Silencing Sapphire

by Mia Thompson

  Silencing Sapphire

  A Sapphire Dubois Mystery

  Mia Thompson

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Mia Thompson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition October 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-067-9

  To my husband, Chadley.

  Chapter 1

  There were two people in the garage that night and only one of them was going to make it out alive.

  The light bulbs in the staircase were dying. They flickered on and off as if the building was trying to warn her. Run. He’s coming for you.

  In the darkness he felt superhuman. The strobe effect moved him from one place to the next in the blink of an eye. She was three flights above him and every time the light flashed back on, he was that much closer to her.

  How? was the only question running though his mind. How will she die?

  Unlike his fellow murderers, who seemed to have one set M.O., he refused to be redundant. The girl’s personality mattered to him, but other than that, he lived his life not day by day, but moment to moment. He ate when he wanted to, killed when he wanted to, and worked only when he wanted to. Unless, of course, he was with his mother, then he did everything she wanted to.

  That wasn’t the only thing that separated him from the others with a thrill for a kill. He never kept track of how many he slayed. There were only two kills that mattered to him, his first and his next.

  The first time he killed was accidental. He was raping a young woman in the alley by a crowded downtown street when it happened.

  With tears in her eyes, she reached toward the bustling masses only five yards away. She screamed and he squeezed his hand hard over her lips and nose, drowning her voice with pressure. It took him awhile to realize that the reason her body stopped trembling wasn’t because she gave into him, but because he stole her breath.

  He would never forget how that last tear trickled down her cheek. Her lifeless eyes and hand still reached to the busy crowd, as if they could save her from death.

  Staring down at her, he realized that stealing life was power in its absolute form. He thought raping gave him control, but her death gave him something more. She was dead because he had the power to end her life. The feeling was indescribable. He wanted to repeat and relive that moment of death for the rest of his life.

  Tonight was no different.

  He flew up the staircase, two steps at a time, chasing after her. She was one level above him now. He could feel the urge to kill rising within him. Hot, black, and overpowering, it poured out of him. He prepared to become her God.

  Though she pretended otherwise, he knew she was sacred. Her steps were short and fast because she was tense. Like the others, she didn’t want to run because, in her mind, the person following her was not a deranged serial killer, but simply someone who had parked on the same level as her.

  But the man following her was, in fact, a deranged serial killer. She was getting the warning signals, but years of social training—don’t make a fool of yourself—overrode her survival instincts.

  So many girls could have gotten away from him had they listened to their instincts and ran. Honestly, he wasn’t that fast.

  He leaned over the railing, catching a glimpse of her brown hair and petite frame before she got off on her level.

  Her name, which he loved, was that of a gemstone. Then again, weren’t all their names gems, sweets, or months of the year?

  He took his time with the last steps, grateful that she decided to take the stairs instead of the old elevator. The chase allowed him the time he needed to figure out how she would die.

  In order to repeat the feeling of surprise from his first kill, he kept his options open. He might decide on throat-cutting, for instance, then change his mind and rip her esophagus out with his bare hands instead.

  For this gem, he already passed on the usual kills. Stabbing felt cliché. Strangling too boring. Decapitation overrated.

  The bulb flashes grew faint, their life coming to an end. Like hers.

  He sped up and the rapid beats of his steps bounced between the thick cement walls of the garage. He knew she heard him coming. When he reached the last steps, he saw her run.

  The bulbs burned out and the staircase turned black. He stared at her from a blanket of darkness. She was exposed and her sprint reminded him of a terrified rabbit.

  He knew what he wanted.

  He wouldn’t kill her in the garage. He would bring her to the woods. There, she would be strung upside down in a tree and skinned alive. He would take his time peeling the skin away from her red flesh like he’d done with rabbits when he was a kid.

  His gaze drew to the humming metal box next to the garage’s elevator and a smirk spread across his face. He grabbed his knife and stabbed it into the generator.

  The overhead lights shut off in a domino effect that ended at the girl. As the last overhead went out she stopped. After a moment, she moved again. Her pace was fast and focused now, the sound of a woman running for her life.

  He moved toward her in the shadows, traveling fast and on light feet. He hid behind a wall divider and peered at her as she scrambled through her purse for the keys. She looked over her shoulder every second, her senses yelling that she wasn’t alone.

  He waited until she found her keys and got into her car. Just as she exhaled, believing she was out of harm’s way, he lunged for her.

  He ripped the door open and reached for her. She let out a sharp scream and grabbed his arm. She fought back.

  He knew she wouldn’t go down without a battle. She was a tough one, which is why he liked her. He just didn’t expect her to be so strong.

  Trapped by her twisting grip, his knees buckled under him and it looked as though he was losing. It caught him off guard. He was supposed to be Zeus, not her.

  He let his free hand search for something, anything. His fingers wrapped around the base of her side mirror and ripped it off.

  He swung the back of the mirror and smashed it into her face. Again and again, he heard her bones crack and her skull shatter. He bashed until there was nothing left to bash. He didn’t stop until his face was covered in her blood.

