Her brow creased. “Are there many Lilac trees in this part of the country?”
“In Ontario you’ll find the most lilacs in the Cornwall, Ottawa regions. I’ve seen a handful of bushes around here. In fact, we have a patch right here on the property. If the soil is loose enough, they pretty much take care of themselves.”
Becca got that familiar nagging feeling again as they turned to leave. This time, she slowly turned her head, but found nothing out of the ordinary except for the back door closing behind someone.
Randy continued talking to Jacob as they passed through the remaining greenhouses. There were ten to twelve students and another three or four older men working in each structure. Nobody stood out. In fact, most left Becca with the distinct impression they were disrupting the day-to-day flow of beauty in the making.
A man standing at the back entrance caught her attention. Becca’s instincts told her it was the same guy she’d seen a few times before. He towered over the older man he talked to, and his thick blond hair further set him apart from the dark-haired students.
Are you following me? If so, why?
“Jacob, who is that guy standing there at the back?” The words had just left her mouth when the stranger looked at her and quickly slipped out the door.
“What guy?”
“He was just there. I also saw him at the last two stops. A tall guy with blond wavy hair...?”
Jacob diverted his gaze, but not before she caught the fear in his eyes.
“I don’t know. I have almost one hundred guys here. It could be anyone.”
So why does the fact I saw him make you so uncomfortable?
The distinct roar of a Harley being kicked to life reached her ears. Both she and Randy bolted outside. The glint of their own bikes brought a united sigh of relief. Puzzled, they scanned the area for another bike.
“Do any of the students or workers here ride a motorcycle?
Her senses were now on high alert. Maybe a tall, blond guy?
Jacob furrowed his brow. “I don’t think so. I definitely would remember seeing a bike here on the farm. I know my boss had a motorcycle back in the day, but I hardly think he’s in any condition to kick one over.”
Randy heaved a sigh. “Well, I think we’ve seen enough for now. Do you think we can talk to the professor again?”
“Why don’t we take a walk up to the house and see?”
Becca trailed behind, grateful for the time to sort her thoughts. How did he ride out of sight so fast? Unless he’s still here....
Chapter Nine
Carol Tate was a creature of habit, making his plan a lot easier except for one small problem he hadn’t taken into account. Given her profession, she’d be well-versed when it came to The Florist, nixing his usual ruse of delivering flowers.
The big shot attorney worked an eight-hour day, never arriving home later than half past five. She’d change out of her stuffy lawyer clothes and into yoga pants, a t-shirt and white runners.
Her nightly jog always took the same amount of time, giving him an hour to get into her house unnoticed. Surprisingly, Ms. Hotshot never locked the door behind her. If the old lady neighbor wasn’t nosing about, he’d be able to slip inside easily. If she was, he’d just have to put an end to her busybody ways. His pulse raced, excited about the change in plans. He eagerly anticipated the look on Carol’s face when she found out she had an unexpected visitor.
Carol stepped outside, closing the unlocked door behind her. She looked up and down the street while putting in her ear buds and jogged down the steps and off into the neighborhood.
He reminded himself of why he was there to begin with. He couldn’t afford to slip up due to having way too much fun. His fingers touched the cool leather of the journal in his bag, and he leaned up against the wall and opened it to the bookmarked page.
How many pedophiles, rapists, and abusers are out on the street because of a defense attorney with no morals and a perfect track record? Am I fooling myself in thinking I can help her? Have I put my own well-being at risk by knowing too much? I have to admit, she scares me.
With a final nod, he tucked the journal back in his bag and looked up and down the street, paying special attention to the neighbour. Once he felt confident no eyes were on him, he scurried around the corner of the bungalow, up the front steps, and into the house.
Carol Tate certainly didn’t spend her money on interior decorating. Everything looked plain and extremely minimal: a leather sofa, a medium-sized flat-screen television and a glass coffee table. The only semblance of a personal touch came in the form of a black and white abstract painting centered on the wall behind her couch.
Nothing spectacular, just like the owner.
He took a leisurely stroll through the tiny house, taking all of ten minutes. Inside a walk-in closet the size of most people’s bedrooms, he discovered some of her vast fortune. The tailored suits and Gucci shoes were definitely quality items, but also very plain. The only punch of color in the entire closet was a formal ball gown in vibrant red, adorned in frosty crystals.
Where would a woman like her wear a dress like this?
He held the garment in front of him in the full-length mirror. I’d bet my last dollar she went to this event solo. He flared out the full skirt. I look good in red. Carefully, he returned the dress to the exact same place.
Now, where shall I hide? Do I stand on the other side of the door and point my trusty revolver in her stony face? A smile played at the corners of his lips, and he nodded, leaving the room in search of the perfect hiding place.
Within minutes of finding a spot, the front door opened and closed. Carol Tate sang to herself on her way to the bedroom. He knew she was undressing and would head straight for the shower. The thought of her being naked repulsed him, but he could think of no better way to mortify the always-in-control ball breaker.
The second the shower door closed behind her, he left his hiding place in the pantry to ready the living room for her big surprise.
