Unmasked: The Complete Series: Second Edition

by Cassia Leo

  I try to hold it in, but a wretched moan escapes my lips. Oh, God. Please let the wound be sealed.

  I pull the spoon away, taking some of my skin with it, and the blood is still trickling. Not gushing. But trickling is still too much.

  A few tears roll down my face as I realize I have to get another spoon and do it again.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  At the sound of the knocking on my door, my hand flies up to turn off the stove light. I pull my shirt and hoodie down over the knife wound and slip my custom Ontario 498 army knife out of its holster at the back of my waist. Then I wait.

  The sensation of the blood trickling down my skin is now more distracting than the pain in the wound or the burn. I’m used to pain.

  Forty seconds. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Chapter Two

  I stare at the door for a moment, then I force myself to move. My legs feel a little weak as I move toward the door. It’s the loss of blood. If this is one of those guys coming to finish me off, I’m dead. I can’t fight them off like this.

  “What do you want?” I shout from where I stand off to the side of the door.

  “Ma’am, this is Detective Rousseau, LAPD.”

  “I’m sleeping.”

  “Ma’am, I need to talk to you about a possible murder you saw on Hope Street. Can you please open up?”

  A fucking detective. And he got here pretty fast if he just responded to the scene at the gas station. Aasif must have given him my address.

  Unless he’s not a detective at all.

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “That’s not what your boss said. We think you might be in danger. Please open up.”

  I almost laugh out loud at that one. They think I might be in danger, which is why they sent just one detective to protect me. This guy is a bad liar.

  “Come back tomorrow.” When I’ll be long gone.

  “Ma’am, this is quite urgent. If you don’t open up, I’ll be forced to secure a warrant to search your home. I don’t want to do that. I know you didn’t have anything to do with this crime or the other crime scene on Hope and 7th.”

  What the fuck? Now he’s threatening to pinch me?

  I glance at the window on the other side of the living room, covered in thick black-out curtains. I can’t jump from three stories up. Maybe I can climb down the side of the building with my bare hands if there are no other cops or detectives out there. But I’m already weak from the loss of blood. If I lose my grip…

  “My electricity got cut off. It’s very dark in here.”

  “That’s okay. I have a flashlight.”

  Of course you do.

  “Just a minute.”

  I grit my teeth against the pain as I walk into the tiny utility closet where the stackable washer and dryer, a tankless water heater, and the electrical panel are kept. I flip the main switch on the electrical panel, cutting off all electricity to the entire apartment.

  I shut the door to the utility closet and head to the door. Looking through the peephole, I’m not surprised to see a person in a black hoodie and dark jeans. His face is cloaked in shadow as he stares at the doorknob, waiting for me to answer.

  Detective Rousseau. I didn’t know detectives were in the business of killing witnesses these days.

  I plant my feet firmly as I stand to the side of the door. Then I tighten my grip around the handle of my knife and tuck it behind my back. I’ll pull this door open, and the moment this guy makes a wrong move, he’s dead.

  I don’t like using my knife in a fight. My father trained me in Krav Maga, so I know that any weapon I carry can be used against my opponent and me.

  Disarm. Disable. Disengage. Those are the three steps my father taught me.

  First, you disarm your opponent. Then, you disable them. That could mean anything from stunning them, knocking them out, or killing them. Finally, you disengage. You get the fuck out of there.

  I turn the doorknob slowly, then I quickly swing the door inward while maintaining my cover behind the wall. The white beam of the flashlight pierces through the darkness, mostly diffused except for the small circle of light on the black armchair against the wall.

  “Turn off the flashlight.”

  “Pardon me?”

  He attempts to step inside, but I jut my foot out to stop him. “Detective?”

  There’s a long pause. He knows I know he’s full of shit.

  A soft click and the beam of light recedes into the dimly lit corridor. “Better?”

  His voice sounds different with the door open. There’s a slight accent, but I can’t tell if it’s European or Canadian French. It doesn’t matter. He’s in my territory now. If he survives this meeting, he’ll be lucky to have a voice left to speak.

  “Much better. Come in, Detective.”

  I keep my head bowed low so he can’t see my face, but he moves slowly. He’s trying not to provoke me. We’ll see how long that lasts.

  “I’m going to come in very slowly,” he assures me when his right foot is completely inside. “No need to be alarmed.”

  I’ll decide when it’s time to be alarmed.

  His body moves forward slowly and I finally glimpse the top half of him. He’s holding both his hands up on either side of his face. One hand still clutching his flashlight; a very deadly weapon in trained hands. His hood is still pulled up, and from this side angle, with his hands up, I still can’t see his face.

  Maybe that’s a good thing.

  I step to the right, farther away from the doorway. “Close the door,” I order him.

  He takes another step forward so now I can only see his back. Then he uses his foot to push the door closed. Total darkness.

  “Keep your hands in the air and tell me who you really are.”

  The silence that follows my command is complete. He knows I’ll be able to hear every move he makes in here. And he’s right.

  Since I was pulled out of public school at the age of six, my parents kept me locked away like a princess in a tower. Afraid others would judge me the way the children and school staff had. They wanted to protect me. Or so they claimed.

