by Robin Mahle
THE PRETTY ONES
A Kate Reid Novel
By Robin Mahle
Published by HARP House Publishing
January, 2017 (1st edition)
Copyright ©2017 by Robin Mahle
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design: Covermint Design
Editor: Hercules Editing and Consulting Services www.bzhercules.com
CHAPTER 1
At an hour that drifted somewhere between absolute darkness and morning light’s salvation, he lingered. The slow grind of the rising zipper fastening his hooded jacket eclipsed the ambient noise of the city streets. The one for whom he waited had announced her arrival by way of high heels striking a fractured sidewalk as she approached the neighborhood roads ahead.
An admirable command of strength complemented her mien. She would not fall prey easily. It was clear she had an understanding of these streets and this was not her first time traveling them alone. She exuded purpose, and so he had to rise to the challenge.
A flicker in her eyes was his signal. A brief flash of uncertainty as to her safety meant this was the time. From the shadows of the alleyway, he emerged. A looming figure, obscured in heavy clothing, eyes concealed by the rim of a baseball hat and hair that hung in tight rings against his shoulders.
This part of the city had been all but abandoned by law enforcement, who were otherwise engaged in efforts to eradicate gangs and drugs and all that had befallen these forgotten streets of South Los Angeles. That was why he had chosen this place, a few blocks from the more populated avenues and just in front of the residential homes in much need of improvement. This was where he could easily pick off the least affluent; those who used public transportation, worked double shifts, and were usually too tired to fend off predators.
The woman stopped in her tracks and clutched her purse. “I don’t have any money.”
“I don’t want your money.” He watched her cast her gaze in search of a place to run or a person who would help. “There’s no one here who can help you. You’re alone.”
“Please don’t hurt me. I’ll give you everything I have.” She lowered her bag from her shoulders and held it out for him.
“I can make you beautiful. I can make you legendary.” He gripped her arm and pulled her into the alley. “You’ll be famous when I’m through with you. I promise.”
She struggled to free herself and opened her mouth, ready to scream, but he slammed his hand over her lips.
“Don’t.”
♦ ♦ ♦
As anticipated, she had been difficult, but he’d accomplished the task and was ready to place her on display for all to see. The working conditions had been a bitch, but the end result was stunning. He stepped out of the shadow of the alley and noted the hint of grey light appear on the horizon. The streets would again awaken and his time was running out.
The spot had already been chosen because he left nothing to chance. With visual assurance of their solitude, he carried her to the bus stop. Physical strength was prerequisite to successful execution of his plan and he accomplished the task with ease. Timing was always the unknown component and that was what he fought against now. It would only take a car or a pedestrian to pass by for all to be spoiled.
In rapid succession, he secured her to the bench and wrapped her coat over her shoulders to cover the blood that soaked through her shirt. But it was on her face that he took care to ensure no blemishes appeared. Made up to perfection, he tilted her head and raised her shoulder for support. With his hands, he pushed her hair from her face and tucked it behind her ears. She was ready and it was time for him to leave but not before one last thing.
He retrieved his cell phone and pressed record. The lens captured her essence and beauty as he scanned her unmoving figure, posed in a provocative manner. It was all the time he had, but it had been enough.
As he prepared to leave, the sound of a cough reached his ears. He turned his head in the direction of the noise but saw no one. He listened further, but it had stopped. Had someone seen him or what he’d done?
Only a moment later, he heard a thud. “Son of a bitch.” Leaving behind his work of art, he followed the noise with a steadfast march that turned into a charge. By the time he’d reached the adjacent corner, he spotted a man running away. Whoever it was had been watching him. The idea of such an intrusion filled him with anger. It was as though someone had observed an unfinished piece. A draft that wasn’t ready to be received.
This invasion could not go unpunished. He would find the person and the avenue with which to make that happen would be where he broadcast his performances. Surely whoever did this knew of his work. Who else would watch such an atrocity and not intervene unless it was one of his followers?
Far enough away from the scene of his societal tribute, he began to upload the video from the shelter of his car. And in the vein of other great artists, he would, from this point forward, leave clues for his spectator. Draw him out once again and make right what he had sought to spoil; the intimate creation of magnificence and immortality.
♦ ♦ ♦
In the shadows of the studio where cameras, teleprompters, and those who operated them moved about in skillful choreography, the producer twirled her finger, signaling to the anchor the need to wrap up.
“Thank you for tuning in and good night.” Marc Aguilar flashed his sparkling white smile in the moment before the camera’s red light extinguished. The blistering studio lights diminished as quickly as his friendly valediction and Marc stood from behind the anchor desk. “Great show tonight, everyone. Thank you.” He began to walk backstage to his dressing room before being halted by his producer.
“Marc, you got a second?”