  As her lights went out, the overheads burst back on; the backup generator had kicked in.

  He looked down at her and his adrenaline pumped, filling him with life. Her pretty face was gone. Bloody flesh and fragments of her nose remained.

  He headed for the elevator, grinning. The bashing was wonderful, just as unexpected and fulfilling as his first. He killed for fun, and she—his gem—was just that.

  The elevator doors closed, and his smile faded on cue. This always happened when the moment was over. She, who had just meant everything to him, now meant nothing. She was in the past, just as forgotten as the others.

  He sighed, knowing he would have to walk around with the hollowness as he waited for the only thing that mattered: his next.

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened.

  Then again, he thought, trying to be optimistic as he looked at his blood splattered watch, the night is young.

  And his curfew wasn’t until 11:3
0.

  Chapter 2

  Run.

  She smiled over the ocean of rich and famous.

  The Beverly Hills Country Club was filled with people laughing, drinking, and swapping bodily fluids with those other than their spouses in the coatroom.

  On the outside, Sapphire Dubois looked the part. From the Jimmy Choos and Dior dress, to the man holding her hand, she gave the impression of the typical Beverly Hills heiress.

  It was a lie.

  On the inside, Sapphire was screaming for only two things: to hunt them and to be with him.

  Run. Her legs were unresponsive, crossed at the ankles in proper Beverly Hills fashion.

  A sharp ding ding ding came from a 0.15 karat diamond wine glass held by Mrs. Vanderpilt, her fiancé John’s mother. Next to John’s mother sat Mr. Vanderpilt, wearing the expression of a man surrounded by cockroaches. The Dubois’ 250 million worth was trailer trash compared to Vanderpilt’s multi-billion-dollar empire.

  “Good evening, dear friends and family. I’m so pleased you all could join us for the pre-rehearsal dinner tonight.”

  Only in Beverly Hills did people rehearse a rehearsal.

  Breathe, Sapphire, breathe. This is how big the mess had gotten.

  “Through our years of marriage, my husband and I have traveled the world.” The crowd held onto Mrs. Vanderpilt’s every word. “Many times to help those who could not help themselves.”

  Beverly Hills Translation Guide (BHTG): “Shipping jobs overseas, receiving substantial tax cuts.”

  “The poor villages in Africa, the starved children of Indonesia.”

  BHTG: “Locating cheap child labor.”

  “Saving the endangered baboons of the rain forest.”

  BHTG: “Cutting down the rainforest and using its baboons for medical research.”

  “And now, we welcome you, Sapphire, into our family.” She raised her glass. “To young love!”

  BHTG: “May it end before the prenup kicks in.”

  The family and friends seated around the U-shaped table raised their glasses along with the guests in the middle of the room. Everyone seemed oblivious to the fact that Mrs. Vanderpilt had just compared Sapphire joining the family to saving a baboon. To them, she was just another charity case.

  Sapphire watched the crowd sip their Dom. She wanted to blame them for the wedding and for 18 years of making her feel like a caged animal, but she knew they weren’t the problem. Sapphire was the black sheep disguised in Dior. She was the one who didn’t belong and who wanted to be out hunting them.

  The only other person around the U-shaped table who didn’t seem to be enjoying herself was Petunia, her Uncle Gary’s daughter. Petunia sat next to her boyfriend, dragging her finger around her water glass while keeping her narrowed eyes on Sapphire. Her thoughts were clear: Why does she get to marry a Vanderpilt and not me? I’m the actual Dubois, not her. What does he even see in her?

  Good question, what did he see in her? Sapphire looked at him.

  John Vanderpilt III stared at his reflection in the caviar bowl, making a series of faces.

  “What are you doing?” Sapphire asked.

  “Practicing for the wedding photos,” John said, eyes still on himself. “I call this ‘The Daniel Craig’. What do think?” He pouted, furrowed his eyebrows, and squinted.

  Run.

  Sapphire initiated a stare-down with her legs. Nothing, not even a twitch. Not that it mattered. Even if her legs obeyed, John’s iron grip on her hand would keep her trapped.

  How had it even gotten to this point? How was she so close to marrying a man she couldn’t stand?

  “Aaa-ha-ha-haa!” Chrissy laughed next to Sapphire, throwing her head back.

  Sapphire peered at her best friend. Christina Kraft, heiress of the Kraft industry, was deeply entertained by an anecdote that she, herself, had just told.

  That’s where it started, with Chrissy.

  It was months ago, right after a killer had stalked her, tortured Shelly McCormick, and nearly drowned Julia, the Dubois’ ex-housekeeper and the woman who had raised Sapphire.

  John and Sapphire had been broken up when he burst into the middle of Julia and her husband, Antonio’s reception. He stole the microphone from the band and got down on one knee, asking Sapphire to marry him.

  The proposal was gladly accepted…by Chrissy on Sapphire’s behalf. Sapphire had stood in shock, opening and closing her mouth like a fish.

