It’s nothing, she told herself. He’s just waiting for someone. Maybe the elevator, or a friend.
She tried to ignore him, but became increasingly uncomfortable when he kept glaring at her. She was just about to reach for the phone to call the police when he stepped out of the shadow and began walking into the dim light. She gasped as she recognized Barry Schorr. He looked awful. He was unshaven and rumpled, and walked up to the glass doors slowly. He stood on the other side for a moment, staring at her. His lips were twisted up in an evil smile, and his eyes so cold they chilled her to the core.
Finally pushing on the door, he stepped inside and hesitated a moment as he felt around behind him and fingered a protruding object on the metal plate that turned easily to lock the door. Then his gaze darted over at the wall beside the door and he saw a bank of light switches. He quickly reached out and flipped them.
Melanie gasped when the office went totally dark, except for the light in Scott’s office which cast a deadly glow. There were no windows in the reception area, so Melanie sat in almost total darkness with her heart pounding. She slowly rose from her desk, her voice trembling. “Mr. Schorr, w-what are you doing?”
“What do you mean, Melanie? You think just because the door’s locked and the lights are out that something’s going to happen?”
While keeping her gaze on the dark, threatening figure as he began making his way through the reception area, she began backing up and stumbled over her purse. “Get away from me,” she whispered, as his inky silhouette moved closer, blocking out the different shades of gloom behind him.
“In a nice way, I asked a favor,” he said, his voice full of amiable sarcasm, “but you, with your red lips and high heels, refused me. All you would’ve had to do is run those long, tiger claws through your desk file and tell me what I wanted to know. It wouldn’t have required heavy lifting, heavy breathing, or even getting up off your pretty little ass. But still, in your giggling little high school way, you said no.” Suddenly dropping the amiable mask, his voice reverted to pure hatred. “I’m getting tired of refusals, Melanie. Tired of little red lips saying no, tired of hands pushing mine away, and tired of long, silky thighs being clenched against me.”
Suddenly, he pulled out a knife. When his finger pressed against a button, the threatening blade shot up, the sharp edge burning with a sinister glitter. His husky frame loomed over her while she tried to slide along the wall to get away. Suddenly, she lunged, and as quick as lightning, an arm shot out, cutting off her avenue of escape.
“You’re going to tell me where Blaze Alexander is, or I’ll cut your fuckin’ tits up in little pieces. Is that clear?”
“But I’ll be fired!” she sobbed, terrified.
He pressed her against the wall with the point of the knife touching her soft skin. She felt a painful prick, and Barry saw a small trickle of blood fall slowly down the blade’s shiny surface. He lifted the blade from her neck and showed her the blood on it. “Would you rather be dead, or unemployed?”
“Oh, God,” Melanie sobbed, “I can’t believe this is happening!”
“Believe it, bitch. Now what is it, death, or unemployment?”
She began speaking quickly, her heart racing. “It’s in Mr. Sanders’ office on the right-hand side of his desk in a blue folder.”
All at once, Barry grabbed her by the waist, and with the point of the knife biting at her neck, forced her across the wide area into Scott’s office. She struggled against his tight grasp, but he managed to get her over to the desk.
As they stood there, he laid the length of the sharp edge against her throat. “If you move, just slightly, your pretty little neck will be mincemeat, got it? Now, open the folder, and remember, no sudden movements.”
Melanie’s body was stiff in his arms as she reached out with a trembling hand. She couldn’t bend her head, but lowered her eyes as much as she could while feeling along the desk for the folder.
Very slowly, she opened it.
Barry scanned the document, immediately recognizing Blaze’s signature on Scott’s copy of the contractual agreement binding her to Radio Station WSCX in Savannah.
“My God, I would have never thought of looking for her there,” he said, his words sharp, like cracking ice. He looked at Melanie with amusement. “The bitch must think she’s hidden. It’s too bad I have to burst her bubble!”
