Undressed At Sea: A Psychological Thriller (Drew Stirling Book 2)

by Jayden Hunter

  “I’m game,” Drew said.

  “Okay, but let’s share,” Chelsea said. She told Ben to pick.

  “Oh this is easy,” Ben said. “We are with Drew, so it’s the Sinful Sundae.”

  “Ben!”

  Chelsea often forgot that he treated Drew like an actual sister and that she preferred to be treated like one of the guys. He knew that his girlfriend would be embarrassed and hurt if he said half the things he said to Drew to her, but he didn’t want to change how he treated Drew because he treated Chelsea differently.

  “Oh, sin. I’m fairly well acquainted. Don’t worry Chelsea; I’ll get even later,” Drew said. She looked at the server and said, “We’ll take the Sundae, extra sin please, and three spoons. Oh! And you know what? I’d like to order three shots of Fireball. My treat and I insist.”

  They devoured the sundae after toasting Drew’s sex life with Fireball shots.

  “Drew do you really miss having a man in your life? Or do you like taking a break?” Ben asked.

  “Not really. I have so much going on at school. A break is okay. But it would be nice to, you know—”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re a man in a woman’s body.”

  “Ben! Don’t be mean. Hey, next Friday, aren’t we going to a party?” Chelsea asked.

  “Yes. You should come, Drew. Drink a little. Live it up. Maybe get laid. You can’t be all about the work and no play. You’ll go nuts.” Ben reached across the table and took Drew’s hand. “Come with us.”

  Drew agreed that she needed to get out more.

  “I guess I could use a one night stand with a hot college stud. At least they aren’t likely to be married with children.”

  “I’ll introduce you to some of my friends,” Chelsea said. “They’re all too tame for you, but my friends have friends, and you never know. You might meet a nice guy for a change.”

  “Okay, sure, I’ll join you,” Drew said. Then she added, “There are no nice guys, Chelsea. Only ones you can trust and ones you cannot.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Strong prejudices in an ill-formed mind are hazardous to government.

  ~ Barbara W. Tuchman

  California voters and legislators enjoy vindictively punishing sex offenders under the guise of public safety. The proof of this is axiomatic: the laws they pass make the public less safe and the offenders more dangerous.

  ~ Detective Jerry Turner

  ...................

  Turner read the file for the fourth time. It wasn’t that long. It wasn’t even much to go on, but the jacket had all the markers they were looking for: recent parolee, a sex crime against a teenaged blonde, a suggestion of un-indicted crimes in various open cases, and he’d recently gone through a divorce, his wife not caring too much for staying married to a paroled-sex-offender-scum-bag-piece-of-shit.

  Jerry noticed the dark humor: his ex-wife had a similar list, sans the criminality. Being married to the job was a form of parole and a mistress, being good at catching scum-bags made him a scum-bag in the eyes of his wife. Whenever, which wasn’t often, Jerry had taken time off to be with his family during his marriage, his wife had punished him with constant reminders that he lacked normally doing what he was actually trying to do, a bizarre irony that greased the rails of their train wreck of a divorce.

  “We’re all on eggshells when you aren’t working six and a half days a week, Jerry,” she’d said about a week before she’d filed. After twenty years, Jerry still felt that staying single had been one decision in his life he’d never regretted.

  He had a legend status around the station. He was one of the oldest cops on active duty, yet he competed nearly on par with the younger men, whether it was on-the-job physical training or in a pick-up basketball game. His pride, however, was having his name engraved on the inter-agency golf tournament trophy; for five years running and that trophy still sat there with his name on it, waiting for year six, which he hoped would see a continuation of his streak. Fuck closure rates and court cases and indictments and lawsuits and divorces. Really. At the end of the day, nobody around here could hit a little white ball around a great big field of grass into a small hole better than Jerry Turner. So fuck ‘em.

  ...................

  Jason DeLong was written in black ink across the top of a file which was filled with photocopies of the records compiled by the joint task force.

