[Sign Behind the Crime 02.0] Aries

by Ronnie Allen

  Inside the park, he pulled into a spot close to the exit. The trees were barren, leaves on the ground blew into the lot. No one was jogging on the track. No teams played on the fields. Kids were still in school. He sat bored for a few minutes, tapping the steering wheel. Then he spotted her driving in her broken down Chevy. Oh, man. That ride must have at least a hundred K miles on it. He felt his Taurus in his back belt. Silencer in place. She pulled in next to him. He surveyed the area in and out of the lot. No cop cars. No unmarked ones. She rolled down the passenger window. He rolled down the driver’s side. The cold wind sent a chill through him. The chill wasn’t from nervousness. Fuck. Maybe it was.

  Rachel rolled her lips together. “Where do you want to go? I’m starving.”

  As he moved his hand around his back to remove the gun, he shrugged. “Don’t know. What you in the mood for?” The gun lay on his lap.

  “There’s Chinese not far from here.”

  He turned his body toward her. Just enough for her to think he was paying attention. “Okay, babe.” With that, he raised his hand and shot through the open window, hitting her in the neck. Blood splattered as she fell forward. “Okay, hit number two. Done.” He pulled out and left the lot without thinking about it or looking back.

  ***

  Sam, Nick, and Withers, convened in the back lot of AriellaRose’s warehouse in downtown Brooklyn. Sam peeked in the window first, hunching her shoulders in frustration. Her solemn expression prompted Nick to look through the narrow window, using his hand across his forehead to block the glare. Then Withers took his turn and shook his head. Meredith Cummings lay on the concrete flooring in a fetal position.

  The wait for ESU took longer than Sam had patience for. When they finally arrived, the lock was easily cut with monster-sized bolt cutters. ESU ran in, canvased the area, as EMS technicians checked out Meredith. She was ice cold. Dead and iced cold. The EMS tech didn’t find any means of a violent death.

  Sam approached him. “Could it be an overdose?”

  “Probably. But I doubt if she was alone. They probably left her. Crime Scene will get everything.”

  “Thanks.” Nick approached Sam just as her phone rang. He stood next to her while she answered and put the phone on speaker. “Hello, Lieutenant,” she said.

  “Sam, there's been another murder this morning.”

  “Where?” Nick interjected.

  “Jesus Parvos struck again. Rachel Hawthorne was shot in the neck in Marine Park. There was a phone conversation between them. They were both in Brooklyn, and we still can’t get a definitive residence on Parvos. I want you both there, ASAP,” Lieutenant Rojas said before he disconnected.

  After hearing the last part of the conversation, Withers swiped his hand over his head. “Where the hell is Frank?” he demanded, accosting Sam.

  “Frankie’s class is having a Thanksgiving party. It was his job to bring in sweet potato pie for thirty kids.”

  Withers laughed. “Been there.”

  “Well, his mother-in-law cooked but he wanted to go. He feels he’s neglected him this past week. Dingo, we’ve got to get in to see AriellaRose.”

  “Not until her attorney clears it.”

  “How do we make that happen?” Sam demanded.

  “We’ll get Frank to deal with that.”

  “We have to get out of here,” Nick said.

  ***

  In a corner booth, away from other diners, Jesus sat in a crowded deli on the avenue, digging into a couple of dogs, loaded with mustard, sauerkraut, relish, with a kasha knish on the side. He had already downed the bowls of coleslaw, cucumber salad, and herbed chickpeas they had put on the table, along with a bottle of water. For some reason, his jobs made him famished. Up until now, his jobs had only been as a guard, an enforcer, to make sure a deal hadn’t gone sour. They never did. His mere presence convinced buyers and sellers not to fuck with his employers when he was around. He was never shy about throwing a punch, or two, or three. He smiled at the mental images that came to mind. Broken noses, cracked jaws, his own bloodied knuckles. He made a fist and turned his hand to check them out. Hell, yeah. But bullets were so much cleaner.