Slowly, his gaze slid down and anchored on the small cut leaking blood from Melanie’s neck, and something in him snapped. As he looked at the red, glaring liquid with a demented leer, it made him think of menstrual blood. A sudden raw desire washed over him, and his lids lowered onto the knife and saw, not a blade, but a long, throbbing, cock. His cock. From there, his gaze slid to the long bloody scratch the knife had made, and thought of Blaze. Her legs were spread, her cleft throbbing, and his cock was stiff, and ready to penetrate. The picture caused waves of crude, primal passion to wash over him, and with a groan, his hand pushed the glinting blade into the soft, smooth flesh of Melanie Blake. The moment the blade disappeared into her soft, young neck, he closed his eyes with a moan.
The low, rasping sound was stifled when he buried his face, now horribly twisted into a perverted frown, into her bloody neck, and pressed his hips against her limp body, pushing and rubbing himself hard. The wild, swift movement took him to the summit of his desire, and a deep grunt escaped from his throat, ushering in a sweet release that gave him a hellish depth of throbbing satisfaction. When it was over, his breath came in gasps, and he looked down and saw the front of his jeans saturated with his killer semen.
* * * *
The traffic was murder when Scott Sanders drove to work the next morning. When he finally arrived, he saw Melanie’s car in the parking lot and wondered why she was there so early. He looked at his watch, knowing she almost never made it in before nine. She didn’t usually begin to abide by the rules unless she was hoping for a raise. It had been a year since her last one, so he knew she was due for one, but there was no way he could afford it right now. As he rode up on the elevator he rehearsed several of the excuses he could give her when she asked him for it.
“Business is a little slow right now, Melanie. Or maybe, Sorry Melanie, but too many office expenses. Hey, I know,” he muttered to himself. “This old standby always works. Melanie, how can you—”
Just then, the doors slid open, and as Scott stepped off, he got a few curious glances from people who thought he was talking to himself. Too busy thinking to pay them any mind, he approached the double glass doors that had Entertainment by Sanders arched in mod print over the familiar scene of Hollywood and Vine.
He hesitated when he noticed that the reception area was dark.
Why…? he thought as he pushed the door open, and then reached over and flipped the lights on.
He scanned the open area worriedly, and when he passed Melanie’s desk he noticed her purse lying on its side with a few items scattered on the floor. He pulled his gaze away, stepped up his pace on the way to his office, and then stepped in.
“Oh, my God!” he shouted as his briefcase fell to the floor.
Melanie was lying in a pool of blood, her unseeing eyes staring into space. As Scott looked down at her, his stomach lurched, and he put his hand to his mouth. He had to grab onto something while he turned his eyes away from the bloody scene. When the initial shock passed, he crept over everything to get to his desk. He noticed Blaze Alexander’s file out and a bloody red circle had been drawn around the Savannah Radio Station.
He picked up the phone and dialed 911. “I need the police. There’s been a murder.”
“Did you commit the murder?”
“No,” Scott almost shouted, his teary eyes turning away from the ghastly scene. “I just came in to work and found my secretary dead on the floor of my office.”
“You don’t know who committed the murder, then. Right?”
“No. Yes. I mean, right. Please, I can’t look at this much longer!”
“You
need to try and calm down, sir. Are you at 922 Oceanview Boulevard?”
“Yes. I’m located on the fifth floor, Suite 515.”
“Someone is on their way, sir.”
In only minutes it seemed, sirens were blasting in the distance. Busy professionals were swarming like bees, each doing their own job. The body was examined by forensics, a photographer took pictures, and a couple of officers picked the office clean of anything they thought might be evidence.
A few minutes later, a homicide detective squeezed in and managed to corner Scott. “Sir, are you the one who found the body?”
“Yes,” Scott replied while having a hard time keeping his stomach from backing up. “I just got here,” he said, his grief apparent to the business-as-usual detective. “I haven’t even taken off my overcoat yet.”
“Mr. Sanders, do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Ms. Blake?”
