Like No One Else

by Maureen Smith

  Tommie could barely breathe. Her heart thundered in her ears as she forced herself to continue undressing, trying to tamp down the fear, the panic clawing at her insides. She knew it was only a matter of time before this psychopath would kill her. Unless she did something, took action.

  Covertly she glanced around her bedroom. She had no weapon, and even if she somehow managed to get her hands on a blunt object, he would be on her in an instant. And she couldn’t forget that he was armed with more than a knife. The gun he’d used to kill Roland was holstered at his waist, a deadly reminder of just what he was capable of.

  “I was in town when the Spider Tattoo Killer struck,” Donovan explained, still caressing the knife in a way that made her skin crawl. “I was there the night the homicide detective came to speak to you about the other dancer’s murder. I went to the bathroom, and while no one was looking, I crept down the hallway and hid around a corner so that I could eavesdrop on the conversation between you, your sister, and the detective.” He shook his head at her, clucking his tongue in disapproval. “It was obvious that your sister had a thing for him, but that didn’t stop you from flirting with him, trying to seduce him. You wanted him, badly. And for some reason, that stayed in my mind.”

  Tommie stared at him, speechless. Her shame over the way she’d behaved with Sebastien was eclipsed by Donovan’s implausible revelation. How could he have been there that night, hiding in the corridor, and no one saw him?

  The same way he snuck into his victims’ houses and brutally murdered them, then left without a trace.

  “I read all about the Spider Tattoo case,” he continued. “I was fascinated, awed by the killer’s cunning and ingenuity. Even after I returned home to Houston, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or you. You were hot for that detective, so much so that you were willing to hurt your sister over him. I began to fantasize about what it would be like to be Sebastien Durand, to be on the receiving end of your desire. And that’s when I decided to become a detective.

  “Oh, I know it sounds far-fetched,” he drawled at the incredulous look Tommie gave him, “but the truth of the matter was, I wasn’t all that happy working as a securities analyst. Sure, the pay was good, but the work was unrewarding. Of course, my parents weren’t too pleased when I told them about my decision to become a cop. But then,” he added, his lips twisting bitterly, “my self-righteous father has never been pleased with anything I’ve done. He wanted me to become a pro basketball player, even named me after Julius Erving. But I proved to be a total disappointment to him. Once he realized that I had no athletic skills whatsoever, he pretty much wrote me off.”

  Tommie swallowed, and told herself she was crazy for feeling a twinge of sympathy for him, a sense of kinship. How many times had she felt like a failure for not living up to her brilliant father’s expectations? How many times had she yearned to see his eyes glow with pride the way they did over her sister’s accomplishments?

  Did Julius Donovan’s father unwittingly create the monster he had become? Had his father’s rejection battered at his psyche enough to drive him over the edge?

  Don’t give him a pass! You’re not exactly the apple of your father’s eye, either, and you didn’t turn into a homicidal maniac!

  Donovan wasn’t finished with his story. “I seriously considered moving to San Antonio and joining the police force, just to be near you. But when I returned to the Sirens and Spurs two months later, I was told that you no longer worked there. One of the other strippers told me she’d heard that you’d moved to New York to pursue a professional dancing career. I was crushed. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I went back home, and still decided to go through with joining the police force. But I never forgot you, Tommie. So you can imagine how thrilled I was when, several months later, I found out that you’d joined a dance company that was making a tour stop in Houston. That was the first time I attended one of your performances, but it definitely wasn’t the last.

  “I scheduled my vacation around your debut appearance in Black Orpheus. I flew to New York, and was blown away by your rendition of Eurydice. I wanted to meet you afterward, get your autograph, and tell you how much I’d enjoyed your performance.” His expression hardened. “But you weren’t available. The other dancers were, but you couldn’t be bothered to meet your fans.”

  “That’s not true,” Tommie said quickly, alarmed by the lethal fury in his eyes. “I was having dinner afterward with an old employer and his wife. They were flying back home that night, so we had to leave right after the performance to make our dinner reservation.”

