Violated

by Arnold, Carolyn

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. I rarely saw repeats. I don’t think Kyle liked doing the same guy twice.”

  Paige’s stomach churned. Kyle Malone had HIV. Did he let his lovers know about his disease, or did he gamble with their lives?

  “Was he always this way?” she asked.

  Betty nodded. “As long as I lived here. Right up until he was murdered.”

  Maybe Malone’s killer was someone who had contracted HIV from him. If that was the case, and they were looking at a serial killer here, the disease would show up in the DNA findings at Ferris’s murder scene.

  “Do you remember anyone who had a problem with the one-time arrangement? Did any jealous lovers show up? Any angry visitors?” Paige asked the stream of questions, and Zach looked at her.

  “Not that I saw or recall. Roy, the building super, hated Kyle, but I can’t see him being behind his murder.”

  “When did you see the person who looked better in a skirt than you?” Paige asked.

  Betty narrowed her eyes into a glare. “I think it was around the time of Malone’s murder. Not sure. Sorry, it was a long time ago.”

  “You never mentioned this in your statement to the police,” Zach stated.

  “I did say I saw someone. If they didn’t record that she had curly locks, that’s not my fault.”

  “All right, well, if there’s anything else you think of after we leave,” Zach said, going for a card from his pocket and handing it to Betty.

  “I will call.” She nudged her chin forward and smiled.

  Paige fought rolling her eyes. Zach seemed to have this Casanova effect on some women.

  “Okay, thank you for your help,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.” Betty was still smiling as she let them out and closed the door behind them.

  In the hall, Zach and Paige faced each other. “Oh Lord, Zach.”

  “What?”

  Paige laughed. “We’re not out here looking for dates.”

  Zach held up his hands. “Hey, she came on to me, not the other way around.”

  “And you enjoyed every minute of it.”

  “I’m just a guy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Zach tilted his head side to side. “What if the woman in Ferris’s car wasn’t a woman, but rather a man in drag?” he asked, changing the subject. “But he could also be a cross-dresser or be transgender or transexual.”

  “For fear of sounding like ignorant Mr. Nichols, what is the difference?”

  “A cross-dresser literally dresses as the opposite sex, and a transgender person wants to be seen and treated as a member of the opposite sex. The term transsexual is a subset of being a transgender person, where he or she actually undergoes, or plans to undergo, gender reassignment surgery.”

  “Thank God, I have a walking encyclopedia with me.” Her thoughts turned darker. “It’s been brought up that Malone might have assaulted his killer, but what if that wasn’t all that pushed our unsub over the edge. What if they contracted HIV from Malone?”

  Zach didn’t say anything for a while, obviously reasoning on what she had proposed. “It could explain the need for money. If the killer’s trace indicates HIV, medication for the disease isn’t cheap. From there, we’ll need to prove that our cases are without a doubt connected.”

  -

  Chapter 27

  SAM HUNG UP AFTER HIS fifth attempt to reach Paige. He knew she was working on a murder investigation, but still. He could tell by the way he was immediately dumped into voice mail that she was ignoring his calls. Maybe he deserved it for leaving her at Ferris’s house, although, he had followed her all the way to California in the first place.

  Not that his intentions were entirely pure. He’d wanted to change her mind about seeing Ferris. If he were a good boyfriend, he wouldn’t have tried to manipulate her. He knew that the evidence in this relationship made him out to be the bad guy, but it was still hard to accept. Maybe he just sucked at romance. All he was absolutely certain of was that he was hurting like hell.

  He’d hit the hotel bar after he’d left Ferris’s and was still there trying to drown his pain in shots of whiskey. He was starting to wonder, though, if the drinking was only making things worse. He stared into the near-empty rocks glass, knowing the waitress would be back soon. He’d told her to return with a fresh drink every hour—a request he made after he’d knocked back a few shots in rapid succession.

  He just couldn’t stop replaying things over in his mind. Paige’s obsession with Ferris Hall and the fact that she’d used her one call on Brandon. She hadn’t even been straightforward enough to admit that. And what would be her defense? That Brandon was on her team and was somehow better equipped to help her? He was a detective and just as capable of getting her solid legal representation. No, her reason had to go beyond that. He saw the way she’d closed her eyes when she and Brandon had hugged. She still cared for him, and he for her.

  Sam drained the last of the whiskey. He no longer felt the burn as the amber liquid slid down his throat. He had gone numb, numb all over. It was ridiculous how he’d let himself get caught up in this affair. And surely that’s all it was. They’d slept together quickly, and no commitments were spoken. For all intents and purposes, he should have walked away after that first time. But his heart hadn’t let him. It was also responsible for making him believe he’d be able to distract her once they got out here and that she’d forget all about Ferris Hall. Again, he should have known better. She was a respected FBI agent because she was hardheaded and focused. Ironically, the fact that she was career-minded and independent had been one of the very things that drew him to her in the first place. So why was he trying to change that about her?

  And around in a circle I go…

  He truly was a conflicted mess.

