Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2)

by Steele, Suzanne

  This case is beginning to get to me. It’s hard enough dealing with one serial killer, but dealing with four of these guys working together is wearing me out. They may not all be serial killers, but working as a team is making it much easier for Richard to wreak havoc. I have my head down, and I’m rubbing my eyes when I hear someone slap the doorframe and speak.

  “You guys better get going. You’ve got a body outside of that downtown bar you’ve been watching. It’s some weird shit too.”

  “What?” I query.

  “Looks like somebody tacked, and I do mean tacked, a note with a black rose on a dead body and then dumped it in the alley behind Tacks Bar and Grill.”

  I’ve always wondered why they called the bar we’ve been watching Tacks. I found out when my partner was questioning Brandon earlier. It’s funny how some nicknames just stick, and by all appearances, this dead guy has been stuck with tacks in more ways than just his nickname. I know Black Rose has attached the note and black rose with tacks purposely. I learned years ago that everything the man does has meaning.

  As Rene and I leave our office, the fatigue I have been experiencing is gone, replaced with a sudden surge of adrenaline. As morbid as it is, I’m excited about seeing what kind of shape the dead body is in. Out of all the serial killers I’ve ever dealt with, Black Rose is special in more ways than one.

  “There’s always a method to his madness, isn’t there?”

  “The guy is smart, David.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re bonding with the dreaded Black Rose.”

  “I don’t bond… and you should consider yourself lucky I’ve allowed you to bond with him.”

  “Why?” I ask her, genuinely curious.

  We get in the car and she turns sideways to give me her full attention.

  “You need it. You need to believe in something bigger than yourself. You need to know that justice will be served no matter the circumstances. I can’t give you that because I have to stay within the prescribed perimeters of our job. He’s no threat to what we share. Now, if he was a woman, I’d kick both your asses.”

  “You threaten me with something I enjoy?”

  “You doubt I could make the experience unenjoyable? You underestimate me, love.”

  “Never, I can assure you that isn’t going to happen. Time to see what our serial killer did to his victim,” I state as we pull into the alley.

  “Great, your boyfriend Billy Bob McGee is here. I mean, seriously, how fucking cliché is that name of his.”

  “He told me his mother named him after some song.”

  “Mm, I’m certain the two of you have had some real enlightening heart to hearts. I mean, it’s pretty damn obvious he goes out of his way to be at every crime scene that he knows you’ll be at.”

  “Now who’s jealous, David?”

  “Agent Turner at work!” I snap, taking my frustration toward the man crushing on Rene out on her.” She just ignores me.

  “I know, David, at work you’re in charge. Anywhere else, though, you’re my bitch,” she tells me, smiling wickedly.

  Ignoring her, I get out of the car and huff my way past good ole Billy Bob. Unfortunately, I’m not fast enough to miss hearing him address my partner.

  “Hey, Miss Rene. I was hoping you’d be here.”

  I know she’s rubbing it in for my Agent Turner remark when she answers.

  “Well, I couldn’t pass up a chance to see you.”

  I don’t want to do or say anything unprofessional, so I direct my full attention toward the body. I can’t resist rolling my eyes when he saunters over with Rene and speaks.

  “Well, looks like your boy Black Rose is at it again.”

  “We don’t assume anything, Officer McGee. This could be a copycat.”

  My tone is biting as I answer the man, but he doesn’t seem to notice since he can’t take his eyes off my partner. I’m seething with jealousy and desperately trying not to let it show. It’s becoming more difficult to hide my true feelings though. This crush of his has been going on for years.

  Damn, am I actually defending a serial killer, or am I just setting my partner’s crush straight? It’s probably both. Yeah, it’s definitely both.

  “Looks the same to me,” McGee answers, not getting the hint as usual.

  “Well, you aren’t the agent on duty, now are you?”

  This guy brings out the worst in me. I force myself to turn my attention back to the dead body, and I’m relieved when the ME joins us. He bends down across from me and speaks.

  “Well, just when you think you’ve seen it all. This took one hell of an imagination.”

  I eye the tacks that spell out various offenses in different colors on the subject’s body.

  “Yeah, the guy’s nickname is Tacks.

  I read the note that has been tacked to the man’s nude body along with a black rose.

  Two down, two to go. Where I stop, nobody knows.

  Black Rose

  The subject’s stomach has red tacks pressed into it that spell out the word killer. In yellow on his inner arm, is the word rapist, and on the opposite inner arm, is the word liar in blue.

  I look up at the ME and speak.

  “Do you notice anything about the color choices of the tacks?”

  “Yeah, they’re the primary color group.”

  “You got it. I’m not sure what his reasoning is on that one.”

  “His mouth must have been held open when he died. It’s literally locked in place like that,” The ME notes.

  I take my gloved hand and do a sweep of the corpse’s mouth.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I state as I gently pull a tack from the back of his mouth. “He used black for this. I wonder how many of those were forced down his throat?”

  “Won’t know until I get him on my table.”

  “Well, one thing is for sure; this is going to be a very interesting autopsy. I’m looking forward to seeing what you find.”