  This was nothing new. Chrissy always did things on her behalf. Like deciding to assign Sapphire a new wardrobe, or give her a pony. But a fiancé? That was a bit much, even for Chrissy.

  Sapphire tried to hold a grudge against her friend, but it was like trying to stay mad at a puppy. Chrissy didn’t know any better and her eyes were always big and full of innocence. Ever since last November, when they had that talk, Chrissy annoyed her less. There were even times when Sapphire enjoyed being around her now.

  Sapphire had opted to not worry about the wedding; the Vanderpilts had threatened John with the loss of his inheritance if he married Sapphire. She had been confident he would dump her the second his beloved Porsche and allowance were taken away.

  She was not prepared for the Vanderpilts to cave.

  John was their only son, the one meant to carry on the family fortune. The bastards had been bluffing, hoping he would fold. But he hadn’t, and Sapphire’s problem had jumped from manageable to mayhem.

  The Vanderpilts were high up on the social scale, right below the Sinclairs, Krafts, and Rockefellers. Not wanting to marry a Vanderpilt was as preposterous as avoiding air. If Sapphire broke it off, people in Beverly Hills would want to know why and the rumors would begin. Was Sapphire Dubois abnormal? Insane? She couldn’t have that.

  Sapphire had spent the last three years hunting and capturing them: Southern California’s most-wanted serial killers. With eight under her belt, she was a vigilante known to the police as the Serial Catcher. She was hunted by a detective who had no idea that the Serial Catcher he was so hell-bent on tracking down had already shared his bed.

  She couldn’t raise suspicion, couldn’t risk being known as anything other than a stereotypical heiress, someone who thought Ted Bundy was a character from Married with Children.

  When Eloise—the wedding planner from Hell—was brought on board, everything spiraled out of control. Millions were spent on the preparations.

  Sapphire knew the only way to stop the madness was a plan. A perfect plan that would make her emerge from the whole debacle blameless.

  So far, she’d only come up with imperfect plans, like faking her own death, building a time machine, or joining the circus.

  She would not marry John Vanderpilt.

  “Pardon me. Pardon meee!” Sapphire’s mother, Vivienne, elbowed her way to the microphone.

  Oh God.

  Sapphire used her hand to block her mother out of sight and searched for him instead, knowing he wouldn’t be there. She turned him away months ago. He was a hunter and she, his target. Not a great foundation for a healthy relationship. She thought he would vanish from her mind with time and distance.Instead he grew like a tumor. A really hot tumor.

  “Is this on?” Vivienne pounded the microphone. A series of high pitched squeals sounded.

  The audience covered their ears, and Sapphire closed her eyes wishing for two things. One: that her mother would be sober…ish. Completely sober was unrealistic. Two: that the country club would spontaneously combust and force the night to end.

  The universe responded.

  While over-explaining her joke, Vivienne gestured wildly, accidentally clocking Mrs. Vanderpilt in the face, who. fell into the thick curtains. The curtain pole couldn’t hold the weight and came crashing down, knocking over a waiter who was just about to flambé the crepe suzette. Instead, he flambéed the whole table.

  A mass panic broke out. Oblivious, Vivienne tried to save her joke. “Skinny, get it? John owns slaughterhouses and Sapphire’s a vegetarian. What will she
eat?”

  In slow motion, Sapphire watched John’s fingers unclench her hand. He took off into the chaos to help his mother.

  “Aaa-ha-ha-haa!” Chrissy laughed, pointing at the waiter whose sleeve was on fire.

  Not one eye was on Sapphire.

  Run!

  Sapphire’s legs jerked and she reacted. She marched for the ceiling-high double doors and pushed them open. The cool evening breeze hit her, and she took her first true breath of the night, her body tingling with relief.

  Sapphire made her way to the valet where she found John’s friends and Justin Bieber cooing over someone’s new Jaguar. They were blocking her only way out. Sapphire looked over at the wall on the other side of the golf course. In two swift moves, she kicked off her Jimmy Choos and left them for dead.

  Hearing the seams of her tight Dior dress rip with every stride, Sapphire sprinted through the sea of sprinklers and across the wet grass. The farther she got from the Beverly Hills society, the better she felt.

  One person ran through Sapphire’s mind as she scaled the stone wall. Him. The one man she should be running from, not to.

  Aston Ridder.

  * * * * *

  Detective Aston Ridder was in the middle of a threesome.

  He stared up at the ceiling above his bed and shifted his nuts, placing his arm behind his neck for support. To the left of him lay a man, the Serial Catcher, and to the right of him a woman, Sapphire Dubois.

  Neither of them were really there, but with the amount of space they always took up in Aston’s mind they might as well have been.

  “You’ve had months and I’m still free,” the Serial Catcher boasted. “Losing your touch, Ridder?”

  On his other side, Sapphire propped herself up on her elbow and smiled. “No, there’s someone on his mind who matters more than you. He just won’t admit it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the Serial Catcher said. “We both know the only thing Aston Ridder truly cares about is himself. You’re a temporary obsession at best. I’m the ticket to making his childhood dream a reality.”