“Smoke break?” the dishwasher asked. They’d smoked together a few times in the past.
“Not tonight, Mateo. I have plans. Next time,” he said.
When he got to the rear of the building, Ryan took a deep breath; he had no cigarettes and no intention of smoking, what he needed was access to the alley.
He walked casually towards the street, observing his surroundings, making sure he was alone, and stopping before he became exposed to traffic. Standing at the corner of the building, waiting patiently, he looked up and down the street. Eventually, he knew, he’d find her.
...................
He watched the street for fifteen minutes from behind the building, then put on the accessories he’d brought: a dark windbreaker, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. Walking at a slow pace up the street, his eyes to the ground, he stopped when he spotted the sports car that had followed him the previous Friday. He crouched behind a pickup truck, lowered his sunglasses, and observed the silhouette in the driver’s seat; it was her.
He looked up and down the street; a single car sped past him but then it was quiet. When the bar closed, there would be traffic, people waiting for Uber, and pedestrians on the street. It would be safer later, long after closing time, but would she sit that long? To move now would be risky, but how risky?
Ryan counted out the seconds he thought it would take to overpower her. One, two, the window smashed. Three, four, she’s in shock. He’d hit her in the face, giving him a moment to open her door. Would she be wearing a seat belt? No, not likely, she’d been sitting for a couple of hours already, bored out of her mind, watching his car that still sat in the parking lot of The Tavern, believing she was smarter than him.
Arrogant slut.
No seat belt, but the keys would be in the ignition, right? Yes. She’d probably be listening to the radio; at the very least she’d be ready to start the car and drive away. Okay, five, six seconds, maybe seven, he’d have the door open, and he’d force her into the passenger’s seat. He’d have to hit her again, ten seconds, maybe twelve at the most.
Ryan was a math teacher because he loved math, especially probabilities. This was a simple problem. He got out his phone and started the timer app and waited. He counted two cars go by in the next eleven minutes. He rounded down to ten. Next, he divided by the time the cars had been close enough to her that a driver would be able to notice anything, call it five seconds each. That’s ten seconds out of six hundred, well under two percent. At slight risk, but even if a passerby saw a disturbance, most people avoid involvement in what would look like a drunken domestic issue outside a bar late at night. Such an observer wouldn’t even be sure what they were seeing. Call that fifty-fifty. That took him down to about one percent or less. Good enough. He could deal with a one percent chance of trouble.
His plan went better than expected: Drew had the driver’s window down, so instead of having to smash the glass with his emergency tool, he struck her in the head. She was dazed long enough for him to open the door and grab her by the hair. “Get over to passenger’s seat.”
“Asshole,” she said. She reached for the glove compartment, but as she opened it, he sat on top of her and found her Sig Saucer.
He laughed. “Were you really going to shoot me?” he asked. A smile broke out on his face and he giggled.
“You prick!”
Ryan admired the gun.
“Fuck Chekhov,” he said. He wiped the gun down with his shirt and tossed it into the gutter. “You won’t be needing it, honey, we’re going to have a night of passion and tenderness.” He grabbed his crotch. “Only one gun is going off tonight.”
Drew struggled, but he was too strong for her. When she tried to open the passenger door, he stopped her by grabbing a handful of her hair and jerking her towards himself while he raised the emergency tool up to her face.
“Drew, this tool is made for breaking windows. It’ll take out all your pretty teeth, and that’s if I only hit you once. Sit the fuck down and put on your seat belt. If you don’t, I’ll beat you to death right here.”
Three minutes later they were on the freeway.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The prince is never going to come. Everyone knows that; and maybe sleeping beauty's dead.
~ Anne Rice
Every cop, every paramedic, and every emergency room doctor has one permanent and unvanquishable nightmare: their most cherished loves will be at the end of a call.
~ Jerry Turner
...................
Stevenson noticed that his cell phone showed a missed call, which was odd because he hadn’t heard it ring. His land line phone, which he only had as a back-up for work and emergencies, hadn’t rung, so he assumed he hadn’t missed anything important.