  The FBI team had tried to contact DeLong without success because they’d decided to call on him unannounced but he hadn’t been home. Turner called DeLong’s parole officer and obtained his work schedule; he could use the PO to set up an appointment, but he preferred interviewing people caught off-guard.

  Turner looked across the office for David Beck, but his partner wasn’t in view. He sent him a text message.

  A few minutes later Beck returned. “I was taking a crap, dude.”

  “Don’t call me dude.”

  “Okay, partner.”

  “Don’t call me that, either. Jerry is fine. Turner if you want.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Fuck.” Turner bit his lip.

  “What’s our next move?”

  “The plan is for you to shut up and take notes.”

  “You got it, boss,” Beck said. He winked.

  Jerry drove because couldn’t stand it when Beck was behind the wheel. They parked at a group home, the residence of Jason DeLong.

  “You guys cops?” The man who answered spoke through a security screen door.

  “Yeah, let us in.”

  “Hold on. Hold on.” The man was mopping the floor. They watched him: he moved the bucket, squeezed the mop, and cleaned the entryway. “I don’t want you to slip and fall. I’d get in trouble. I don’t want no trouble. I can’t take any trouble. Please, be patient. Don’t want no trouble with the po-po. One minute.”

  “Sam, move out of the way.” A large woman with a kind but aged face spoke to the man with the bucket and then opened the door.

  “Officers, I’m Linda Jackson, I run this place. Come in.”

  They followed her to her office.

  “So, gentlemen, have a seat, please. Can I get either of you a coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Jerry said.

  “Yes, black,” David said.

  “No. Don’t listen to him,” Jerry said to her. To Beck, he said, “take notes. No talking.”

  “How can I help you guys? I received a call from parole, DeLong’s PO.”

  “They called you?”

  “Yes, it’s pretty standard.”

  “Shit. Sorry. I was hoping that he would be...”

  “Yes, I understand how you guys work. But, look, it doesn’t matter, he’s been gone two days now. His stuff is cleaned out of here. Not a sock left behind. He even washed his bedding and wiped down his area.”

  “A real hero,” David said.

  “I’m serious, stop the wise ass shit,” Jerry said. “Sorry ma’am.”

  “This place is filled with addicts and broken men, officer. Shit barely registers as a cuss word.”

  “Okay, well. Shit.” Jerry said. He scratched his head and thought. “Any chance DeLong was tipped off that we were coming to talk to him?”

  “Not by me. Well, not on purpose, in any case. I answer the phone in here all day long. I don’t usually shut the door. I need to be able to hear what’s going on in the hallways. So, yes, it’s possible that someone overheard me mention the name DeLong while talking on the phone. But nothing was said intentionally, officer. I’m sorry. If a PO wants a man, they never call me. Hell, a couple months ago they showed up with a swat team to get a man for violating parole. Just an old man who could barely walk without a cane. They showed up with a dozen men armed with assault shotguns and riot gear. You’d think they came for the Hells Angels.

  “Look, California has punitive laws for sex offenders. I mean, we punish seventy-year-old men for crimes committed fifty years ago, when they were barely adults themselves. That’s a lot of voter
vengeance, officer. So, a man like DeLong, hell, he could be anywhere. Or dead. Suicide is common enough. When a man can’t find a home, can’t find a job, when he has to report to the police like a Jew in Nazi Germany even after completing ten years of therapy, it gets discouraging.

  “I have six or seven men I’m trying to help that are on the streets. On the damn street because of counterproductive Megan’s and Jessica’s Laws. How does that make society safer? Forcing these guys into homelessness? It’s pure vengeance and hatred because it certainly doesn’t make anyone safer. All the voters have done is make society more dangerous. Hell. Sorry, I don’t mean to preach.”

  She used a tissue to wipe her eyes. Then she said, “Delong’s got a GPS. You all can’t find him with that?”

