Brad had used his hands to pull himself into the corner. Once the prisoner was removed, Bobby dropped to his knees beside him. “Ambulance is on its way,” he said, panting. “Where did he get you?”
“My back,” Brad answered, wiggling his toes inside his shoes. He hurt like a bitch, but at least he wasn’t paralyzed. “How did he get out of the restraints?”
“The freak must be a contortionist,” the sergeant said, glancing up at Baxter. He picked up the handcuffs and leg irons, holding them where Brad and the deputy could see. “The restraints didn’t break and they weren’t loose. Look how small the openings for his arms and legs were. He must have compressed his hands and slid them right off.” One of the deputies began speaking fast, seemingly fascinated. “I’ve seen things like this on TV. Some of these people can even collapse their bones.”
Brad was not amused. “Why didn’t you tell me he was a contortionist?”
“We didn’t know,” Bobby said. “We’ve never had a prisoner who could do this before. Shit, how can we ever restrain this guy? He can slip out of anything. Inmates don’t stay in their cells all the time. We transfer them to court, the infirmary, the visiting area.” He stopped and handed the restraints to Baxter. “I guess Carolyn had a point. I was getting fed up with her stunts, but it looks like this one paid off. She swore there was more we needed to know about this guy, and that if she pushed him hard enough, he would show us. She left him in here all day. Even had us turn the heat up. If it weren’t for your gal, Preston, this maniac could have escaped and been back on the street killing people. He was probably planning to make his move on the bus to prison. You know the first person he’d look up, don’t you?”
“Who?” Brad said, wondering how much longer he’d have to lie there on the floor in pain.
“Carolyn Sullivan.”
Chapter 7
Thursday, December 23—10:30 P.M.
The section of Ventura where Neil lived was subject to mud slides. If the storm didn’t pass by tomorrow, he might have to evacuate. The previous year, a house on his street and its owners had slid off the cliff.
He should have broken it off with Melody months ago. He’d intended to tell her over the phone, then decided that it was a chickenshit way to handle it. Now he wished he had.
Turning into his driveway and hitting the remote for the garage, Neil parked next to his black paneled van. Carolyn had teased him about the van, telling him it was the vehicle of choice for serial killers. As soon as she’d heard about the Ferrari, she had sworn he would end up with a suspended license.
He opened the glove box and removed the new white envelope he’d purchased on the way to Melody’s house. Instead of separating it into lines, he dipped in with his little finger and placed a small quantity of the crystallized powder into his nostrils. He couldn’t go on like this—he had to quit before Carolyn found out. If he hadn’t been on meth, he wouldn’t have gone crazy and hurt Laurel. The drug made him feel good, but it also had the capacity to turn him into a madman.
Getting out of the car, Neil dumped the remaining contents of the envelope onto the wet grass next to the garage. He walked next door and deposited the envelope in his neighbor’s trash can. The house was formerly occupied by a couple, but the husband had croaked last year. The widow played country music at deafening levels all day long, making it impossible for him to sleep after a night of painting. When he needed to dispose of anything related to drugs, it went in Samantha Garner’s trash. He never took a chance that his housekeeper, Addy, might stumble across something she wasn’t supposed to see. Part of the mystique of using drugs was making certain you didn’t get caught.
Neil opened the door leading into the house, his heart pumping like a steam engine. He started to punch in the alarm code when he realized it wasn’t activated. He held down the stay button until he heard the series of beeps that confirmed the alarm was set.
His expensive leather shoes squished on the marble entryway. Taking them off, he left them on the mat by the door. They would probably have to be thrown out.
Stopping in the guest bathroom, he relieved himself, stripped off his wet clothes, then rinsed off in the sink. He occasionally slept in the extra room because it was closer to the garage. If he used too much speed, he became paranoid and thought he was having a heart attack. Driving around helped him calm down.