  His feelings of sadness morphed into anger. Who would blame him if he walked away from this relationship? She had her FBI friends. She had Brandon. She was covered, taken care of. Why did she need him?

  He paused with that question, considering it. The truth was, as long as she had Brandon, she didn’t need him.

  He lowered his drink to the table. The rocks glass hit with a thud, and a couple of patrons looked his way. He shot them a glare to mind their own damned business. They heeded his request and went back to their conversation.

  Maybe he should just go home.

  He saw his waitress and gestured for the check.

  She acknowledged his request with a bob of her head.

  Now, what was he just thinking?

  His mind was beyond hazy from the alcohol. Then he remembered. He was going to leave, as there was no reason for him to stay. Paige had Brandon.

  And while Brandon might have been out of Paige’s life—or so she said—there was still obviously something between them. He felt the heat standing six feet away from them. And the fact that their jobs had been responsible for ending their relationship said more to Sam than anything. Remove the BAU from the equation and they’d probably run back into each other’s arms. At least Sam had enough logic left to realize that people didn’t stay in the same job forever.

  The waitress returned and dropped off his check.

  Sam touched her arm for her to wait and pulled out a credit card.

  “I’ll be back in one moment.”

  One moment. That’s all it would take. He’d settle things up here and arrange to be on the next flight home.

  -

  Chapter 28

  JACK AND BRANDON WERE ON the way to the bar—a honky-tonk, no less. Jack would have sent Paige and Zach if they weren’t already speaking with Malone’s former neighbors. High up on his list of dislikes was the twang of a country singer. And don’t even get him started on the fiddle.

  He tried to focus on something else. He had heard back from Nadia on Grafton’s background not long ago, an
d the man had an interesting past. Grafton’s older brother was arrested by federal agents at the age of twenty-one and sent to prison. He had been involved with a gang most of his life and managed to keep it a secret until he had gotten in too deep and wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time. The FBI had swept in one night and brought down the leader, as well as members of the gang, including Grafton’s brother.

  Grafton had been fifteen at the time. Not long afterward, his parents had separated. His father had faced multiple drunk-and-disorderly charges, and his mother had spiraled into a deep depression and committed suicide less than a year after her son was arrested.

  Jack surmised that Grafton blamed everything on the FBI and had some kind of need to prove himself superior. If it hadn’t been for them, then he’d have his brother back and his parents might still be together and alive.

  The detective was no different from anyone else, really. His life experience had formed his beliefs and opinions. In his case, it had tainted his opinion of the FBI, and the feds had become the enemy.

  What Jack found interesting was why Grafton became a detective at all. Why not a lawyer? If Grafton had that training, he could have used it to reduce his brother’s sentence somehow.

  There were things about every person that remained a mystery, even sometimes from themselves. The world was always painted by our perceptions, and for Grafton, finding an FBI agent in Hall’s house made it too easy to run with his prejudice. What if the same principle made it so Jack couldn’t see these cases clearly?

  Jack tapped a cigarette out of his pack and lit up as he drove. He took a drag on it and savored the nicotine.

  “Really?” Brandon said. “You have to do that in a closed car?”

  Jack lowered his window as he looked over at Brandon and bobbed his head toward his door panel. “You know, you have a button that does the same thing on your side.”

  “Fine, it’s only my health at risk here.” Brandon put his window down, and Jack suppressed his smirk by taking another drag. “What are you thinking about anyhow? You haven’t said a word.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “We could be talking about the case.”

  “Fine, what do you have to say?” Jack glanced at him long enough to catch the glint in Brandon’s eyes, almost as if he thought this was a test. He’d seen that look on the kid before.

  “I think we have to remove the killer’s sex from the equation. The evidence points both ways.”

  “I agree.”

  “You agree with me?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “Huh.”

  Jack laughed and glanced at Brandon, who was just staring at him.

  Brandon likely realized that Jack held onto a slightly prejudiced view of homosexuals. Though, he probably wasn’t very good at hiding how he felt in that regard. But it came down to life experience, and he’d been brought up by a religious mother who had told him that God created man and woman and that any other union was unnatural. She’d also tried to put the fear of Hell into him. But it wasn’t until Jack’s time in the military that he even believed Hell existed. Instead of a place of burning torment guarded by the Devil with a pitchfork, though, it was here on Earth. He had seen the most brutal side of humankind in those days—the lustful, hateful drive that made one country’s citizens think they were better than those living under a different flag.

  “Do you want to share what you’re thinking?” Brandon asked impatiently.

  Jack took another puff and flicked the cigarette out the window. “When we go in there, we have to keep an open mind.”

  “Regarding?”

  “The gender and sexuality of our un—” Jack looked over his shoulder and caught the sign for the Budget Motel. “That was the motel where Hall was found.”

  “Yes.” Brandon straightened his posture. “Wait, the motel where Hall was murdered is this close to the bar Malone frequented?”

  “Looks like it,” Jack said as he pulled into the parking lot for Wild Horse.