Scott tried, but he couldn’t answer since his stomach was rocking to a beat that pounded in his head.
“Please, sir, I realize this is hard, but I need you to stay with me. Do you know—?”
He looked up at the detective, and told him about Barry Schorr, and the threats he made. “But why would he? She’s innocent, a child. No threat to anyone.” He looked back down at his wringing hands. “I don’t understand, I just don’t—”
“Has her next of kin been notified?” the man asked, a pencil poised over his writing pad.
Scott shook his head, suddenly remembering the phone call he received the night before from her mother. She was worried because Melanie hadn’t come home yet.
“Mrs. Blake, she’s probably out shopping. I’m sure she’ll be in soon.”
“But it’s not like her, Mr. Sanders. She’s usually home by this time.”
Scott was irritated that she would think he knew where she was. “I’m sorry, but once she leaves the office, I’m—”
“Well, thanks,” she said, not waiting for him to finish his thought. Her words were thin, worried, and Scott could detect a sob in them.
A frown stayed on his face as he replaced the receiver, already a thin thread of guilt running through him.
After his thoughts faded, he turned to the detective. “Melanie was young. Who the hell knows where the young spend their time, or who they spend it with? I figured she was probably out partying. There was nothing I could do about it. My God, what am I, her watchdog? I might be responsible for her from nine to five, but after that she was someone else’s problem.”
“Problem?” the detective repeated, his accusing gaze angled at Scott.
“Sorry, bad choice of words. I meant to say she was someone else’s…Well, hell, you know what I mean.”
“Of course,” the detective said calmly, as if he were dealing with a lunatic. “Now, Mr. Sanders, have you touched anything?”
Scott looked up at him as if he thought it was a stupid question. “Of course I’ve touched things. It’s my office, for God’s sake. There must be fingerprints all over. Mine and my client’s. Even my secretary’s.” At the mention of Melanie, he looked over at her dead body, then sobbed and lowered his head in his hands. “God, who in the hell would do something like this?”
“Sir, please. I know it’s hard, but try and concentrate. I’m talking about this morning when you found her. Did you touch anything?”
“Well, I went to the phone and called 911.”
“You used your office phone?”
“Yes,” Scott answered, looking at him with a frown. “Why?”
“With all this mess? Why didn’t you go to your secretary’s desk and use her phone?”
“I don’t know,” Scott said with a slight shrug. “I guess I just didn’t think of it. Does it matter?”
“Well, no, I guess not.”
“Then why in hell did you ask?”
“Mr. Sanders, I have to…”
“You fucking detectives are all alike, you know that? While you’re wasting your time making the grief-stricken even more miserable, that fucking maniac is out there killing off the population.” Scott was on a roll and couldn’t stop. “Go ahead, sit there. Want coffee? A Coke maybe? Why don’t you put your goddamned feet up and make yourself comfortable? You’re not going to do anything, anyway, but ask a lot of stupid questions. By the way, contacting the next of kin is not my job, Sherlock, it’s yours. So instead of sitting here on your ass asking me if the next of kin have been contacted, ask your own men, or get out there and do it yourself!”
The detective pushed his hat back on his head, and looked at Scott with a knowing frown. “All right, Mr. Sanders. Yell at me all you want. It’s normal. Happens every time. If you didn’t get a little unhappy with me, I might think you were the suspect.”
Scott sputtered at the mere suggestion that he might be responsible. Instead of feeling intimidated, he said, “Take your goddamned hat off inside. It’s not glued to your head, is it?” He turned away from the detective still muttering, “What the hell kind of police academy did you come out of? Don’t you have any respect for the dead?”
Once they had his statement, and Melanie’s body had been removed, Scott went home and got on the telephone to tell his clients what had happened.