  “We came here first, not expecting a problem. Well, if there’s nothing else you can tell us? Personal contact information? Family?” Turner looked her in the eyes.

  She returned his stare, then wiped another tear.

  “You got a job. I got a job. Officer, you want information? Get me a court order; I’m a licensed therapist, and I have rules, too. My gut feeling is that he’s running to escape, not to reoffend. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he shows up as a suicide. I average about one every year or two. Is that all?”

  ...................

  “Fucking nig—fucking liberal bitch,” Beck said.

  Turner looked and him and shook his head. “She’s following the law. And doing her job. Which is more than I can say about you. Asshole. Look, you want to be a racist-bigot-fuck, do it on your own time. And I have a gay cousin, too. So keep a lid on your socio-political opinions. I don’t want to hear them.”

  “Mister Politically Correct.”

  “Fuck. Call the PO and find out what you can.”

  Jerry wondered if Beck could do anything useful or not as he watched him call DeLong’s parole officer.

  “Yeah, yes, look, it’s Detective David Beck,” he said into his phone, “Beck like the rock band. I’m calling about this fucking runner, DeLong.”

  Turner watched as Beck nodded his head. “Yes.” Head nod. “I understand.” Head nod. “Okay.” Head nod. He ended the call.

  “Anything useful?”

  “The fucker cut off his GPS.”

  “Shit.”

  When a parolee cuts off his GPS and leaves the system, a warrant would be issued, but the manpower to hunt down all the bench warrants didn’t exist. Unless he was pulled over by a traffic cop, or somehow got tangled up with law enforcement, a man could remain outside the system of prisons, parole, and justice for years. Of course, if they had evidence that DeLong was a suspect in a serial killer case, that would change things. The FBI would get involved. The Feds would mean more money, more manpower, and a higher chance of capture. But evidence? There wasn’t a shred of evidence leading them to anyone.

  “Shit.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Those who are humiliated in such a way learn to disintegrate – that is, they become once removed from pain. This is the most direct route to psychic ruin.

  ~ Antonella Gambotto

  I was never struck as a child, but physical pain isn’t the worst kind.

  ~ Drew Stirling

  ...................

  Drew dressed up like a peacock spreading his feathers. Friday night jitters. Men hunted, women lured and trapped. Hunters and gatherers. She wore a tight black mini-skirt and a blouse with a low-cut front. Her outfit showed off her legs and breasts, which were two of her best features. She had decided it was time to get laid, even if that meant a one night stand and a walk of shame the next morning. She didn’t care.

  Drew decided to go out and get laid as if she was eating a piece of cheesecake. Both were definitely bad ideas as regular habits, but great ideas if practiced in moderation. She’d had a Sin Sundae at the Outback; now she’d have a Sin Friday.

  She checked her makeup and hair. “It’ll do.” Her phone chimed with a text. Ben and Chelsea were out front. One more quick check. She smiled at herself in the mirror.

  Ben and Chelsea introduced her to a group of their friends. She asked someone to take their picture, and she posted it to Facebook, tagging Ben and Chelsea. Best friends forever. Then she mingled on her own. The party was at an apartment complex closer to the city than Drew’s usual haunts. The crowd was mixed, college kids from several schools, and friends of students, some college-aged young adults who had gone straight to work after high school and some alumni who had obtained jobs in the area. There were Navy guys, too. Drew assumed a few of the neighbors had probably shown up as well. It looked like one of those parties that grew organically and would probably end when the cops were called at three in the morning.

  The music was loud. There were two kegs and a makeshift bar. Being shy was never her thing and whenever Drew was in the mood for a crowd she had a look and posture for exactly that. Men approached her like fish coming to the surface of a koi pond at feeding time. She drank beer and met new people; some of them were even interesting. She was having a good time, and she posted more pictures on Facebook.