  Now that he could be a hit man for hire, his appetite soared. He’d better watch it. He had to remain in the same weight class for his upcoming boxing match in Vegas in six weeks. He patted his six-pack. Rock solid. He also needed to take care of this detective so he could devote his time to training. He went to grab a piece of knish and it wasn’t there. Fuck. Then it registered. His mind had been elsewhere. Not good in his line of work.

  He thought about how he’d find her. He decided to take a look in the park. Maybe the cops found Rachel by now. It had been an hour but New York City cops were pretty fast. He had no information about the detective bitch, so he’d need to get the down and dirty by himself. He checked the bill the waitress put on the table. Even though there was a cash register to pay at, he threw thirty bucks on the table and sauntered out of the restaurant.

  He parked outside the park on the street, but the one nearest the lot. As he expected, police were there as well as investigators. He pulled binoculars from the middle compartment. After adjusting the lens, he saw her. The same blonde ponytailed detective he had seen in the paper. Samantha Wright. He zoomed in. Fuck, she was sure hot. He’d have fun with her. For sure, he planned to fuck this one. Before he killed her. The thought made him hard. He surprised himself. Fuck. He needed to get laid.

  From the newspaper, he knew the precinct she worked in. He couldn’t go there. The police had Rachel’s phone. They’d ID him from the conversation. By now, they’d finished their cleanup of Emma’s apartment. He had been careful not to touch anything. He revisited it in his mind. He didn’t touch furniture.

  Fuck! The plastic ties! My prints will be on those for sure. And the baggie of Blue. Okay. Two big mistakes. They definitely have me. What are my choices? Skip the country now? Fuck. And not do the hit of a lifetime? Hell, no!

  He had never been one to listen to his internal dialogue and he wasn’t about to start now. He’d follow her. Not his smartest move. But he sure wanted to fuck her.

  He sat for thirty minutes before they dispersed. Samantha Wright got into her own vehicle. The other two cops, in suits, he presumed they were detectives, entered another, parked in front of hers. Good he’d get her plate. Through the binoculars, he zoomed in. He got a clear view and jotted the plate number down on the back of his hand.

  After they drove off, he pulled up the duffle that lay on the floor of the passenger seat. He retrieved his laptop, and one of the bogus credit cards, sticking the card between his teeth. A good a place as any. He booted up the laptop and Googled match license plate to car owner. A bunch of web sites popped up. The cheapest one was five bucks. Okay.

  He looked at the card. Henrietta Cohen wouldn’t notice the five bucks he put on it. He filled in the info, paid with the card, and then more questions arose, like why do you want to know? One option was, I want to purchase the vehicle. Perfect. He checked that and, instantly, Samantha Wright’s home address in the Madison section of Brooklyn popped up.

  “Thank you, Henrietta Cohen,” he mumbled under his breath.

  ***

  Jesus waited until ten p.m. to pay his visit to Sam. Knowing this was an expensive family neighborhood, he figured anyone with kids would be home with their little ones tucked in bed. In the meantime, he visited one of his hacker friends, “Jerry,” who provided him, with no questions asked, a house alarm decoder. Also a master key for a high security lock for the front door. “Jerry” kept his anonymity, as did his clients. Cash only. No receipts. Nothing that the purchaser could declare as a business expense on their taxes. Jesus laughed out loud. In contrast to Emma’s block on Staten Island that didn’t have a parking spot to spare, Sam’s block of detached, one-family houses had plenty. The driveways could hold two cars lengthwise. Her car was parked toward the front porch. Didn’t look to him like she had company. The spot in front of her house
was vacant. He didn’t want to park there to give her any hint of a vehicle that she might not have been expecting. He parked three houses down.

  “Jerry” had told him there might be a slight chance of her alarm having a warning sound if someone entered the house, if she was inside. That made sense. Another downer was that her alarm could be connect to the local precinct. The nearest precinct was three miles away. That should be more than enough time for him to mess her up bad. Fuck. Doubt if he would have the time to fuck her. But it was a chance he’d take.