  My father trained me in the basement of our craftsman style 1920s house in L.A. Houses like that are rare in Southern California. They’re worth a lot of money now, and my parents have sure mortgaged the shit out of that house. Hence, the reason I no longer live with them. They wanted me to start working for my dad’s agency without getting paid. Of course, I’d still have to live in their dank basement. Then there’s the whole thing with my mom being crazy and manipulative.

  I hold my breath as I stare at Detective Rousseau’s silhouette through the darkness. I don’t think he’s breathing. I wait another moment, thinking that if he doesn’t speak or move soon, I’m going to stab him in the jugular. Then I hear a soft intake of breath.

  “I just need to know what you saw, so I can record your statement in my report.”

  He’s still going to pretend to be a detective. Fine. I can play that game.

  “I didn’t see anything. So if that’s the only reason you’re here, I suggest you leave.”

  He sniffs the air softly as he turns around to face me. “Are you okay, Miss…?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I smell burned flesh.”

  “You know the scent of burned flesh?”

  “In my line of work, I’ve come to know the scents of many things.” He takes a step toward me. “Some pleasant and some not so pleasant.”

  I hold my ground. “Your line of work? They allow you to dress like that in your line of work?”

  “I’m a detective. I don’t wear a costume like those other clowns.”

  He’s no more than five feet away from me now, his hands still up in the air and his flashlight in hand. His black hoodie is still pulled up over his head. Combined with his black pants, he does a good job of blending into the darkness. Still, I have two advantages here. My left eye and the fact
that I know I have an advantage in the dark. Knowing you have an advantage is half the battle, because nothing is stronger than confidence.

  If I wanted to, I could close that five-foot gap between us, reach forward, and tear out his esophagus in one second flat. If I were operating at full power, but I’m not. And he can smell it.

  He can smell my burned flesh. He can smell my weakness from five feet away, and he wants me to know. But why? Why not just pounce on me and finish me off? Why not just pull out that fucking .44 and blast me between the eyes?

  Because he wants something. Everyone wants something. Whatever this guy wants, he needs me alive to get it.

  “You refer to your fellow officers as clowns?” I reply, trying to color my voice with some mock disgust.

  He chuckles and the sound sends a chill through me. “I’m not an officer. I’m a detective. I had to use my brain to get to this position, just like I had to use my brain to get your boss to tell me where you live.”

  I want to shout, “You killed that man!” but that would be very stupid of me. Instead, I maintain my composure as he takes another step toward me, closing the distance between us to no more than three feet.

  “Are you going to tell me what you saw? Or should I come back tomorrow after you’ve had some rest?”

  He’s giving me an out. Why?

  “You killed that man.” I speak these words calmly, almost conversationally.

  Through the darkness, I can see and feel his muscles tense. “That man was following you.”

  He’s not even going to deny it. I don’t know if I should be more frightened or impressed.

  “No, he wasn’t,” I reply.

  “Yes, he was. He is—was a known sexual predator. I’ve been following his case and waiting for him to strike. You were going to be his next victim.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, he’s been watching you for a few days, and he certainly didn’t appreciate me trailing you tonight, which is why he pulled up next to me and attempted to shoot me. I shot him first.”

  I let out a puff of laughter. “Oh, that’s a good story. I’m sure it will make headlines.”

  He gazes at me, completely silent and still. Though I know he can’t see me through the darkness, especially with my makeup and sunglasses and the hood over my head, I can’t help the nervous feeling building in the pit of my belly. Something tells me playtime is over.

  “I’ll come back to speak to you tomorrow.” He turns to head for the door then stops as he places his hand on the doorknob. “Thank you for your time, Miss…?”

  “Alex. Just Alex.”

  “Thank you for your time, Alex.” He twists the doorknob and my body tenses as I await the soft glow of the lights in the corridor. But he doesn’t open the door. He looks over his shoulder and, even through the darkness, I can see the soft shadow of a smug grin on his face. “You should get that stab wound looked at by a physician.” He reaches into his back pocket and I brace myself for a gunshot. But all he pulls out is a business card. “This community clinic will take care of you free of charge. No questions asked. Just tell them Detective Rousseau sent you.”

  Chapter Three

  All week long, I lie on the sofa recuperating, staring at the door, waiting for someone to kick it down and arrest me for killing Shorty. Or turning him into a vegetable. But it never happens. And the week passed by much too slowly as I was forced to maintain an even higher level of alertness than usual.

  No one knocked on my door. Instead, I was left to wallow in the silent darkness, while in my head I pored over every detail of my conversation with Detective Rousseau and every detail of my subsequent doctor visit to Highland Medical Clinic on Wilshire Blvd.

  Highland seemed like a legit clinic on the outside. Inside, it looked like a typical doctor’s office: drab industrial carpet, uncomfortable vinyl chairs, a few small tables offering magazines from a time when the La Brea tar pits were free of mammoths.

  I approached the plexiglass window, my heart pulsing in every inch of my weakened body. My stab wound throbbing, reminding me that I couldn’t just turn around and walk out. For the first time since I left home, I needed help.