“Poor Melanie,” Scott had said into the telephone receiver over and over. He had repeated it over so many times, he felt like it was beginning to sound rehearsed. “She was the best secretary I’ve ever had…blah, blah, blah. Yes, I’ll have to do business from my home for a while…blah, blah, blah. Sorry, but my files are at the office, so you’ll have to bear with me…blah, blah, blah. No, I can’t go near it, the police have cordoned it off…blah, blah, blah. Something about contaminating the crime scene…blah, blah, blah.”
After the last client had been called, he finally hung up the phone, then sat back in his chair and sighed, thinking to himself, I still have to call Blaze.
He looked down at his watch. Mentally calculating the difference in the time between there and Georgia, he knew she’d be sleeping and silently decided to call later. Finally, he leaned over his desk and began making notes of what had to be done.
(1) Bring in a cleaning crew.
(2) Replace carpet.
(3) Hire new secretary.
Suddenly, he dropped the pen, and buried his face in his hands. “I just can’t believe this has happened.” When he remembered himself stupidly rehearsing his speeches on the elevator, he felt ashamed. “Melanie,” he whispered to himself, “God, I’m so sorry!”
Chapter 4
As the two boy geniuses sat in the bull pen trying to talk, Erik slowly shuffled along, bumping his broom against the furniture and emptying waste paper baskets. Finally, Greg’s patience reached its end.
“Hey, dummy! We’re tryin’ to talk here, okay? What in hell does it take to get you to move, anyway? You should have had this area cleaned up hours ago!”
Wade looked at Greg and snickered. “You might as well give it up, Greg. He doesn’t understand.”
“For two cents, I’d fire his ass, but Bran won’t let me.”
“Why?”
“It’s the money. Because of his mental problem, we can get the bastard for a lot less, so the station doesn’t want to lose him.” He looked over at Erik. “Jeez, he’s so dumb, I don’t even know how he gets home at night.”
“I guess God watches over babies and stupes like him.”
“Maybe he is a stupe, but I’ve had my doubts.” Greg’s eyes followed Erik as he worked. “Have you ever looked right into his eyes? They’re clear and sharp. Sometimes when he looks at me, I get the creeps. Hell, I could swear he understands everything I’m saying. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s faking it.”
“But why, for God’s sake. If he had any sense, what would he be doing with a job like this? Nah, he ain’t got the sense of a friggin’ paperclip.”
* * * *
Working around the office, Erik could hear everything they were saying, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he shuffled over
to the soft drink machine. When he heard something, he turned and saw Blaze Alexander walking into the station. His gaze quickly jumped to the dynamic duo and saw the surprise on their faces.
“What are you doing here this early in the day? I was beginning to think you turned to dust in the sunlight.”
“I just came by to pick something up,” she said sarcastically. “Do you mind?”
“Take anything you want, Toots.”
“The name is Blaze, Bucko.”
“If you can call me Bucko, I can call you Toots.”
She smiled a nasty smile. “Bucko is what I call you to your face, but I have a much better name for you. It begins with a B and has seven letters.”
Greg was about to say something when the sound of Erik’s broom dropping to the floor interrupted him.
Blaze’s head jerked around when she heard the noise. She squinted into a shadowy corner, and saw a head with a lot of long blond hair moving around. “Who the hell is that?”
Wade responded, “That’s Erik Grant, the janitor.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s mentally retarded. He just cleans up around here and does odd jobs. He can’t talk very well and understands less.”
Blaze watched him for a moment, then saw him drop some coins on the floor while fumbling with the Coke machine. She rushed to pick them up for him, and with a smile, carefully put them back into his hand.
“T-Thank you, M-Ms. Alexander.”
“You know me?”
“I…y-yes. I l-listen.”
When she looked up into his face, she was surprised. In his eyes, she saw the most curious mixture of blue and green she had ever seen. They were absolutely beautiful. His hair was blond, and long, and stayed down in his face most of the time, but when she looked beyond it and saw his face, he was unbelievably handsome. His mouth was full and well-shaped, and when he smiled, his white, even teeth were downright dazzling.
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