The laundry room was across the hall. He found a plastic bag and placed his clothes inside. The stupid woman could have at least let him undress before she pulled him into the shower. Her wealth had turned her into a first-class bitch.
Melody’s family owned APC Pharmaceuticals. He’d read in the Wall Street Journal that her net worth was estimated at fifty million. They’d never discussed it, yet he suspected the money was one of the reasons she shied away from permanent relationships. She wasn’t only a bitch, she was selfish and greedy, terrified she might have to share her precious money.
Neil passed through the dark house to the master bedroom. After putting on a clean pair of jockey shorts, he went to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. Seeing a smudge on the refrigerator door, he retrieved a basket of cleaning supplies from under the sink and went to work. When he finally stopped, he was on his hands and knees, wiping down the tile floor.
Before he left the kitchen, he stood in the doorway and stared, making certain he hadn’t missed anything. Satisfied the room was clean, he turned off the light, being careful not to touch the switch plate.
Neil walked through the rest of the house, flicking on the lights and checking the rooms. Outside of the bedrooms, kitchen, and bathrooms, the house resembled an art gallery. Large oil paintings were mounted on the walls, Neil’s style was that of the old masters. The formal rooms were sparsely furnished. He had cocktail parties on a regular basis, inviting potential buyers as well as established patrons. He seldom used the rooms for anything else. His studio was located in a thousand-square-foot guest house behind the swimming pool.
Satisfied that everything was in place, he went to the master bedroom and collapsed on the bed. He was lucky he’d used most of the meth earlier in the evening. The drug could keep him awake for days. To circumvent his insomnia, he used Depakote, a drug used to control the manic stages of bipolar disorder. The only way he could get the pills was to go to a shrink. Psychiatrists were sadistic freaks. They sat there with smug expressions on their faces, baiting you until you said something they could use to have you committed.
He didn’t feel right. He began to panic, wondering if the guy at the pawnshop had sold him heroin instead of meth. The stuff was so pure today, junkies sometimes snorted it instead of shooting up. When he’d stopped off at Al’s Pawnshop, Al wasn’t there, so he’d dealt with a black guy named Leroy. If not heroin, Leroy could have sold him Ajax or rat poison. His nostrils felt as if they were on fire. He reached up and touched them to make certain they weren’t bleeding. He kept a bottle of saline rinse in the guest bathroom, and he usually cleaned out his nose before he went to bed. He wondered if people who fell into drugs were simply bored. The rituals alone were exhausting. At the same time, they were somehow comforting.
Socializing had always been difficult for him. Being an artist allowed him to withdraw into his own world. Over time, however, he had become lonely. In the past, all of his girlfriends had been like Melody—beautiful, independent women he could see whenever he felt like it. The thought of a permanent relationship had always frightened him. He had too much to hide, and not just his involvement with narcotics.
Laurel had been different. Maybe it was because they’d known each other as kids. Back then, everything had been so simple. He had deluded himself. It never would have worked. When she had realized who he really was, she would have left him.
His head relaxed into the pillow. He never went to bed this early, but he felt as if he had lived an entire life in one day. Was Addy coming in tomorrow? He couldn’t recall what day of the week it was. She generally came on Fridays, but she occasionally switch
ed days. He turned on his side and gazed out the sliding glass door. His mind was so muddled that he’d forgotten that it was almost Christmas. Addy was on vacation. He couldn’t provide her with health insurance, so he gave her two weeks off every year with pay.
A bolt of lightning illuminated the yard. He jumped out of bed when he saw a white object floating in the pool. At first, he thought one of the lawn chairs had blown over. When he saw that all four chairs were still in place, he darted outside into the rain. The shrill of the alarm sounded in the background.
As he came closer to the pool, Neil realized the floating object was a person. Without thinking, he dived in and swam toward the body, grabbing it around the shoulders. He stopped swimming and they sank underneath the water. Gulping air as he surfaced, he swam to the edge and hoisted the person onto the wet concrete. He recognized her face.