  He looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. “I wrote you a letter, and you never responded.”

  She stared at him, struck by a horrifying realization. “You…you sent me the letter about the dream you had? About being Orpheus?”

  “So you remember.” His tone was bitterly accusing. “And you didn’t see fit to respond.”

  “I—I was busy. We were on the road and—”

  “Like I said before,” he cut her off, “your fans obviously weren’t important to you. I mailed the letter before I left New York, and even though I was too embarrassed to use my real name and address, I provided an e-mail address that I’d set up just for you, hoping you’d respond. But you never did.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tommie said lamely.

  “So am I.” He raked his dark eyes over her furiously, suddenly realizing that she’d stopped undressing and was standing there in her panties with her arms locked across her chest, covering her breasts. “Keep going!”

  His voice lashed her like the crack of a whip, and she jumped.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she tried to appeal to him, hoping to get through to him. He was a police officer, sworn to serve and protect. Surely there had to be an ounce of humanity left in him. “It’s not too late, Julius. You can let me go.”

  His face contorted with rage. “Take off the underwear!” he bellowed.

  Tommie complied at once, heart thudding.

  A slow, satisfied smile crawled across his face as he took in her nudity. Leaning back in the chair, he reached down and began stroking his erection.

  Tommie swallowed her disgust, anger tightening in her chest. Disgusting pervert, she thought, fighting the urge to attack, to fly across the room and pummel him with her fists and claw at his face with her long nails. But her fists and nails were no match for a long-bladed knife, much less a gun.

  “After you ignored my letter,” he said, watching as she reached for the red corset and skirt, “I was tempted to write to you again, to give you the benefit of the doubt. But I was a cop. I couldn’t risk coming off as a stalker. But I couldn’t get you out of my system, no matter how hard I tried. When I was off duty, I started going to some local strip clubs, half hoping to find another you. But of course that was a lost cause. The more I searched, the more desperate and angry I became, until one night I snapped. The stripper I’d taken home wasn’t cooperating. She wasn’t satisfying me the way she was supposed to.”

  He paused, a sinister gleam filling his eyes. “One minute I was wrestling with her. The next minute I had my hands around her throat, choking her. After she was dead, I buried her body in the woods. She was reported missing, but after a while the cops stopped looking for her. She was just a stripper, some junkie whore no one would ever miss.”

  Tommie stared at him, her face twisted with horrified revulsion. “You’re demented,” she whispered, feeling sick inside. “You need help.”

  He smiled slightly, shaking his head as if they were merely disagreeing about the weather. “I’m not a serial killer, Tommie. I’m not controlled by homicidal impulses. If that were true, I would have continued killing after that. But I didn’t.”

  “You just killed two innocent women last week!”

  “Only because of you.”

  “No,” she said sharply, angrily. “Don’t blame me for the heinous crimes you committed!”

  “Oh, but I do. You shouldn’t h
ave come here, Tommie. You should have stayed in New York. It was too much for me to believe that fate hadn’t intervened, bringing you to Houston, of all places. It was too much of an irresistible coincidence.”

  “So you killed Maribel Cruz and Ashton Dupree to get my attention? To somehow get back at me?”

  His face hardened with loathing. “They were both lying whores. One was fucking two married men. The other was fucking every man who would pay her, including her own foster brother. It was so easy for me to get to both of them. Maribel simply forgot to lock her front door after seeing her lover off that morning, and all I had to do was flash a wad of dough in Ashton’s face in order to set up an appointment. A liar and a whore. Just like you.”

  Tommie swallowed hard. “Okay, you hate my guts. I get it. But why would you try to frame your own partner? What did Paulo ever do to you?”

  Donovan sneered. “Other than the fact that he always treats me like a rookie, like some smart-aleck kid who’s still wet behind the ears, he’s done nothing.” A mocking gleam lit his eyes. “Oh, and he also made the mistake of telling me he’d once met you at a wedding, and had been trying to get you out of his mind ever since.

