 1PM, and on occasion, 11PM at night, before closing time, she heads down to Balboa Pier. I have not once escorted her there. She won’t allow it. I think she senses my skepticism about such a hobby. Or maybe she just doesn’t want me staring at her in her summer garb; a thin, round neckline summer shirt and shorts. She doesn’t have any reason to be embarrassed. She has a nice body and still looks youthful for a woman in her late thirties. Anywhere else, she dresses like—well, a lawyer. A professional woman through and through, but she likes to let her hair down in her own way, and I don’t blame her.

  I moved back down the hallway and into the office to find it empty; a large and mostly empty area in the middle, with white walls and Ryder’s desk. I have my own desk that I sometimes use, but I generally use the sofa. She’s fine with me working there, laptop on my lap, as I watch TV from the monitor on my desk. From the windows behind her desk you could see the ocean. Tilted shades allowed streams of light to roam across the floor at a thirty degree angle. Against the west wall are aquarium tanks, home to Ryder’s pride and joy—seahorses. She collects various breeds as pets. Some of the rare variety, some of the pretty. The garden out back was one of few in the area and easily the smartest, all thanks to Melissa, who is basically another assistant like myself, without all the detecting. She does the cleaning, gardening, filing, and various other things. She was here before me. She and Ryder go a long way back, apparently.

  I heard Ryder coming out from the kitchen adjacent the office, just at the side of my sofa and the French doors. She was dressed in her fishing clothes, a white shirt this time, army green shorts. The shirts she wore all had high necklines. She’s a modest woman and, from what I gather, didn’t desire to show any cleavage. She didn’t really need to. She also has a small diagonal scar running down her neck, an old army injury from her training days. She never wore shades in my presence, but I knew she did down at the pier.

  Ryder lugged her gear to the French doors and opened them. I won’t describe the gear she had, as my knowledge of fishing equipment is pretty much zero. As far as I knew, she had a rod and a toolbox.

  Ryder looked at me and gave a neutral smile.

  “I put the shopping list on the desk, Ader.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  She glared. “Lock the door on your way out.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “What was all that about earlier?”

  “I suppose you mean Mr Lynch? You know how I work, Ader. I dislike foofaraw.”

  I nodded. “Well, normally I would agree. But surely exceptions have to be made when our weekly outgoings are in the thousands, and our incomings are zero.”

  She turned her head and made her way outside. “California is a big place. We won’t be out of work forever.”

  “We will if your standards keep increasing.”

  “Pah.”

  And with that, she made her way down the garden, toward the pier.

  No doubt, out of all of that, you’re thinking the same thing as I. And that is, of course, why do I do the shopping? A good question, I admit. When I find a satisfactory answer, I’ll be glad to tell you.

  2

  I’ll never understand why people do their goddamned shopping at 1PM. In the summer, in the heat of the day. Maybe they all have contrary and particular employers like myself.

  I could go down the shopping list, but I won’t bore you. Even if I did think you cared. I will say, however, that I generally do a shop every day, when we don’t have a job to work on. I obtain the ingredients for the meal she cooks in the evening. For all her obsessions and peculiarities, she is a master chef, and has completed the Le Cordon Bleu exams, which is the real reason I tolerate sifting through the aisles in a sweaty local-mart with no air conditioning. This particular store has the best fresh spices and vegetables. The meat I get elsewhere, unless we’re having fish, in which case, she provides with her catch of the day.

  While I brave the hustle and bustle, I often think of how I got here. How I ended up working for the best living detective in the state of California. I doubt many would be interested in my history. I’m ex-SAS, for reasons I don’t want to go into. I was the third best marksman in the whole of the UK for a brief period.

  The first time I ever met Kendra Ryder was when I went for the interview. I had no idea what I was getting myself in for. I’d been in America for six months and got the information from some guy I met in Vegas. Yes, it really was that corny. Apparently, he’d had dealings with her in a professional capacity. When I mentioned my army background, he gave me her card and said it would probably be up my street. With no job and two hundred bucks left in my pocket, I figured, what the hell.

  I hitched a ride down to California the morning after, then got the bus to Newport Beach. I spent the last of my money on a suit from a thrift store, and a scotch for good luck, after which I decided to brush my teeth in a public restroom. I didn’t particularly want to come across as an alcoholic.

  So there I was, standing outside this huge, luxurious beach house. I looked at the card, then at the house again. I almost turned away. It was probably my ignorance, but I always figured detectives lived in gritty old apartments above fish and chip shops. At least, that’s what I thought, until I realized America has yet to embrace the perfection that is fish and chips (not in the proper sense; battered and fried to hell and back). I’ll never understand that as long as I live.

  But, I divulge. As I started to look around, I saw a guy leaving the house hastily. Mumbling to himself quite loudly. When he saw me, he couldn’t help himself.

  “If you’re here for the job, forget it. That bitch is crazy.”

  He walked off and I never said a word. I just remember saying to myself, “Right place, then.” The guy I’d met in Vegas said she was a difficult person to get along with.

  I tightened my tie up and rang the bell. It was here I first met Melissa. She lacked the jewelry, but I compared her to a Nubian princess; thin, smooth skinned and perfect cheekbones. She invited me in and let me wait in the games room beside the study and th
e dining room. She even played a game of 9-Ball with me before the interview, which calmed me somewhat.

  Then she led me into the office, and I committed one of the three strikes; I sat without permission. Not that I knew it then.

  I smiled and Melissa introduced me. I don’t exactly remember the opening exchanges. I just remember Kendra Ryder sitting there. Attractive. In her mid-thirties. Shoulder length coal-black hair, neatly styled and straight, tucked behind her medium sized silver hoop earrings. Her trademark black blazer, opened, crimson blouse buttoned to the neck that showed off her firm and buxom physique. Quite possibly a boob-job, but even after two years, I’d never had the nerve to ask. Funny the things we first notice as males.

  She looked at me with a puzzled face, as if she couldn’t quite place me. It felt like she knew me. In some respects, it felt like I knew her.

  I often think I got lucky. Like, there was an instant rapport. I gave her my history, and she seemed mildly impressed. She stared at my face more than she did my CV.

  “What is your favorite handgun?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

  “The P230.”

  “Ah.” She looked to her left. “You like them small, then.” No sign of a smile whatsoever.

  I had no idea if this was just an innocent statement or an innuendo. So I gave one of those half laughs. Vaguely noncommittal. I told her about my preference for rifles, to which she nodded in agreement. But she quickly went back to her stern self.

  “Unfortunately, we’re not soldiers anymore. Should you wish to work for me, you’ll have to perform more menial tasks. Knowing my methods and being able to adapt to them.” She went on about what she expected. I lost interest when she got to the rules of the house.

  “When do I start?” I said.

  “Presumptuous, aren’t we? What if I have other applicants?”

  “The last one went out crying.”

  “Indeed. Very well. A trial run, of course. Your background is a bonus, but it hardly makes you a detective.”