He was at home, relaxing, reading a book in his gym shorts, and hoping Drew would text him even though it was late. He put down his book, got a drink of water, and dialed his voicemail.
“Stevenson, it’s Detective Turner. Are you with Drew? I just got a message from a therapist who called earlier today to report a specific threat made by a client against her. It’s Mills. Fuck, I’m hoping she’s with you. Call me back asap, I’m in LA, heading your way now, get back to me on this number.”
Rick’s heart kicked into high gear. He got dressed, the phone on speaker mode, his mind drifting into dark places.
“Pick up,” he said while putting on his shoes. “Pick the fuck up.”
“Turner here.”
“Jerry, it’s Rick.” His voice broke. Stay professional he thought to himself. Fuck!
“I hope you’re with...” Jerry’s voice sounded hopeful that Rick would tell him that Drew was safe and sound, but disappointment and bad luck were standards of the job.
“No, she’s not with me. Dammit. I’m moving now. Have you sent someone to her place?”
“Yes. She’s not there. She’s not answering her phone, either.”
“Shit. What exactly did this therapist say?”
“Okay, here’s the situation. A therapist, Randy Hawkins, called me earlier tonight and left me a voicemail. He wanted to report a specific threat one of his patients had made. I didn’t get the voice mail immediately because I’d been in LA County lock-up. Anyway, I just got off the phone with Hawkins, I had to send a patrol to beat on his door—”
“Never mind that, what’s the deal?” Rick struggled to avoid sounding like he was on the verge of a panic attack.
“And this is turning into a major cluster fuck. Mills told the therapist he was going to get her; but fuck me, he didn’t say how or when, so we’re still working in the blind here. Nothing might come out of this except a shit storm and another complaint.”
“Fuck the complaints—”
“Yeah, I’m with you. Look, we’ve already sent a unit out to check the residence, his wife said he went fishing. The boat is gone, and I don’t take Ryan Mills as being reckless or foolish—you know your girlfriend has been following him—she called nine-one-one anonymously last Friday.”
“Hell, I’ve been...”
“That asshole had a hooker on his boat, there on her own, of course. He knew Drew had called the cops; that’s what he was incensed about when he threatened her with this therapist. Hell, how many sociopath killers have therapists? For all we know, Mills isn’t a killer, just a major asshole.”
“No. No way. He’s evil and malicious. I know she didn’t make up that story about him, he tried to kill her, I’m certain of that.”
“Alright. Sorry. I believe her, too. But, unless we actually catch him with her, we’re going to be back at fucking square one.”
“I asked her, I begged her, to stay away from him, but Drew does what she does. I’m heading to the marina, keep me in the loop.”
“You got it. I’ll meet you there.”
Rick sprinted to his car and sped into the unknown.
...................
A black and white cruiser was parked at the edge of the marina, Rick pul
led up to the squad car and badged the cops.
“Ryan Mill’s slip?” he asked.
“The boat’s gone,” the cop said.
Rick paced.
“The Coast Guard was called, but it’s a big ocean. Hell, he could have already made it to Mexico and beached the thing. We aren’t exactly sure how long ago he left; we’ve canvassed the area, but there aren’t a lot of people down here this late.”
“Shit.” Rick paced and kicked the front tire of his car. Why had Drew been so reckless? Why hadn’t he been more insistent that she stop her crazy investigation? He admitted to himself that he genuinely loved her in a way he’d never loved anyone before. A dull ache formed in his chest with the realization that she was probably already dead.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Lies do not become us.
~ William Goldman
Without lies, chaos.
~ Drew Stirling
...................
Drew was angry at herself. She should have listened to Rick, Special Agent Rick, her new boyfriend. The one she may never see again. The one who begged her to stop following Ryan Mills and leave the job of policing to the cops.
But they weren’t doing their job. Not good enough for her anyway. Damn it. Damn them. Damn Ryan Mills. Sadistic prick.