  “I’m looking forward to it too. Interesting doesn’t begin to describe the story this body will tell me.”

  Chapter Forty Three

  Charles

  I slam my hands against the leather bar my wife is leaning against, making her jump and pinning her in.

  I nuzzle my head in her hair, taking in her scent.

  “Don’t you dare fucking move.”

  I back up to remove my suit coat and neatly place it on a stool after I fold it. I stare at her, holding her immobile with just my gaze as I slowly roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt to reveal my tanned forearms. I study her as she watches me. Her eyes follow my movements, and she wets her lower lip with a flick of her tongue. My voice is barely above a whisper as I speak.

  “I’m convinced you have a hand fetish, love. All that kinkiness in you that I bring out—kink you never knew you’d be into. The way you study my hands is… shall we say, a dead giveaway—pun intended, of course.”

  I circle around to the back of the bar and pour myself a shot of Patron two fingers deep, quickly tossing it back. I make myself another before reaching for a deep red burgundy blend to pour into a wine glass. Setting everything down on my wife’s side of the bar, I walk back around and pour the glass of wine, swirling it in my hand as I eye her.

  “I would say this is an appropriate drink for a woman who’s developed a taste for blood.”

  When she reaches for it, I squeeze her chin between two fingers until she flinches in pain.

  “I told you not to fucking move!”

  I bring the wine glass to her lips, forcing her to take a huge gulp.

  “Oh, I bet that’s warm going down. I wonder what those tacks felt like going down our victim’s throat as I made you keep feeding him.”

  I had purposely solicited her participation in force-feeding some of the tacks I made the man digest. After all, we’re partners in crime now.

  “With the excitement of having our second victim behind us, I wonder if your pussy taste different now that you’re a mur
derer well on her way to becoming a serial killer? Drink the rest of the wine.”

  I note that her fingers tremble as she takes the wine glass from me. As soon as she sets it down, I lift her up onto the bar. My fingers feel for the pocketknife I always carry, flicking it open in one quick motion and slicing through the pretty pink lace panties she wore for me. I swipe a finger over her opening.

  “So, now we know killing makes your pussy wet. Such a bad little girl you are, wrapped up in all that innocence. You just never know what’s really in a person’s heart, do you?”

  My tone is taunting, almost accusing in nature. I move my jacket out of the way and pull two stools up on either side of me. After removing her shoes, I place her bare feet on them, but she’s still trying to hold her thighs together.

  “Spread them. You know how I like you.”

  I bend down, spreading her knees apart so her legs are open wide, and I bury my face in her sweet little slit. I slowly rake my tongue up and down her opening, savoring her taste. One finger inside her opening has her quivering and soaked. When I add a second and pull them back toward me, her body starts quaking on the edge of release.

  I want to taste her. I want her climaxing so long and hard that her juices are dripping down my chin. I will never get enough of this woman. If I could eat her alive, I would. She is my drug of choice—the only thing I crave more than killing—and now she’s my partner as well.

  Oh, how I love the sweet way she trembles under my carnal assault, screaming out my name as an orgasm rages through her system. It’s the same kind of release I am now experiencing in the emotional realm because I no longer have to hide any part of myself from her. We work together toward common goals: cleaning up the streets and avenging the weak. She has now witnessed, firsthand, the beast inside my soul. She’s privy to all my darkness and every soiled secret. She’s met the homicidal madman in the guise of a gentleman, the one who plays the part so well he remains undetected in my high society circle of acquaintances.

  I’m not just a man. I’m a primal predator constantly on the lookout for my next target, and she’s a woman now given over to base instinct. The funny thing about it is that she’s just as dark as I am. I just never saw it until now.

  Chapter Forty Four

  Agent Turner

  I pace in the ME’s autopsy room; it helps me organize everything going on in my head. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this place. How Herb can stand being in a room with dead bodies all day long is beyond me. I figure it’s a case of it takes all kinds. I hate the feeling of being confined when it comes to work. There is only one time I enjoy being restrained, and that’s at the hands of my partner. Herb’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Out of all the medical examiners available, I am glad to have Herb Foster on this case; we work well together. I also prefer to work with him because he’s the autopsy man who determines cause of death. When dealing with a serial killer, knowing how he went about it is very important. Herb has worked on Black Rose cases with me in the past as well, which is an added bonus.

  “This guy suffered an extreme amount of pain before his death.”

  “What?”

  I rush over to stand directly across from him.

  “Don’t start that looking over my shoulder crap that you do, Agent Turner.”

  “I’m standing across from you.”

  “Doesn’t matter, you’ve still got that hurry up tone to your voice and that look you get in your eyes when you’re rushing me. As I’ve told you before, these things can’t be rushed. Look, I’ll give you the quick version. This guy has nicks and cuts in his intestines from eating tacks. If you think aluminum foil can tear up the person’s insides when a mule swallows a handful of dope packets, you should see what tacks do. His stomach and intestinal tract is full of them.”