“I really want to go home, Lisa. Can it wait till tomorrow?”
She held a piece of paper in her hand. “You got an email from a reporter at KTLA. He copied me on it. Looks like he’s got something for you. Thought you might be interested.”
Marc was always interested in a story, under the right conditions, but was surprised to hear from his former colleague. While his career had started in San Diego, he’d spent some time in the LA market before taking the lucrative gig at CBN in New York. That was owed, in part, to his old friend, Kate Reid, and the unfortunate circumstances surrounding her former life that he’d exposed.
“Just check it out. Let me know what you think tomorrow. It has promise on the national scene, but I’ll let you make the call.”
“Yeah, okay.” Marc held the paper in his hands and briefly glanced at the email subject header. “Second body found in a week on the streets of South L.A.” At first glance, it didn’t strike him as particularly unusual. Lots of bodies turned up in LA. “I’ll take a look at it tonight. You should go home and get some rest too.” He pushed open his dressing room door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Marc turned on the lights of his vanity mirror and began to remove his makeup, which revealed an older man, perhaps appearing older than his forty years. Gone were the days of his spray tans. This wasn’t southern California anymore and CBN didn’t much care for the orange look. So he wiped away the more natural-looking tone his makeup artist had chosen.
Marc had changed over the past few years and mostly for the good. People should always try to improve themselves and he figured that was what he’d done since his days at Channel 9 News in San Diego. And glancing at the potential news story that now rested on top of his vanity, he recalled those days. He’d have jumped all over a story like that, but this was CBN and things were different here. Marc had to learn to think nationally; globally. But still, he would consider the story as a favor to his former colleague, who he was certain would want something in return for such a gift.
Marc rose from his chair and loosened his tie. A quick glance at his phone showed a time of 9:45. “Might make it home at a decent hour tonight.” He walked out of the dressing room and into the hall where the next batch of anchors, producers, and assistants were filing in. It was a twenty-four-hour news service. No matter if the same story was churned multiple times in a day, reported in every angle imaginable, they had to stay on the air.
“Night, Marc.” His counterpart on the ten p.m. show passed by, her blond hair unmoving as she vacated the hairstylist’s chair.
“Night, Jill.” He reached the rear exit door and walked into the chilled air of an unheated parking garage and soon regretted leaving his overcoat in the car. Unlocking his Mercedes, he slumped into the driver’s seat and headed out toward the Upper West Side. That was where he called home now. A ridiculously small two-bed, two-bath condo that set him back a cool 1.5 million. Marc considered calling his old friend at KTLA, then remembered there was a three-hour time difference and he might still be on the air. “Maybe in the morning.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The doorman smiled as Marc approached. “Good evening, Mr. Aguilar. Great show again tonight.” With a swipe of his electronic key card, he pulled open the door. “You have a good night.”
“You too, Gene.” Marc entered the lobby of his apartment building and headed up to the third floor. Upon stepping into the corridor, he continued toward the end of the hall where his unit was located. The light sconces that hung on the walls were dimmed and cast a soft yellow glow on to the grey carpet, making it appear almost green in color.
Marc keyed the door and made his way inside. After hanging his coat, the sound of his footsteps on the wood floors squashed any hope of a surprise entrance.
A brunette woman with dark round eyes and olive skin glanced over her shoulder as she sat on the sofa, watching the news. “You’re home.” Wrapping her robe around her slender waist, she began to rise.
Marc moved closer and leaned toward her for a kiss. “No need to get up. Thanks for waiting for me.”
“You looked good tonight, babe.” Lucinda tucked her hair behind her ears. “Come sit down. You hungry? I can get you something to eat.”
“No, no. I’m okay.” Marc lowered onto the couch and pushed off his shoes. “I’ll go fix myself a drink in a minute after I get changed. I just wanted to see you first. How was your day?”
“Great. We’re almost finished with the property in Lincoln Square.”
Lucinda was a partner in an interior design firm and was also Marc’s live-in girlfriend. The two met when he’d hired her firm to decorate his apartment about a year ago. That was when he renewed his contract with CBN and figured he could officially call New York his home.
“Good. I know that one was a hassle for you.” Marc eyed the television as the news ended. “You wouldn’t mind if I head off to bed? It’s been a long day.”
“No. I don’t mind at all.” She regarded him with mild concern. “You feeling all right?”
“Oh yeah.” He kissed her again and walked down the hall to their bedroom. The lamp on the nightstand flicked on as Marc pressed the switch and walked inside. A writing desk fronted a shallow bay window and was where Marc often preferred to work. His laptop rested on its center and Marc pulled out the chair and raised the lid.
A moment later, he began to draft an email to his friend at the LA station. His request was simple: send him as much information as possible on the story and he would do what he could to pitch it to his bosses.