Ryan spoke to her once he’d parked. They were at a different marina, and Drew didn’t recognize anything.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“That’s nothing for you to worry about. You think I’m stupid, don’t you? I moved my boat here last Wednesday because you’d become an annoying stalker. I think you’ve underestimated me, Drew. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to follow my every direction exactly. I need to get you to the boat, and I can’t have you screaming and making a big commotion. Don’t make me beat you right here.”
Drew remained silent and glared at him for ten seconds. He glared back with dead eyes.
She was scared, but angry, too. “I’m not getting on your fucking boat.”
He struck her on the side of the head with his fist which was clamped around a metal tool. Drew felt like she’d run into a concrete wall in the dark. By the time her brain wasn’t fuzzy anymore, he’d already shoved something cloth-like into her mouth. Duct-tape held the gag in place; she couldn’t speak, and she panicked. Reaching for the door handle, she received another blow to the head. When she could think clearly again, she was wearing a hooded windbreaker, only it was on backward, so her face was covered by the hood, and her arms were behind her back, zip-tied together. Ryan pulled the sleeves down, covering her hands, hiding her bonds, and he pulled the string to the hood, hiding the fact that her face was in the wrong place.
“You’re going to walk next to me backwards. I’ll guide you. If you try to run, you’ll undoubtedly run into something and get hurt. And if that doesn’t stop you, I’ll hurt you.”
Drew heard him exit the car and open her door.
“Now, I’m going to help you out, and you’ll walk next to me. Behave yourself, and I’ll be gentle.”
Drew felt herself being lifted out of the car like a child. She had to regain her balance, her head still spinning from being struck, and he guided her away from the car walking backward. She swayed like a drunk, and although he was holding on to her tightly, she knew it appeared that he was helping her, not kidnapping her.
Maybe she had underestimated him.
Drew needed a plan that didn’t involve trying to run away; she was gagged and blinded. Running into something and knocking herself unconscious wouldn’t help. She came to the conclusion that she’d have to use her powers of seduction and persuasion to escape. Brute force wouldn’t save her, but being patient and cunning had worked before.
...................
Drew didn’t struggle while they boarded the boat, her head throbbed, her arms ached, and breathing was difficult. They would be going out into the open ocean; she’d have many hours, maybe several days, to work out an escape plan.
Deja Vu.
He’d be extra careful this time, but cocky and intelligent men often overplayed their hands.
Ryan guided her to the stateroom and attached something to her ankle as he’d done before. He removed the zip ties from her wrists and took off the windbreaker.
She looked at him with pleading eyes.
“Okay,” he said. “But if you start screaming or making a fuss, I’ll punish you.”
She nodded.
He removed the duct tape and his balled-up cap from her mouth.
She said, “Thanks,” and asked for water.
“Sure. I’ll be right back.” Ryan smiled and touched her cheek. “It’s nice having you back here, Drew. Try to behave.”
“Pain killers too, please? Not sleeping pills, it’s too dangerous, I might have a concussion.”
“I have Excedrin.”
“Perfect,” she said.
He returned in under a minute, handed her two pills, a bottle of water, and watched her.
She swallowed the pills, emptied the water, and said, “what’s next?”
“I’m going to the bridge,” he answered. “I’ll be up there a few hours; you should sleep.” He reached out and touched her chin.
Drew resisted the urge to vomit and softly kissed his wrist.
“Good kitten.”
Drew put her head down and rested. She was going to need strength, wits, and some luck to make it through the weekend.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect.
~ Margaret Mitchell
I always believed in happy endings when I was a child.
~ Jessica Mills
...................
Stevenson stood in the parking lot of the marina. The air had a salty smell, and a slight fog caused the parking lot lights to glow like neon dandelions about to go to seed. The wind shifted, and a stench of rotting fish and seaweed triggered panic and dread. He ignored his senses, got on the phone, and attempted to drum up extra tactical support from his commanding officer. This case had suddenly re-morphed like a hurricane changing directions back into what it had been initially: a violent psychopath with multiple victims. Maybe the local cops had let Mills slip through their net, and he’d killed Laura Stern too?