  One of Drew’s gifts was being able to find something in common with nearly anyone she talked to. Some of that was built upon the books she’d read, some from having traveled, and some of the skill could be attributed to her habit of actually listening to anyone with a good story because she’d add their experiences to her store of anecdotes. At the very least, if she didn’t discover a common interest or story, she’d ask thoughtful questions. People loved to talk when they had the ear of a good listener.

  More than once someone had told her that she would do well in sales. She’d never tested the theory, other than selling herself, and that product, while a ton of work to create, basically sold itself.

  She watched a handsome newcomer mingle and made sure he noticed her watching him.

  “Hi, I’m Paul,” he said to her.

  He was obviously an athlete: tall, muscular, an alpha male, and he spoke with confidence.

  She took his hand.

  “I’m Drew.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I recognized you from the Super Bowl commercial. The only good thing that happened in those four hours. My team didn’t show up. Bad coaching. Don’t get me started on that. I swear. You a football fan?”

  “I dabble,” Drew said. “Refill me?”

  He took her red plastic cup and walked over to the beer keg. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at her. Marking his territory.

  She smiled back.

  He returned with two beers, and they talked for another hour.

  “What are your plans? I mean, after college?” she asked him.

  “I wish I could say football, but getting drafted is not very likely. What am I saying? It’s not going to happen. I’m not even in a big enough sports program to be noticed by scouts.”

  “Wait, you don’t go to UCSD do you?”

  “No, I play football. You guys don’t even have a team. I’m a Torero, here in the city. A small school, but I like it.”

  “Yeah, duh. Air head moment. So, no NFL in your future? Bummer.”

  “You have to be an alien to get drafted and have a career in pro sports. No, I’m studying business. I have another year to figure it out. I’ll probably go to a graduate program, what about you?”

  “It’s only my first year, but I’m pretty sure I’m hooked on bioengineering as a career path. But I’m not sure exactly what field, like you said, there is still time to figure it out while you’re in your undergraduate program. It’s hard to know what changes will happen, but I love genetics, biotech, nanotech. There’s so much cutting edge research going on today. The options are pretty wide. I’m sure I’ll start to have a better idea in the next year.”

  “It helps to be a genius. I’m not up to your level in the brains department, but I’ve got street smarts. And you know what they say: It’s not what you know, but who you know. So I’m good there, lots of friends, and I come from a big family.” />
  “The University of San Diego is Catholic, right? You’re a Catholic?”

  “My family is for sure. Yeah, it’s a Catholic school. I’m more of a once-in-awhile Catholic. But don’t tell my mother that.”

  Drew laughed. She’d met her fair share of Sunday-only religious men.

  “What is a Tor—What did you say you were, a Toro?”

  He laughed. “No. A toro is a bull. A torero is the bullfighter.”

  “Okay, glad I got that straight. I guess being so close to Mexico I should learn more Spanish. But I’m from back East.”

  “Ah, don’t tell me you’re a Tom Brady fan.”

  “Okay. I won’t.” She laughed and hit him in the arm. “Jealous?”

  “Come on,” he said. He took her hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  She followed.

  They walked outside for ten minutes when he stopped and looked up at an apartment building.

  “My place. Care to come in for a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Drew followed him up the stairs and into his apartment.

  “My roommates are still at that party. I’ll pour us some wine. You like soft jazz?”

  “Of course.”

  He started a soft jazz station on Spotify and returned to the living room with two glasses of red wine. He sat next to her and took a sip. He waited until after she set her wine glass down before he kissed her.

  Drew was ready and kissed him back. He was a strong kisser and didn’t relent for a moment. She didn’t mind being manhandled; she was too horny at this point to care.

  He took off his shirt. His body was rock hard and clean. He’d been recently waxed. Or sugared. He was tan and without tan lines.

  She loved the feel of his chest. He smelt good, felt good, and she was so ready for reckless uncommitted sex with someone who she knew wasn’t married. Whom she had no worries about seeing again.