  THE SIMILARITIES BETWEEN THE TWO cases were growing, but had I heard Jack right when he’d suggested to keep an open mind? Our case involved gender confusion—not to the individual, but to those of us on the outside who didn’t fully understand—and usually Jack was more old school in this regard.

  “Open-minded,” he repeated.

  I thought he was saying it more for himself at that point. And no matter how much he spoke of being open-minded, he was probably happy that Wild Horse wasn’t a gay bar.

  I stepped in front of Jack to get the bar’s front door for him, but he stopped beside me. “Let’s start by asking about Hall.” His eyes were fueled with determination.

  I nodded.

  Inside, country music was playing at a low volume. It was late afternoon, and the place had no patrons, just a lone bartender drying out the inside of a glass. He could have been a hippie at Woodstock or an eighties rock star with his long, straight hair and half-baked expression. He was looking straight at us.

  “What will it be? You”—the bartender tilted the glass toward Jack—“look like a bourbon-on-the-rocks man.”

  He couldn’t be further from the truth. Jack preferred vodka martinis.

  Jack didn’t answer, just pulled out his cred pack.

  “The FBI? What’s this about?” The bartender set the glass on the counter and tossed the towel over his shoulder.

  “Would the owner be in?” Jack asked.

  “You’re speaking to him. I’m Clive Simpson.”

  “Special Agents Harper and Fisher.”

  “Are you here about that guy who died?” Simpson plucked the towel from his shoulder and picked up another glass.

  “That guy?” Jack asked, prying for specifics.

  “Yeah, it was all over the news. Ferris something? I only remembered his name because of that movie.”

  I glanced at Jack, but his gaze remained on Simpson.

  There was something odd about the way he phrased it, as if his knowing Ferris’s name didn’t have to do with the news. Otherwise, why would he have to remember the name?

  “Did you know Ferris?” I asked.

  “Know might be a little strong, but he’d come in here.” Simpson set the glass down and wiped the towel across the bar.

  He was keeping his hands busy, essentially fidgeting. People fidgeted when they were uncomfortable, impatient, or had something to hide. In Simpson’s case, I would’ve gone with the latter. He knew more than he was telling us, but I had a feeling he might clam up if we pressed him about Ferris. It was interesting, however, that the two victims we knew about had both come to this bar.

  “When was the last time Ferris was here?” I asked.

  “Monday night.”

  “Time?”

  “Just after eleven.”

  “You sound pretty certain about that.”

  “I remember, and there ain’t no crime in that.” Simpson let go of the towel and wiped his hands on his jeans.

  “Was he here alone?” I followed up.

  “Yes and no.”

  I cocked my head to the left. “How does that work exactly?”

  “He came in alone, but he made a friend at the bar.”

  “A man or a woman?” Jack asked.

  “A lady. And oh yeah, she was a looker.”

  “Describe her,” I said.

  “Long, dark, curly hair.”

  “Do you remember anything else about her?”

  “Nice legs, short skirt, a silk scarf around her neck. Oh.” Simpson seemed to have lost his footing or balance and stumbled backward a bit.

  “What is it?” Jack asked.

  “I’ve seen her before.” He swallowed audibly. “Ah, guy’s name was Kyle. Kyle Malone.” Simpson was braced against the bar now, sweat beading on
his forehead. “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “We were actually going to bring him up,” Jack stated calmly.

  “Wait here. One minute.”

  Simpson disappeared into the back and returned holding a black ledger. He slapped the book on the bar and thumbed through the pages. He stopped and pressed an index finger to a mess of handwriting.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  Simpson was reading, his lips moving, nothing being said out loud. “Aha.” He looked up at Jack and me. “After I heard about his murder, I thought I’d write down my memories. You know, just in case the fuzz came by.”

  The fuzz? Put something in a movie and it never dies.

  “I noted who he spoke to and left with,” Simpson continued. “But I also made a note of something else.” He spun the book to face me, and I did my best to read his barely legible handwriting. Even leaning in close, I couldn’t discern it for the life of me.

  “Here.” Simpson wriggled his fingers to get the book back. “It’s my writing, isn’t it? I probably should have been a doctor.” He looked at us. “That was a joke.”

  I’d laugh if I found it funny.

  “I wrote down, Dude who looked like a lady. Long, curly hair. But I remember her eyes. Very dark and mysterious.” Simpson paused for a few seconds and then went on. “She was drinking with Malone the night of his murder. I can’t remember if they left together, though. She seemed nice, not dangerous or violent. I wasn’t going to the police with this. They’d have laughed in my face.”

  “Yet you found her noteworthy enough to add to your little book there?” Jack pointed to it.

  “I guess.” Simpson’s hands were shaking. “She killed Kyle and Ferris?”

  “It’s too early to say,” Jack said. “Do you have security cameras?”

  “No.”

  “None inside or in the parking lot?”

  Simpson shook his head.

  I wasn’t sure what Jack was thinking, but I was wondering where the lines intersected to attract the same killer—assuming it was the same killer. Had our unsub used their looks to lull in Ferris? Was this all about rapists who used date-rape drugs? Regardless of the answer, we needed to figure it out if we were going to catch this killer.