  He exited his car, zipped his jacket and brought his hand around his back to feel his gun in his back belt. Then he walked the three houses to get to hers. He hopped up the four steps. He held the decoder under the metal piece that protruded from the bottom of the square box. He depressed the “Read” button. About fifteen seconds later, the red button on Sam’s box turned green. He retrieved the key for the lock, inserted it, and he was in. He pushed down the lever on the doorknob, pushed the door open, and wound up in a small foyer. He closed the door behind him, walked a few steps into her living room, and smiled.

  He heard the voice coming from the security alarm microphone. “Detective Wright, are you okay? Press the green button if you’re all right.”

  Jesus stepped to the side, so as not to be seen in a camera if there was one set up, extended his hand around to the box, and depressed the green button with his index finger.

  “Thank you, Detective Wright.”

  He smiled. He heard the shower running. That meant she couldn’t have heard him enter, or heard the alarm company. Walking on tiptoes, he made sure his steps up the carpeted staircase wouldn’t be heard. Good thing the stairs didn’t squeak. He reach the four-foot-square platform at the top of the staircase and stood a foot back from the bathroom door, grinning. The shower shut off. After a few minutes the bathroom door opened.

  Detective Wright stood before him.

  Naked.

  CHAPTER 31

  Sam stared at him for a split second. His shit eating-grin delayed any action as he focused on her breasts and took his terrifying gaze down her torso and legs. During that second, she tapped a button on the doorframe, pretending to hold onto it. She hoped he didn’t notice her index finger movement. She didn’t know what he was going to do, so she went at him with both hands on his chest and pushed him backward.

  He threw his arms around her, hugging her, and, in a squat, shoved his butt down against the edge of the staircase in an attempt to avoid falling down the flight of stairs. With her weight on his upper body, he couldn’t prevent it, and they slid down the thirteen steps. Sam rode him as if she had lain down on a surf board. They bobbed on the trip down.

  Okay, I can tell his weapon is in his belt, around by his back.

  He kept his head raised during the slide and landed on the carpet on his shoulder blades. His long legs lay on the steps, tilting up like a plank. She tried to wiggle free, but he had her arms pinned under her and, as he held her tightly, her butt and legs were straight up on his. He wrapped his legs around her calves to immobilize her.

  “You fucking bitch. I’m going to fire your ass up!” With full hand swings, he connected with her butt, alternating cheeks, with eight hearty smacks.

  “Ow! You’re hurting me! Stop! Ow!” She buried her head into his chest to distract him.

  While he raised his hand to pummel her butt again, she wiggled her left arm out from under him, made a fist, and punched him in the nose as hard as she could. She heard it crack. His head bounced back onto the carpet, but he rebounded fast. He screamed out in temporary pain. Before she could jab her fingers into his eyes, he grabbed her arm. They wrestled and he won. He tucked her arm down by her side and held onto her tightly.

  On his back, he shimmied--with her on top of him--toward the center of the living room, until his body lay flat. “What the fuck did you do that for, bitch? I had my nose broken so many times, I don’t feel it no more!”

  His hold on her was tight. Her arms were pinned at her sides. She had no shoes to protect her feet. If she kicked him, she could break a foot. Crap. This man was strong and in shape. She had to think, in spite of her burning ass.

  He rolled over and tucked Sam under him.

  She squirmed, her ass stinging from friction on the carpet, and she gasped. “I know who you are, Jesus.”

  “Well, when I get through with you, you’ll remember me for life, bitch. Your very short life.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “After I give you the fuck of your lifetime, I’m gonna take care of you. Got orders. You’ll go to hell happy. Look at me, bitch.”

  She looked away, her mind on an escape plan.

  He grabbed her face with his right hand and pulled her face around to his as his shoulder pressed against hers. “I said look at me!”

  Sam looked him in the eyes. She had done wonderful things to men with her eyes. Will it work on a sicko like him?

  She had to try. She softened her facial expressions and tried to relax. He felt it because he loosened his grip on her cheeks. She looked left eye to left eye with him, the way to make a connection with anyone.

  He fell for it and softened.