  “Don’t look so shocked, Tommie,” he drawled, amused by her surprised expression. “You have that effect on men. Haven’t we already established that? Anyway, I knew it was only a matter of time before Sanchez would find his way to you. He held out seven whole months—much longer than I expected. But being Sanchez, he had to cave in to his urges eventually. Three weeks ago, I overheard him on the phone with your brother-in-law, casually asking where you lived.”

  Tommie shook her head. “So that’s when you decided to punish him. To punish both of us.”

  A small, sadistic smile curled his lips. “I can’t think of two more deserving people.”

  The bottom dropped out of her stomach. “How do you expect to get away with this?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. In every instance, the trail leads right to Sanchez. He’s connected to all three of the victims, including you. He had a sexual relationship with each of you, and when things went sour, he resorted to murder. Just like he did with poor Hailey Morrisette. The pending assault charges against him were an unexpected gift I couldn’t have planned better myself. I’d ‘borrowed’ Roland Jackson’s Nissan Altima late one night and tailgated Sanchez on the freeway, hoping to plant a seed of suspicion in his mind about your old boyfriend. After what he did to Roland’s face, no one will have a hard time believing that Sanchez didn’t kill him in a jealous fit of rage when the deacon showed up here tonight.” He smiled narrowly. “Like I said, the trail of bodies leads right back to Detective Sanchez.”

  Tommie stared at him, chilled by the level of premeditation, the ruthless cunning. She didn’t want to imagine the horrors that awaited her. Somehow she had to make it downstairs to her office and get her hands on the pistol Paulo had given her. It was her only hope for survival.

  Donovan gave her a slow, appreciative once-over. “You look as magnificent as I remember, Eurydice.” He rose, came toward her with the knife in his hand. “It’s curtain time.”

  Terror exploded in her veins.

  She waited until he was nearly upon her.

  And then she attacked like a ferocious wildcat, stunning him.

  Fueled by panic, rage, and a desperate instinct for survival, she kicked, punched at his throat, stabbed at his eyes. He cried out, the knife clattering to the floor. Cursing profanely he launched himself at her, knocking the air from her lungs. They landed hard on the floor, Tommie taking the brunt of the fall beneath his heavy weight. The back of her head bounced off the floor. Pain exploded inside her. But she forced herself to ignore it, kicking and fighting frantically to buck his weight off her before he could go for his gun. She rammed the heel of her hand into his chin, snapping his head back.

  “Fucking bitch!” He drew back his fist and punched her across the face. Her vision blurred, her ear rang like a bell, and razor-sharp pain shot across her cheek and down her jaw.

  And still she kept fighting for her life, knowing the moment she gave up, he would kill her.

  As he reached for his gun she snapped her head up, banged forehead to forehead with all her might. Lights burst behind her eyes. Her head throbbed.

  “Crazy bitch!” he roared in outraged fury.

  His big hands seized her throat. She fought wildly, thrashing and clawing at him. But his fingers were too strong, cutting off her airway. She felt her vision dim, felt her brain begin to swell from the lack of oxygen.

  God, please don’t let me die like this! Please!

  Donovan’s feral, demented eyes locked with hers. “I’ve waited too long for this to let you win.”

  Summoning one last surge of adrenaline, Tommie drew her knee up and rammed it into his testicles, as hard as she could.

  He howled in agony and doubled over, clutching himself, giving her just enough of an opportunity to roll free.

  Wheezing, gasping for air, she scrambled to her feet with a speed and agility honed from years of dancing and bolted from the room. As she raced toward the front door that seemed miles away, she thought about what she would do if she made it downstairs. She could run outside, but she hadn’t had time to grab her car keys. And Donovan was faster, stronger. She’d never outrun him on foot.

  If she could just make it to her office, to Paulo’s gun—

  She screamed as a gunshot blasted behind her, spitting into the wall.