  I introduced myself to the receptionist, keeping my head down, hoping she couldn’t see the streaks of makeup that inevitably turn up on my collar. I whispered Rousseau’s name and it was as if I just told them I was Princess Diana. They had a wheelchair waiting for me just inside the door leading to the back office area. The receptionist rolled it out into the waiting room for me. A medical assistant in purple scrubs held the door open while the receptionist rolled me into a corridor leading to an examination room.

  She tried to help me out of the wheelchair, but I held up my hand to stop her. “I can do it myself, thanks.”

  Moving carefully, I climbed up onto the examination table, gritting my teeth and trying not to let the pain show in my face. By the time I looked up, the doctor was already in the room. They weren’t going to make me wait.

  “Good morning, Alex. I’m Dr. Grossman.” She held her delicate hand out to me and I winced a little when I reached forward to shake. “Would you mind lying back so I can take a look at that injury?”

  I didn’t ask how she knew I was injured. I figured Rousseau probably called ahead to give her a heads up. Maybe he even threatened to put a bullet in her Ivy League brain if she refused to treat me. He needed me alive for whatever cat and mouse game he had planned for me.

  Dr. Grossman’s silver hair fell softly over her shoulder as she tipped her head to the side, watching the pained expression on my face curiously as I moved backward on the table. Unlike the receptionist, she didn’t attempt to help me or ask if I needed assistance. She also didn’t ask me to remove my hood or sunglasses. Rousseau must have been quite forthcoming with her.

  Once I was supine on the vinyl examination table, she came to my side and reached for the bottom of my black hoodie. In this vulnerable position, my anxiety multiplied. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, at such close range, she’d see the industrial makeup on my face and neck. With the overhead lights shining down on my sunglasses, she might even see through the lenses.

  “Alex, I’m going to ask you to please try to remain calm. Take a few slow, deep breaths. Can you do that for me?”

  My chest trembled as I drew in a long breath. Then I let it out and there was the unmistakable whistling wheeze of an asthma attack. I hadn’t had one in years. They only happened when I was under duress.

  “A few more deep breaths,” Grossman encouraged me.

  I did as she requested and the wheezing subsided on the ninth breath. Then I closed my eyes because my eyes, which were so accustomed to darkness, couldn’t bear the glare of the ceiling lights. She gently lifted the bottom of my sweatshirt just enough to see the wound.

  “I’m going to have to put you under to clean this out.”

  “No!”

  “But—”

  “No!” I tried to sit up, but she gently grabbed my shoulders.

  “Okay, okay. We won’t put you under, but this will need a lot of local anesthetic. Just lie down. I’ll be right back.”

  She shot me up with Demerol, which made me feel really good. Then she injected some local anesthetic into my abdomen so she could cut me open even further and clean out the wound. I told her I couldn’t feel anything, but it was a complete lie. The Demerol and the anesthetic had mostly worn off about two thirds of the way into the procedure.

  Grossman sent me on my way with seventeen stitches and a prescription for some antibiotics, anti-inflammatory steroids, and pain meds…but not before questioning me about my medical history. She was appalled to find I hadn’t been to a doctor in five years, and that last visit was only because I’d broken my shoulder while sparring with my father. I’d never even been vaccinated.

  She took some blood tests and told me to come back in ten days to have the stitches removed and to get some vaccinations. Then she asked me when the first day of my last
period was.

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It’s a standard question.”

  I glared at her from the examination table. “Eight days ago.”

  “Are you sexually active?” There was a long pause, then she continued. “I’m not trying to pry, Alex, but I need to make sure there’s no possibility you’re pregnant, and I need to know if we need to schedule a gynecological exam for your next visit.”

  “I don’t want an exam.”

  “Alex, it’s a normal part of being a woman. You should have been taught this in school. Once you turn eighteen, you should be getting a gynecological exam once a year. More often if you’re sexually active.”

  “I’m not sexually active.”

  “Have you ever been sexually active?”

  Her pen was poised over my medical file, ready to jot down whatever answer I gave her.

  “No.”

  She scribbled something in the file. Then she handed me my prescription and shook my hand, while making me promise I’d be back in ten days to complete the treatment. She’d never see me again.

  I don’t care if she was extremely sensitive to my situation. Never asking why I wore this disguise. Never commenting on what she saw when she lifted my sweatshirt. Never asking how I got stabbed in the first place. She knew too much about me now. If Rousseau wanted to, he could use that information to put me in a jail cell.

  I grunt as I reach up and grab the back of the sofa to pull myself up. Time to change the dressing on my wound. I make my way into the kitchen and switch on the stove light. A small collection of first aid implements are lined up on the counter next to the stove: four-inch by four-inch gauze squares, a box of sterile cotton pads, medical tape, saline wound wash, and antibiotic ointment. This collection stands next to my stockpile of drugs.

  I haven’t taken any of the pain meds for fear that Rousseau or one of Shorty’s friends will show up at my door and I’ll be too drugged up to fight back. It’s been six days since I visited Dr. Grossman and my stitches have been oozing and the pain is coming back. I don’t want to go back to Highland, but I don’t want my tombstone to read: She refused to see a doctor.