Laurel!
With the alarm still blaring, the rain stinging his eyes, Neil desperately attempted to revive her. After twenty minutes, he gave up, certain Laurel had been dead for some time. Kneeling beside her lifeless body, he sobbed in grief and confusion. Distorted images filled his mind. He remembered her crying, the anguished look on her face. She had raced outside to get away from him. She’d never seen him mad before and she was frightened.
Neil was cradling Laurel’s head in his lap and tenderly stroking the thick, wet strands of hair from her once-lovely face when he saw a man in a uniform running toward him. From a distance, the body appeared to be nude. Laurel’s bra had been pushed up to her armpits. Her white silk panties barely covered her pubic hair.
The officer pointed a gun at him. “Move away or I’ll shoot.”
Neil ignored him, his eyes scanning the yard for the rest of Laurel’s clothing or anything he could use to cover her. He heard the officer speaking, asking his dispatcher to alert the police and paramedics. When he glanced back at the man, he saw 21ST CENTURY SECURITY emblazoned on his white shirt. He gently lowered Laurel’s head, then stood and raised his arms. The security officer pushed him aside and began administering CPR.
Neil staggered into the house to call Carolyn. His hands were shaking so badly, he had to enter the alarm code twice to disable the system.
Laurel was gone and it was all his fault.
“Do you know what time it is?” Carolyn said groggily, staring out into the dark room. “You know the rules, Neil. You don’t call me after ten unless it’s a life-or-death situation. I’ve already taken my pill. I had an awful day. Now I’ll never get back to sleep.”
Carolyn was a chronic insomniac. Inability to sleep ran in their family. Even her fifteen-year-old son had trouble quieting his constantly churning mind. Several years ago, she’d given up and gone on medication. She took her Xanax at ten o’clock and became furious if her brother woke her up, which he consistently did.
Afraid his sister was about to hang up on him, Neil blurted, “Laurel’s dead. I think she drowned in my pool.”
Her younger brother had a dry sense of humor. When he wanted attention, he would say outlandish things. “If this is a joke, Neil,” Carolyn told him, “it’s in very poor taste.”
He began sobbing. “Please, I’m serious. The police will be here any minute.”
God, no, Carolyn thought, bolting upright in the bed. “Did you call the paramedics?”
“The security guy did…. Why would she go swimming in the rain?” he said, his voice cracking. “Jesus, this can’t be happening.”
Carolyn pushed the button for the speaker phone so she could continue talking while she dressed. “Were you at home when it happened?”
“No,” he said. “At least I don’t think I was. I saw her floating in the pool after I went to bed. I could see her through the sliding glass door in the bedroom.”
Carolyn would have to get Paul’s housekeeper, Isobel, to look after John and Rebecca. She threw on a pair of jeans and a white turtleneck sweater, then shoved her feet into a pair of sneakers. “I’m on my way. Stay calm. Don’t do or say anything until I get there.”
“I messed up again,” Neil said, his voice strangely calm. “I loved Laurel. I never meant for anything bad to happen to her.”
A sense of dread gripped Carolyn. “What are you saying? What did you do, Neil?” When he didn’t respond, she shouted, “Holy Mother of God, answer me! What did you do to Laurel?”
When she heard the dial tone, she raced down the hallway and out the front door of her house. She would call Paul from the road. She had to get to her brother before the police did.
Melody Asher sat in the dark, her face lit by the glow of computer monitors, as she plunged her spoon into the quart of Dreyers’ Rocky Road ice cream. Her red silk robe slipped off one shoulder, exposing her naked skin. She was naturally slender, one of the reasons modeling agencies had recruited her at the age of fifteen. That, of course, and her height. The ice cream was an indulgence she seldom allowed herself, even though her modeling days were behind her and she was now an actress. She still couldn’t afford to gain weight. Chubby actresses weren’t in great demand.
