Kiss of Deceit

by Patricia A. Rasey

  And, more and more, this seemed to be the norm.

  LeAnne supposed the thought should make her happy. They would never run out of criminals; thus, provided she walk the right line of the law, she would always have a job.

  The washed-out white door opened a crack, and a groan came from the other side as Allen recognized his visitor.

  “Haven’t you terrorized me enough for one lifetime, Detective McVeigh?” He said her name with such contempt, she wondered at her decision to come alone. Certainly Wymer wouldn’t lay a hand on her.

  “I’m sorry, Allen, about your present situation.” And she was. There might not be any love lost between the two, but she didn’t wish him ill either.

  He grunted in response as he held the door open wider for her to enter. “Are you?”

  LeAnne walked into the living area. A small, moth-eaten loveseat sat beside a varnish-worn table. Across from it sat a rocker, badly in need of caning.

  “Contrary to what you might believe, I’m not out to see you suffer, Wymer. I only want to see justice done. Certainly you can understand.”

  “Of course.” His words oozed with sarcasm. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Help yourself,” he grumbled. “I suppose you’ll be wanting coffee, next.”

  “Only answers.”

  “Then maybe you should be reading me my rights again.”

  “Do you need to be reminded of them?” She lifted a brow. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “Not today. But of course, everything you say can and will be used in a court of law. Would you like to call a lawyer?”

  “I waive my right for now. But if I don’t like the direction your questions are taking, I may want to stop you and consult one.”

  “Fair enough.” LeAnne flipped through her notepad, pulled out her microcassette and hit the record and play buttons. “You don’t mind if I record this.”

  Allen crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the yellowed, painted wall. “I have nothing to hide.”

  “As you know, we are fully aware of your relationship with Jillian Gallego.”

  “Repetitive.”

  “What I need to know is if you had a similar relationship with a Miranda Holliday?”

  Allen chuckled. “Are you serious?” When LeAnne did not add anything, his expression sobered. “You’re asking if I was sleeping with Frank Holliday’s wife?”

  “So you are aware of her.”

  “Hell, yes. And of the fact she was murdered a week ago Saturday.” His face reddened. “You’re not pinning this on me as well!”

  “Right now, Allen, the only thing I am trying to establish is if you knew her as more than an acquaintance.”

  “I’ve had a few beers with her at the bar before.”

  “Was her husband present?”

  “No.”

  “So you’ve had a few drinks with her—alone?”

  Wymer chuckled again, using his bare foot to push off the wall. He began pacing the threadbare carpet. “For the record,” Allen said and stopped, looking at her point-blank for emphasis before resuming his pacing, “I never had drinks alone with Miranda Holliday. We were always in the company of her friends.”

  “Did you ever sleep with her?”

  Finally he stopped his restless walking and stood in front of LeAnne, hands on his hips. “Hell, no! Think what you will about me, but the only person I was sleeping with, besides my wife, was Jillian Gallego.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I feel the need to corroborate your story.”

  “I don’t have anything to hide. Hell, I don’t even have anything more to lose.” His arm made an arc about the room. “I have to live with my brother, who’s an absolute pig, because not only has the sheriff’s office cut me off, but my wife has thrown me out.”

  “I really am sorry, Allen, but you can’t blame the world for your being caught with your pants down.”

  “And I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before you are. And you know what, Detective?” His eyes filled with malice. “I hope I’m the one who catches you. I’d love to see you fall. I highly doubt you’re as high and mighty as you appear.”

  “I’m not here to trade insults with you, Wymer, as much fun as it would be. I’m here on official duty. I have questions that need answering.”

  “Correction—question. You are allowed one more, then I’m going to throw your pretty little derriere out of here. So choose carefully, Detective.”

  LeAnne thought about it. If she told him he had no mechanical knowledge, his ego would force him to correct her, then she could ask a different question and get two answered instead of one.

  “Obviously, you don’t have any mechanical skills, not enough to fix anything on an engine.” Allen nodded, his brows rising in puzzlement. “So what I really want to know is what you were doing early Sunday, say around two in the morning?”

  “As if I have an alibi?”

  “Correct.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  The acquisitive look on his face seemed genuine enough. Possibly a good job of acting.

  “A caretaker at Riverview Memory Gardens was found dead Sunday afternoon.”

  “Jesus. That’s been happening an awful lot lately. Same guy?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you any of the details. Where were you?”

  “Here.”

  The distraught look on his face told her the answer to her next question. “Alone?”

  “Shit.” He slowly shook his head. “Alone.”

  “I thought that might be your answer.”

  His concerned look quickly masked over to one of contempt. He pushed the off button on her recorder.

  “That was your one question, Detective. Now, unless you’re going to arrest me for something, I suggest you get the hell out of here.”

  LeAnne stood, gathered her stuff, and headed for the door, where she turned. “What if I have more questions for you at a later time?”

  “Then you better have a warrant for my arrest—in which case, I’ll have a good lawyer.”