“Hello? Is somebody out there?” She stepped out of her bedroom, clutching her robe closed and inching her way down the short hallway to the living room. “I know someone is here.”
She’d heard the music and undoubtedly suspected she wasn’t alone. Her jaw dropped upon seeing the white orchid in an empty brandy bottle in the center of her coffee table. Her gasp as her gaze settled on the tumbler of amber liquid, made his day.
Carol Tate shrieked and ran for the front door, fumbling with the locks just like he knew she would.
“Oh, my God! Somebody help me!”
Before she could call for help in earnest, he came up behind her and pressed the revolver to her temple.
“Shhhh....” He put his mouth next to her ear and gave it a flick with his tongue. “Guess who?” He spun her around, pinning her against the door.
She had already gathered her composure and now glared into his eyes. “Listen, if you are who I think you are, you don’t have to do this. Let me represent you and I promise you won’t spend a day behind bars.”
His laughter filled the room. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve got a gun to your head and you want to cut a deal?”
“Wait, I’ve seen you some place before. Yes, it was—”
Her words were cut short with her skull meeting the butt end of his gun. Before she crumpled to the floor, he wrapped his arms around her waist and dragged her over to the couch.
“Shit! Why didn’t I think of that? Of course she’d have a photographic memory.” All of the deviations from his original plans made him uncomfortable. He sifted his fingers through his hair and paced back and forth, matching each step with a calming breath.
He straightened his stance and went straight to work, binding her hands and feet before taping her big mouth shut. Several minutes later, when her pathetic whimpers reached him, all of his tools sat in perfect order on the coffee table.
He stood behind the couch and watched her struggle against her bindings. She mome
ntarily froze, staring at the items laid out beside her. All of a sudden her ass came up off the sofa, and she maneuvered into a sitting position.
“Now, now, you know I can’t allow that.” He sauntered over, his gun pointed directly at her head. “Lie down.”
She refused.
He stood before her and ran the shaft of his revolver in a straight line from under her chin, down the valley between her heaving breasts. His gaze matched hers. “I said, lie down.”
The first sign of tears pooled in her eyes as she slowly dropped to the side and lifted her legs onto the couch. Her words muffled behind the tape.
Another length of rope served to tie her thighs together. After which he taped her head down and straddled her. The lawyer pleaded with her eyes, tears spilling out and disappearing into her hairline.
“I’m going to take this tape off, so for your own good, keep that big mouth of yours shut.” He ripped the tape off of her face, taking skin from her lips, too. She began sobbing uncontrollably.
“Did you really think you’d get away with it for this long without repercussions? It’s bad enough you helped set free all of those sick fucks back into society, but did you really have to involve her? Do you get off on intimidating people, instilling fear in them?” He picked up a stack of money from the table.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about? Involving who?”
“Was it all just for the money?” He wadded up the first bill and stuffed it in her mouth before leaning forward and whispering in her ear.
“Errrrrr...,” she growled in frustration, attempting to free herself.
He proceeded to cram bill after bill in her mouth. “Does it ring any bells now?”
Her body, now wracked in sobs, ceased to fight. Both her wrists and ankles bled from the tape cutting into her flesh.
The lawyers’ gaze was transfixed on the needle he slowly and deliberately twirled between his fingers. Carol Tate no longer struggled against the tape embedded in her deep cuts.
With his free hand, he picked up the tumbler of brandy and brought it to his mouth. The corner of his lips twitched as he held the glass over her wrists, and tipped it. Her body grew rigid beneath him. The amber liquid splashed, mixing with blood red.
Suddenly he caught an image of himself in the mirror above her television. He shook his head in disgust. Get with the plan or you’re going to screw this one up royally. He sat back on his heels and took a deep breath, setting the glass back on the table and firming his hold on the needle.
The first hole was always the hardest; once he got the feel of the needle pushing through her flesh he’d be fine. Her eyes rolled back into her head, but she would soon be wide awake. He gritted his teeth and pushed the sewing tool through her bottom lip. He was rewarded by her eyes flying open. Her chest heaved, and a muted scream spasmed throughout her body before only the whites of her eyes were visible.
He concentrated on the next stitch, pulling the fishing line taut to secure her lips together. She continued to fade in and out of consciousness while he sewed twenty perfectly spaced stitches, meticulously cleaning the blood from around each hole before sitting back to admire his handiwork.
Carol Tate looked straight ahead, her eyes vacant. He flitted about the room, cleaning and picking up any evidence of his being there.
He took the orchid out of the brandy bottle and returned it to the recycle box. He then placed the stem in her hands.
“You’re not so intimidating now, are you?”
She finally looked directly into his eyes as he moved closer, his fingers slipping beneath the front edges of her housecoat. He had no desire to see her naked body, but he could think of no better way to humiliate her. The material fell away, pooling at the sides of her quivering breasts. Carol squeezed her eyes shut, letting loose a fresh torrent of tears.
The familiar cool metal of his revolver kept him grounded. He assumed the position, standing on the arm of the sofa. He took aim, purposely avoiding her eyes, and squeezed the trigger.