Melody felt she deserved to indulge in the thick chocolate, almonds, and light mini marshmallows that were melting in her warm mouth. Tonight, she’d given Neil something to remember. Now she owned him, like she’d owned all the other men who had passed through her life. Her philosophy regarding men was simple—give them something shocking to think about and they’d keep coming back for more. It was all part of her game plan, total control or nothing.
How could Neil have called her a slut? He’d had the time of his life. Just because she’d turned on the video camera and called him another man’s name. She’d filmed him before and he had never complained.
A month after Melody started dating Neil, she had tapped into his home security system. To protect his artwork, he had multiple cameras installed in every room of his house, as well as the front and rear exteriors. Without his knowledge, she’d attached a wireless transponder to the main system with an off-site receiver. This made it possible for her to receive and store movie files on her home computer.
After engaging in sex with Neil, Melody could experience the evening again. Her best orgasms came from watching. Even after she broke up with a man, she could revisit their sexual episodes whenever she wanted.
Melody watched all of her lovers.
Technology had brought voyeurism to an entirely different level. As far as she was concerned, every woman should keep tabs on her man. The head of her security company had warned her never to give anyone a key to her house. She chuckled as she recalled her reply. “Oh, I see, Keith,” she’d said, leaning forward so he could see her breasts. “Are you saying it’s all right if I give them access to my body as long as I don’t give them a key to my house? Does that mean my house has more value than my vagina?” She had watched as the man’s face turned beet red. Wearing a dress and no panties, she’d circled around to the back of his desk. “Maybe you could figure out a way to secure this?” she said, raising her skirt. “Then every time I want to have sex, you’ll have to come to my house.” The poor man had become so flustered, she was afraid he was going to have a heart attack. Dropping her skirt, she’d told him, “Why don’t I just change my locks—I don’t think your wife would want you coming over three or four times a day.”
Men were scum. They thought with their dicks. She had a right to know if they were cheating on her. She didn’t want to contract AIDS or some other sexually transmitted disease. Watching them was her insurance policy.
Technology was a cinch for her. Most people who came into contact with Melody thought she’d have trouble plugging in a blender. Playing dumb had been her first starring role. She’d always been a good actress, even as a child. Deceiving those around her was entertaining. That’s what life boiled down to, she thought, just passing time until you croaked.
She didn’t believe in God. When you died, your body rotted. She’d never once seen a dead body come back to life. Right and wrong only mattered if you go
t caught. Most religious people were weak-minded individuals who could only exist if their lives were guided by someone else. They were puppets on a string. The Bible was nothing more than a bestselling, poorly written work of fiction. She’d like to own the rights to that baby, she thought.
Part of the reason men became so infatuated with her was her feminine facade of helplessness. Because Melody asked them to set her clocks or figure out how to operate a new cell phone, they classified her as the stereotypical dumb blonde. Suckers, she thought. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do menial tasks, she didn’t want to. Why waste time when she could get someone else to do it for her?
Even her female friends were shocked when she lied and told them she didn’t know how to operate a computer. Her town house had what the realtor had touted as a penthouse. In reality, it was a room about the size of an average bedroom. The door was secured with Medeco locks, the key next to impossible to duplicate. In this room alone, she had three 50-inch plasma monitors, three Dell computers, an Atlas 8 EQ Reflector telescope with photo capability, numerous digital film cameras, and an Avid editing bay, similar to the kind used by film production companies. This was her viewing room.
While her girlfriends wasted hours shopping, chatting, playing kiddie games, and surfing the Web, Melody was either spying on someone or expanding her knowledge base. She spent hours reading about the criminal justice system. Crime and criminals were fascinating. She’d even studied briefly at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan, and had completed most of the agent training program at the FBI Academy before they discovered a discrepancy in her background investigation. Melody had threatened to file a lawsuit to get them to reinstate her, but her attorney told her it wasn’t worth it.
Sullivan’s Justice Page 7