  Chapter 16

  The place crawled with patrons. Waiters and waitresses bustled about the eatery, attempting to get hot meals to the customers, lest they lose a hefty tip. And here, the tips were always hefty.

  What better place to lose yourself, than in the mass of a busy restaurant? Certainly, had he taken her some place a little more remote, a little less frequented by customers, then he and his date would stick out, be remembered. The last thing he wanted; the last thing he could afford. Better to be one of the throng. Besides, they were in Toledo, fifty minutes from where either of them lived. Chances of running into someone they knew were slim.

  “What’s the matter?” Samantha asked in a voice already grating to his nerves. She sounded like the woman who played The Nanny, for chrissake.

  God, but it would be a pleasure to wrap his fingers around her slender throat and silence, once and for all, the irritating noise coming from her larynx. Jesus, but she was annoying. Even the Savior of the World would be tempted to snuff out the lights of this one.

  His palms itched. He reflexively opened and closed his hands as they rested on the table.

  “You have cramps”—her eyes indicating his automatic gesture—“in your hands?”

  He glanced down briefly, then forced a wide smile. “Just a little on edge,” he replied, grasping a fork in one to stop the instinctive motion. “A long day at work. All I could think about was tonight. Seeing you.”

  Her smile turned up her cheeks as she shyly glanced away, meant to be a flattering display. To him, it was nothing more than an act. He knew what she wanted; what every cold-hearted slut did. She craved the meat hanging between his legs, as if he were nothing more than an ape evolved into a man.

  Men were not born stupid.

  At least not this man—and he surely did not think with the appendage t
hat dangled so freely between his thighs. No, he used his brain and his inbred knowledge of the natural law. Adultery was wrong, and he had made himself punisher. Of course, murder, too, was written as a sin in the hearts of man.

  But this—this was justified.

  Just as every blow he had ever received from his Bible-toting father had been. His mother, long gone, had left his father and him, when he was just three years old, for a man who drove a Cadillac and wore $500 suits.

  One full-moon night, about twelve years later, he was in the back of Susie VanWarren’s mom and dad’s van. She, being eighteen at the time, had taught him all he needed to know about the opposite sex. He had been driving in hard, her moans carrying through the still night air when his father showed up and flung open the back doors. His father dragged him from the van, pants tangled about his ankles, to the woods beyond.

  He could still hear the crack of the belt as it slapped and stung his tender skin. His flesh welted and bled from the bite of the leather. And with each continued blow came the passages from the Bible his father would spout, telling him what he had done was against the laws of God.

  Adultery, my son, is punishable by death. Slap! went the black belt. Leviticus 20:10. Whack! it split open the tender skin of his bare butt. And Deuteronomy 22:22. Slap! warm blood slipped down his buttocks to his thigh.

  Both clearly state that the man and the women—Whack!—guilty of an adulterous affair—Slap!—must be put—Whack!—to—Slap!—death!

  And never once had he uttered a sound. Sister Mary Susan had taught him to honor his father’s every word.

  “Shawn?” her abrasive voice filtered through his musing and brought him back to stark reality. He sat across from a woman he loathed, even if for no more reason than she should be home serving a husband who probably adored her. “Are you listening to anything I’m saying?”

  “I’m sorry.” He plastered his fake grin back upon his face. “I’m a little preoccupied tonight. What were you saying?”

  “It was nothing, really. I was just telling you I’ll need to be back before midnight. Hank thinks I’m out with Cora. And on a weeknight, we rarely stay out past then. Cora has to work early in the morning.”

  “The woman you were with Saturday?”

  “That’s the one. She stayed home and promised to check her caller ID if the phone rings. If Hank calls, she won’t answer it. She’ll cover for me.”

  The slut had thought this out. He probably wasn’t her first affair, but he definitely would be her last. And now, he had allowed someone else to see him—someone who could identify him. He had grown careless in his desires.

  Now, this Cora, too, must die.

  “You don’t work outside the home?”

  “Hank prefers it that way.”

  “Kids?”

  “No.” She laughed as if it were an absurdity.

  His hands began to flex once again. God, how much more was he expected to take?

  “And I certainly don’t want any. It would do nothing more than mess up my figure. Besides, who wants to chase around three-year-olds all day?”

  Selfish bitch.

  He would waste little time romancing this one and cut straight to the kill. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. She would be leaving behind no one other than her husband, and dear Hank fared better without her.

  Done with the salad, she flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder, extracted a mirror from her purse, and reapplied her lipstick. “Do you have kids of your own, Shawn? It just occurred to me that I really don’t know anything about you. You said you’re from the same area, but no one I know has heard of a ‘Shawn Michaels.’” She giggled, hiding the offensive noise behind her hand. “Except for the WWF wrestler, of course.”

  Bored with her inane conversation and ignoring her comparison to his name, he pushed away his plate, laid his forearms on the table, and leaned forward.