♦ ♦ ♦
The shops on Manhattan’s Fifth Avenue already had their Christmas window displays in full view, ready to snare pre-Thanksgiving shoppers. The trees were still shedding their red and gold leaves.
He was on his way to meet Lucinda for a late lunch before heading into the studio to prepare for his first broadcast at seven p.m. The Daily Beat ran from 7:00 to 7:30, then he co-anchored another show from 9:00 to 9:30, which involved stories that actually had some meat in them. That was where his preference lay, but his contract was what it was and so he had to do the puff pieces in order to get the better stories. This usually meant his days started around three or four in the afternoon. Stories had to be edited, show runners needed to stage the set. All of these things took hours, so it wasn’t like he didn’t have to work a full day like everyone else. It was just that he got paid a hell of a lot more for doing it.
Lucinda raised her hand as she stood outside the restaurant, wrapped in a black pea coat, hat, and scarf. Her smile still had the capacity to melt away his stress and he loved her for that. They’d lived together six months and he already knew he wanted to marry her, but hadn’t had the courage yet to ask. She was a fiercely strong and opinionated woman, and just a little bit intimidating.
“Hi, babe.” Marc kissed her cheek. “Let’s get inside. It’s freezing out here.” He pushed open the door and the warm, softly lit restaurant was instantly soothing. “Table for two, please.”
“Of course; follow me.” A young woman in a black t-shirt and dress pants guided them to a small table. “Will this be all right?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“The waiter will be with you two shortly.” She politely smiled and walked away.
“I’m glad you were able to get away for a while.” Marc pulled out Lucinda’s chair.
“I always clear my schedule for you.” She sat down and began to view the menu. “The salmon salad looks nice.”
“You always order the salmon salad. Have a burger.”
“I’m a woman in my late thirties and well beyond the capacity to consume a burger without damaging side effects.”
“Sure, okay.” Marc rolled his eyes and cast his gaze to the menu. “Well, I’m having a burger.” He remembered a time in the not-too-distant past when he would’ve ordered the salad. But California was a different market with different priorities. It was a difference he appreciated more and more every day.
Marc was already digging into his food when his cell phone buzzed on the table. He quickly glanced at Lucinda, knowing what she was about to say.
“Don’t. Just don’t.”
“You know I have to.” His eyes pleaded with hers. “Technically, it’s my job.”
“Your job starts when you arrive at the studio and ends when you walk through our front door. You know I don’t like interruptions during a meal. It’s just rude.”
“Fine.” He took another bite. “But if it’s a lead and someone else runs with it…”
“Oh good Lord. Just answer it, then.” She poked at her salad and exhaled a resigning breath.
Marc reveled in his minor victory and retrieved his phone. An email had arrived from his friend in LA. “Oh, now see. I was waiting for this.”
Upon opening the email, his former colleague revealed that another body had been found less than a mile from the previous two. Attached were the police reports from the first two victims, but he hadn’t yet received one on this third and newest victim.
Marc suddenly began to eat faster.
“What are you doing?” Lucinda asked. “What was that about?”
“A possible story. It’s too difficult to view the attachments on my phone, so I’ll have to wait until I get to the studio.”
“Which, by the looks of it, you’re trying to do as quickly as possible.”
“I won’t lie. That’s exactly what I’m doing. This could be a big one—maybe—and I’d like t
o get my hands on it before anyone else.”
Lucinda waved her hand. “Just go. I’ll get the bill. I can see I’ve already lost your attention anyway.”
“I’ll make it up to you tonight.” He wiped his lips and placed the napkin on his plate.
“Sure. When you get home at 10:30 and I’ve already eaten dinner.”
“Okay, then. This weekend. I’ll make it up to you this weekend.” He pushed away from the table. “I’ll see you tonight. Love you.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Marc arrived at the studio and hurried to the small office he shared with his producer that was adjacent to the dressing room. He turned on his computer and began to examine the email attachments. The first one was a police report on victim number one. Selena Ruiz, twenty-two years old, found in a section of what used to be called South Central, but was now called South Los Angeles in an effort to remove the negative association that had been established over the previous three decades.
As Marc began to read the report, an eerie sense of recognition began to crawl in his mind. This was not a drug crime, not even a robbery. This was a crime of passion. And what could well be a desperate need for attention.
He opened the second police report. Another woman. Older, thirty-five, Renee Jones. Nothing about these two women struck Marc as having anything in common, except that they were women. Different body shape, different color hair, different ethnicities. But there was a sense of familiarity that took him back to a time he preferred not to recall. A time when he thought he was doing a friend a favor by letting her in on the deal. But what happened in the end was that it cost her the love of her life and altered her path forever.
Marc picked up the phone. “Vince, it’s me, Marc. I got your email.” He continued to scroll through the reports. “You have anything yet on the third victim?”