The case fell under FBI jurisdiction once again, at least from his perspective, even if the latest victim was a copy-cat. He forced himself to put his feelings aside, as if he was the parent of a child getting cancer treatment, it wouldn’t be helpful to anyone for him to lose his cool.
Regardless of what kind of case it would be ultimately, what it had become, unfortunately, was a total fucking mess. The media, politics, careers, other cases and lots of little factors had derailed things so that momentum had been lost. Manpower and resources were always limited in every agency, and there were always fires to put out somewhere. Personal caseloads always took precedence: rank, career, prestige, and pensions were damnable things, they often caused people to unconsciously behave in non-rational ways.
Jerry Turner finally arrived. He parked at a forty-five-degree angle blocking egress in the lane Stevenson stood in, an old habit that he probably didn’t even realize he was doing. Rick watched him as he spoke on the radio and then exit the government-issued gray sedan. No doubt he was a cop, even without the uniform or the lights and siren. He walked towards Rick scanning the area, projecting authority and confidence, but there was nobody to intimidate with his authority and nobody to care that he was confident.
“Fuck. What’s that smell?” Turner asked nobody in particular while he lit a cigarette.
“Anything new?” Stevenson asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll fill you in—”
He pointed to Stevenson’s cell.
Stevenson cupped his phone and said, “Okay, one second.”
He was being told that agents were being shifted to work the case, but the biggest problem was trying to coordinate with the Coast Guard. They were
in the middle of their own set of problems. Trouble comes in threes and fours, doesn’t it?
Situations had a way of becoming a crisis for those charged with stopping crime or rescuing victims of disasters and accidents. Each person, no matter how ethical and responsible, always had career ramifications floating in the back of their minds. Wives, girlfriends, husbands, boyfriends, children, taxes, bills, rent, mortgages, promotions: all these things affected a person’s decisions on the job, even if they swore to the heavens that they didn’t. All situations could turn sideways. Cops and firemen knew this as did the Coast Guard and the FBI.
Rick had a gut feeling that Drew was already dead, but he suppressed his emotions; it wouldn’t help her if she were still alive and he had a responsibility to prevent further victims. He didn’t want to jinx anything in either case.
“What do you have?” Stevenson asked Turner after he ended his call.
“We picked up a handgun. No shots fired, fully loaded, registered to Drew. It’s on the way to the lab after being found in the street half a block from a bar called The Tavern. Ryan Mills was there most of the evening; Drew must have been on a stakeout, and apparently he caught on to her. His car is still in the lot.”
“No sign of Drew’s vehicle?”
“Nope. We’re looking.”
Rick’s eyes filled with tears; he was on the verge of breaking down completely. It was the first time he’d openly shown emotion in the middle of a case, not counting the time in his rookie year that he’d been part of a child abduction and murder investigation. That case still haunted him, the brutality of it sealed and burned into his mind forever. After that case, in his daily routine, work had become work. Dead bodies, crime, injured children, it was all part of the job. Occasionally he had nightmares, but he knew that if he allowed work to affect him emotionally, he’d never have a career. He’d heard of agents turning to alcohol and worse, trying to defeat inner demons. He was on new ground, having an intimate relationship with someone who was part of an ongoing case. He knew he had crossed a line dating her. He should never have gone out with her. What was he thinking? How was he going to get over this? He imagined attending her funeral. He’d have to face her parents, her friends, and colleagues with the shame of his failure. He’d have to admit he’d failed her and take the derision and wrath that would surely come with it. He wiped away his tears, but his body continued to ignore his rank, his job, his career, his responsibilities. Tears flowed like rain in a rare summer storm.
Undressed At Sea: A Psychological Thriller (Drew Stirling Book 2) Page 29