  “Oh, man, those blue eyes. You could melt a guy with those eyes. Know that? How about I punch you in the face good? Won’t be so pretty then, uh, bitch?”

  She moved her face away, but even as she faced sideways, he ran two fingers on her nose from between her eyes down to the tip. “Ever get a broken nose, bitch?” She shook her head. “Yeah. I could tell. Yeah. I’ll do that. Won’t be so pretty then, either. But I’ll wait on that. Got a lot of things to do to you, first.”

  He shifted his legs on her thigh. Sam felt his length swell against her leg. She forced a smile. Then she swallowed. He was exerting his full body weight against her. Even though he was slighter in build than Frank, he felt much heavier. His anger made him stronger.

  “Yeah. I’m in the mood to get laid.”

  She couldn’t fight him. He had a weapon and she was nowhere near one of hers. Couldn’t Karate chop a bullet. She had to be smart. “I’d think twice about fucking me, though.”

  “Why you say that?”

  She swallowed. “Just got diagnosed with genital herpes. It sucks.” She remained straight-faced. “Still contagious. Actually, at the most contagious stage. Doc says I got a real bad case, too. I’m so itchy and burning down there. Even condoms won’t protect.”

  “No shit?” His eyes widened, his complexion flushing. “You’re just fucking with me.”

  “I kid you not. Wanna take a chance?”

  His erection petered. Sam felt that, too.

  “Oh, man, you’re something else. Ya know that?” he asked.

  “What?”

  He ran his fingers through her damp hair. “What’s such a hot chick like you doing as a cop? You should be in a magazine, girl. Or what are you doing to catch that shit?”

  She forced a smiled. “Well, we both know each other, then.”

  “Seems so.”

  “Why did you break into my house? You have to know we’re looking for you.” Her tone was compassionate, not denigrating. Hard to do under the circumstances, but her training prevailed.

  “What are you looking for me, for?”

  “Jesus, come on. I’m trying to solve some high-profile murder cases, and you went ahead and offed two of our main suspects.” She wanted to make it sound like he took away her thrill by getting to them first.

  He gave her a quizzical look. “What?”

  “You really don’t know?’”

  “Enlighten me, bitch.” He pushed away and sat up next to her, keeping his arms secure on her midriff. He couldn’t take his gaze from her breasts. “Don’t you dare move. I could break you in half.”

  She exhaled deep breaths, relieved that he was off her. She was safe, for the moment. Now she’d make a move when the time was right. She remained still, hands lying at her sides, gaze kept on him. “My name is Saman
tha, not bitch. Emma Sanders and Rachel Hawthorne are--were--wanted in the murders of Steven, Valerie, and Kathryn Larcon, and designer Meghan Mason. Where did the hits on them come from?”

  He did a double take, darted up, and thudded around the living room, running his hands through his long hair, stomping his foot so hard that the lamps on her end tables shook.

  Sam sat up, legs extended in front of her, with arms behind her. He stood, gaze down at the carpet, one hand snug inside his jean’s pocket and the other fisted, tapping his mouth. With caution, she stood up. “Jesus, tell me what’s the matter. Come on, sit down. Let me at least get myself decent, okay?”

  He nodded. She slipped to her coat closet to the right of where he stood, opened the door slowly so as not to startle him, and pulled out a long, pink duster. She held it out, showing him there were no hidden pockets. He watched her every move and he was close enough and strong enough to do serious damage to her. Her throbbing backside and her heated body, remnants from his body weight upon her, were reminders. She pulled the duster around her shoulders, slipped one arm in at a time, then tied the belt. She walked over to her loveseat that hugged the wall in front of the staircase and sat on the left side, next to an end table that had a drawer, that was lodged into the corner. Rubbing her lips together, working through the sting on her butt, she rested her arm on the armrest. “Jesus, come on, sit down.”

  He sat on a teal club chair that matched the couch, opposite her. “They knocked off how many people?”

  “Four so far. Who ordered the hits?”

  He bent over, with his hands clasped between his legs, and remained silent.