  I look up at the monitor Herb is using as he works. That’s another thing I could never do—work with my hands while watching what they do on a monitor. I view the various sized nicks and cuts he’s referring to and the black seepage coming from them.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “You’ve got it. The guy’s intestines leaked feces until his system overloaded, and he became septic. He was essentially poisoned by his own body. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the liquor he was forced to drink had to have caused a tremendous amount of pain when it hit those cuts. Imagine salt in a paper cut amplified a thousand times. It’s the kind of pain that would drive a man crazy.”

  “So, his torture was just as much about psychological pain as it was physical pain. That fits our serial killer.”

  I look down at the victim’s abdomen, and even though the tacks have been removed, red dots spelling out the word rapist still remain. Not only did Black Rose force him to eat tacks, he riddled the outside of the guy’s body with them as well.

  Herb looks up at me through the medical glasses he always wears while working, and he makes a statement befitting of the situation.

  “Yep, your killer was judge, jury, and executioner.”

  Chapter Forty Five

  The Killer

  “I’m telling you, man! Somebody is trying to kill us all off!”

  “Not, somebody… It’s Black Rose,” I answer my spazzed out friend. He’s so far beyond panicked that he’s on the verge of a breakdown, but honestly, I am too. For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s terrified, and he has good reason to be. We aren’t dealing with some run-of-the-mill guy; we’re not even dealing with the average serial killer. No, Black Rose is very organized and clearly has the resources to find and kill us. Not only does he have the brains to be successful at what he does best, he also has the backing of the community. The public loves the bloodthirsty son of a bitch.

  “You mean to tell me you know who the fuck is doing this?”

  “Yep,” I slur. “I most certainly do. Go right over there to my laptop and see for yourself.”

  I watch through blurred vision as my last best friend on the face of the earth looks at the blog page still pulled up on my laptop screen.

  “Man, this guy has over a million fucking followers. He’s a professional killer!”

  “Nope, that would be a hitman. This guy is a serial killer, but the rest of your assessment is correct. The public simply adores him.”

  I make an overly dramatic circular motion with my hand.

  “The guy is a fucking superhero in the public’s eyes, here to avenge the weak and victimized. All hail the fucking all-powerful Black Rose. You know the funny thing about it is he doesn’t even seem to care about the fame he’s garnered. No siree, he’s all about protecting the masses. All he needs is a fucking cape.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better, Richard? All of this is your fault. We never would have brought those women back to you if you hadn’t told us to do it.”

  “If someone told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?”

  “You paid us a lot of money to help fulfill your sick, sexual fantasies. I still have college loans to pay off.”

  “You guys were gang banging chicks back in our college days. You were well schooled on slipping bitches roofies long before I came up with the idea to abduct them. Yeah, Jenkins,” I slur, purposely using his last name, “you were taking advantage of women long before I paid you or Tacks a dime. Now Black Rose, the avenger of the weak and victimized, is coming to make you pay for your sins. ”

  I dramatically wave my hand in the air again due to my drunken state. It’s a habit I have when I’m drunk to overemphasize the obvious.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “No, but it is true. You won’t know where, and you won’t know when, but he is coming for you… and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.”

  It doesn’t matter how many seminars I lead on self-confidence, I know when I’m outwitted. I’ve spent my life being a narcissistic bastard, and truth be told, I am jealous of Black Rose’s fame. How can someone who doesn’t even care about being famous gain the amount
of notoriety that he has? It just isn’t fair. I’ve spent my entire adult life doing volunteer work. I even have my own local TV show that I host, covering philanthropy stories to try and win the public over. I deserve what he has. I’ve done a hell of a lot more for the community than he has. Why would people give their devotion to a man who kills instead of a man who feeds the hungry? Of course, there was a monster residing inside me as well, but no one knew that at the time, so it shouldn’t matter. I deserve the adoration of the masses.

  Yeah… fuck Black Rose and the horse he rode in on.

  Melanie

  “How’d you know he wouldn’t be home?”

  I question my husband as I follow him inside Brandon Jenkins’ home.

  “Well, it’s a work night for him.”

  He turns, smirking at me as he speaks.

  “The bartender couldn’t make it in, so I’m even more certain he had to go in. It looks like they’re running short on employees.”

  My husband is being facetious, and I find it beyond humorous. I don’t have any pity for these predators.

  “Yeah, maybe it had something to do with his stomach,” I giggle, egging him on. “No, really though, how did you know he wouldn’t be home?”

  He cocks his head and squints his eyes as he makes his way over to me, giving me his full attention.

  “Let’s do it this way. Why don’t you tell me why you thought he would be home?”

  “Well, home is where you feel safe.”

  “You feel safe at home, and you’re married to a serial killer?” he teases me.

  “I’m a killer now too, so yeah, I feel safer being married to one. They say opposites attract until they become the same entity.”

  “Yeah, I get that. Great answer, but that’s not a saying.”

  “It is now; I just made it up.”

  He ignores me and just shakes his head at my rebuttal.

  “Now, to answer your question, people who are afraid don’t like to be alone. Being in a public place gives them a false sense of security. Needless to say, he’ll feel more at peace in a crowded room. The bogeyman can’t come for you when you’re out in the open; he only jumps around dark corners to get you, or so our target thinks.”