  “That was a warning shot,” Donovan growled, low and lethal. “Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

  Tommie flung open the front door and ran headlong into the dim stairwell. The lights flickered eerily, heightening her terror. In the back of her mind she heard Paulo’s concerned voice, warning her to get the bulbs replaced soon. And she thought of Arthur Lambert, who’d called earlier to tell her that an electrician was coming tomorrow.

  Too little, too late.

  No sooner had the ominous thought crossed her mind than the lights blinked off, plunging her into blackness.

  She swallowed a scream, her heart lurching to her throat.

  Donovan’s laughter floated through the darkness to taunt her, soft and eerie. Pursuit might not have been part of his plan, but it had become part of the deadly game.

  “I must say, Tommie. None of my other victims fought the way you did. I’m going to enjoy killing you even more than I thought I would.”

  Her blood ran like ice through her veins. She crept carefully down the stairwell, her pulse pounding. No moonlight shone through the opening in the roof. It was so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.

  “Setting up Sanchez was brilliant.” Her tormentor’s voice was growing nearer. “After what Roland did to you, I knew you’d have a hard time believing Sanchez was innocent. If you hadn’t had your little lovers’ quarrel, he’d be here right now, protecting you. Too bad.”

  She tried to go faster, and lost her footing on a step. As she tripped she grabbed for the handrail she couldn’t see, breaking a nail, skinning her knuckles on the brick wall.

  “Be careful,” Donovan warned, amused. “Me, I’m used to creeping through shadows and darkness, so I don’t need to take my time. But you? Not so lucky.”

  Like hell, Tommie thought defiantly. I’m getting out of here!

  But she miscalculated the distance to the next step. As her ankle twisted painfully, she plummeted forward, tumbling down the rest of the stairs.

  She landed on something soft lying near the bottom of the stairwell. As her fingers encountered sticky warmth and the scent of blood filled her nostrils, she realized that it was Roland’s body.

  This time she couldn’t stifle the reflexive scream that tore from her throat.

  Paulo erupted from Julius Donovan’s home, adrenaline firing his blood and fear clutching his heart.

  He’d found a shrine to Tommie in a small locked room inside his partner’s house. Evidence that confirmed his worst suspicions about th
e man he’d worked alongside every day for the past two years. There had been pictures of Tommie plastered on the walls, along with programs, brochures, playbills, and other dance memorabilia. He’d found a bookcase filled with videos and DVDs of her past performances, as well as a small wooden chest that contained scrunchies, hair clips, an old tube of lipstick, earrings, and lingerie belonging to Tommie.

  As Paulo surveyed the collection of stolen items in horrified disbelief, he’d felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Violently blindsided.

  How could he not have known?

  How could he not have detected the depravity that lurked beneath the surface of Julius Donovan’s boyish charm?

  It was inconceivable.

  As he charged from the house and strode to his truck, his cell phone rang. This time he didn’t ignore it, snatching it up halfway through the first ring.

  “Sanchez, this is Cesar. Hey, man, I thought you were placed on leave today.”

  “I am,” Paulo growled, in no mood to discuss the matter.

  “So, did they let you keep the cruiser?”

  “No. I turned in my keys. What the hell are you talking about?”

  Cesar sounded apprehensive. “I meant to call you an hour ago, but I got sidetracked with this damned paper. When I drove past Tommie’s loft a while ago, I saw your cruiser parked outside. I just automatically assumed—”

  Paulo’s blood froze. “That’s not my cruiser.”

  “Oh, shit. Look, I’m on the other side of town. I’ll meet you—”

  But Paulo had already hung up the phone. As he broke into a dead run, heart in his throat, he vowed that he would kill Donovan with his bare hands if he did anything to Tommie.

  Tommie’s ankle was throbbing unmercifully. She’d sprained it when she fell down the stairs, destroying any hope she’d had of reaching her office before Julius Donovan caught her. She could feel him behind her, could sense his menacing presence closing in on her as she lay sprawled across Roland’s corpse. She knew her own death was imminent.