Chapter Ten
Several officers looked up from their desk as their pagers buzzed at the same time. Randy met Becca’s gaze, silently validating a sense of urgency. They quickly weaved their way through a maze of desks to the chief’s office. Tension wafted towards them before they stepped inside to find Chief on the phone, pacing behind his desk.
“We’re on our way!” His shoulders rose and fell as he turned to face them. “He struck again.”
Randy saw the surge of emotion in his partner’s eyes disappear, quickly replaced by no-nonsense. Was it fear, anger...? He couldn’t tell.
Chief shrugged into his jacket. “I’ll fill you in on the way over there. I think it’s best if we take my sedan.”
Becca opened her mouth like she might argue the decision, but replied with a shrug instead.
Randy sat up front with the chief, leaving Becca alone in the back. Since the first time he’d laid eyes on her, she remained constant in his mind. Sometimes thoughts of her came at the most inopportune times throughout the day and in his dreams at night. It wasn’t going to be easy, but if he didn’t reign in his desire for her, his wandering mind might hamper the case, and finding Susan’s killer was just too important to Becca.
“Carol Tate is a high profile defence attorney. It looks like he was waiting in the house and confronted her shortly after she showered.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t a disgruntled client?” Becca spoke up.
“Nope, her mouth is sewn shut. We won’t know what’s inside it until she arrives in the morgue.” Chief looked in his rear view mirror. “Our guy left his signature behind. It’s a white orchid.
“What do we know about the victim?” Becca wedged herself between the front seats. “Isn’t she the ball-breaker lawyer who is always in the paper for winning cases for scum bags?”
“That about sums her up.”
Cop cars with flashing lights, an ambulance, and several radio stations reporting live littered the yard and spilled out into the street.
“The neighbor called 911 after seeing a motorcycle back down the driveway.”
“I’m glad we’re not on our bikes.”
Randy opened her door. “Hold up.” He jogged across the lawn where two attendants carried the body bag from the house. Slowly, he unzipped it enough to find the lawyer in the same state as the first five victims—a single gunshot between the eyes, her mouth sewn shut. “Call me once you find out what’s in there.” The silver-haired doctor, who followed the gurney, nodded before taking his leave.
Becca hadn’t moved from the doorway, her face void of expression. The chief entered the house and stood beside her. After a brief exchange of words, she left the house.
Where the hell is she going?
Randy motioned for the chief to join him. “Is Becca okay?”
Chief Thomson arched a brow. “Why wouldn’t she be? I sent her out to talk to the neighbor who called 911.”
Becca welcomed the task that took her out of the house. This makes six. We gotta find this guy and fast.
A tiny, old lady stood at the edge of the driveway holding a sweater closed over her nightgown. Her eyes were a tad too bright as she watched the body being transported to the ambulance.
“Mrs. Miller?” Becca purposely stood in her line of vision. She doesn’t need that image haunting her dreams.
“Yes?” The woman’s forehead wrinkled.
Becca showed her badge. “My name is Detective Talbot. Can we sit up on your porch and talk? Those chairs look pretty comfy.”
Mrs. Miller didn’t hesitate to accept her extended arm. They slowly made their way across the lawn.
“I don’t know what this world’s coming to. A woman isn’t even safe in her own home anymore.”
Becca patted her hand sympathetically. “I promise we’re going to do everything in our power to find this guy.”
The old lady sat in an oversized armchair, and Becca sat beside her.
“Can you tell me wha
t you saw? Why did you call 911?”
“I’ve lived here over twenty years. Carol moved in around six years ago. She was a nice lady who always had a smile for me.” She paused to pull a hanky from her sleeve and dab at her eyes. “Poor soul rarely had visitors, liked to keep to herself like me. So when I saw that guy on his motorcycle, I knew something wasn’t right.”
“Did he do or say anything?”
“Nope. He pushed that big black bike down to the road. He was looking all over the place before he jumped on it a couple of times to start his motorcycle. I’m surprised the noise didn’t wake the neighbourhood.” She sighed. “When I saw a container on his back, I remembered reading the paper about some whacko they were calling The Florist. That’s when I called the authorities.”
He had to kick start the bike. So did the one at the professor’s place.
“Can you describe the case?”
“Oh, you know those round cases architects put their blue prints in, but this one was black. Everything about him was black—black shoes, black rain suit, the case, and even his bike”
“Did you say rain suit?”
“Well, I think that’s what you call them. It was just like the yellow ones we used to call slickers.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Miller.” Becca placed her card in the woman’s weathered hand. “If you think of something else, please call me any time. Do you want me to send someone to stay here with you?”
“My son should be here any minute now.” The old woman smiled weakly. “I hope you catch that guy. Be careful dear. I’ll be praying for you.”
He rides old school. Maybe it’s time to talk to a few old friends who might know if there’s a bike like that around town.
Randy stood in the doorway. The second their eyes met, he dropped his gaze and scribbled in his notebook.
Becca scowled. I think I’ll go this one alone.
Chapter Eleven
Killer Scents Page 5