  “Tell me, Samantha…” He lowered his tone, titillation bubbling beneath his well-controlled surface as he thought about the possible answers to his next question. “…What scares you the most?”

  Her shoulders shuddered, but he hadn’t missed the slight chill that had probably just passed down her spine. After all, she had accepted a dinner from a perfect stranger. She wasn’t merely a slut, but a stupid one at that. At least with the last two, it had taken him weeks to get into their good graces.

  Her gaze drifted to the table as the waiter suddenly appeared and replaced her salad with a steaming plate of chicken and bow pasta, served in a creamy white sauce. The shape of the tiny pasta reminded him of a neck as his fingers squeezed.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she said as the waiter served him his meal, then departed.

  “Sure you do, Samantha.” He grinned. “I mean, you don’t really know me.”

  “No.”

  “And I don’t know you.”

  Her eyes wide and wary, she replied, “No, you don’t. But you seem to know more about me than I do you.”

  He shrugged. “I’m a private man. I like my ladies and I like myself unattached. I keep my options open.” He paused, grasping her slender fingers. “And you’re right, you don’t know me. I could be a homicidal maniac or something far worse, and here you are accepting dinner from me. So what frightens you, Samantha? Me?”

  Her irises nervously darted back and forth as she appeared to search the depths of his eyes for answers he’d never allow her to see. No one could read his soul.

  “Should I be afraid of you?” she asked, a quiver in her voice. “We’re all afraid of something.”

  “Then what do you fear?”

  “Solitary confinement…being completely alone.”

  “You just said you like to keep your options open. If you are so afraid of being alone, why not get married—have kids?”

  “It’s hard to find someone, when so many are faithless.”

  She flinched as if he had actually struck her, and straightened her spine. “Pardon me?”

  “I’m sorry,” he quickly amended. He certainly did not want to push her away. The idea was to lure her, romance her. “That was uncalled for, but you did ask. Why get married if you can’t remain faithful?”

  The soft lines of her face hardened. He could tell their conversation rankled her. Though he wanted to get her beneath him, at the moment, he was having trouble keeping his disdain to himself. For some reason, this woman bothered him far more than the others. Maybe it was the tiny age lines creasing her eyes and her mouth. The others could argue their young age, didn’t know better. But with age, came wisdom. What had this one learned?

  “What about you? Are you any better for dating a married woman?”

  “I suppose not,” he lied. He needed her trust, her confidence if she were to ever screw him. And to kill her, he needed her beneath him. “You haven’t told me what scares you yet. What do you fear, Samantha? What makes you crawl inside yourself?”

  “I don’t know—not being in control, I guess. Death.”

  He thought of all the things he had been taught about dying at the Catholic Boy’s school. Sister Mary Susan had waggled her finger at him countless times. “Jesus Christ is your savior. If you want to live,” she used to say, “then you had better start acting more like him.”

  “Christians believe they never die, but live on through Christ.”

  “What does being a Christian have to do with being afraid to die?”

  “You would believe that God is your salvation. Who should be afraid of death if they shall live?”

  “Then I take it you’re a Christian.”

  “I believe something created this world.”

  “Do you fear death?”

  “We all have to die sometime. Some of us just sooner than others.”

  “I suppose so.” Then, as if to change topics, she said, “It’s still early. Do you want to get out of here?”

  He smiled again. “I know a small, out-of-the-way place.”

  A re
ddish glow warmed her face, though her eyes told another story. She was hungry for more than the chicken pasta she had left untouched. “Are you suggesting?”

  “Do you have something better to do?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “A date with death, perhaps?”

  She giggled her annoying little titter. “Not that I know of.”

  He threw a couple of twenties on the table. “Then, I say you have a date with me, one that requires me on top of you.”

  The look on her face told him he had struck pay dirt.

  * * *

  Another long day at work; another long day wasted. LeAnne had gone over the cases with a fine-toothed comb, visited possible suspects, questioned repeat sex offenders let out on early parole, and still came up empty-handed. Joe Drake would soon want answers—answers she had yet to discover.

  Someone ended Jillian and Miranda’s life, not to mention the poor caretaker’s. And that someone was still running loose, probably stalking his next victim. Someone else would die before they ever solved the case. LeAnne could feel it in her bones as sure as she knew the sun would rise tomorrow.

  A shiver passed down her spine.

  She exited her car, set the alarm. The short sound of the horn filled the silent night, startling her as she headed up the sidewalk. She chuckled at her misplaced nervousness, her unease, and glanced at her home.

  The dark windows stared back and Chad’s Lexus was nowhere in sight. Obviously, he opted to go home—his home.

  LeAnne cursed herself again for not changing the bulb on her porch. Safety should always come first. She was a cop, for crying out loud.

  Fumbling in the darkened doorway with for her key, LeAnne finally found the one she sought and stuck it into the hole.

  The hairs on the nape of her neck rose.

  An odd feeling of being observed washed over her.