In Cold Blonde

by James L. Conway

  “So, Blake Hunter was the third boy,” Syd asked, excited. “You’re sure?”

  “No. I’m not sure. I remember the name Blake is all. If there was more than one Blake, I’d have no idea which one it was.”

  Syd took the list, double-checked. Just one Blake, Blake Hunter, and he lived in Malibu. Syd stuffed the list back in her backpack, stood up. “Mr. and Mrs. Waterman, thank you very much.”

  “Detective,” Betty said, “Do you think Alice is right? Do you think we sold her out?”

  “Don’t ask her that,” Cliff said. “She won’t give us an honest answer. I mean, you can’t really, can you?” Cliff asked Syd. “You’re just going to say what we want to hear.”

  “And what is it you want to hear?” Syd asked.

  “Betty wants to hear that we did the right thing,” Cliff said. “Which we did.”

  “Let me ask you this,” Syd said. “When the lawyer offered the cash settlement, did you ask Alice which she would prefer, the money or a trial?”

  “Of course not, she was just a kid, besides she was in no state of mind to decide.”

  Syd nodded. She knew what she should say, and Syd also knew the truth. She chose. “You did do the right thing, for you. You spared yourself the embarrassment of everyone learning in open court that your daughter was promiscuous. But you did a terrible disservice to your daughter. You prevented her from fighting back against the men who raped her, from punishing the men who raped her. The men she is punishing now. So not only did you betray Alice, you are responsible for turning your daughter from rape victim into a murderer.”

  Cliff stared at Syd, stunned by her honesty. Betty was shocked too. But it didn’t stop her from turning to her husband with an, I told you so glare on her face.

  “Is that what you wanted to hear, Mr. Waterman?” Syd left without waiting for an answer.

  Syd drove quickly. With luck she was just over an hour from Malibu. Of course, she could call dispatch and have the place surrounded in a matter of minutes, and she almost made that call. But Syd wanted to catch the Lady in Red herself. Not for the glory of the capture, but so she could have a chance to talk to her.

  And now Syd had an answer for the question, why now? Why had Alice Waterman waited eleven years to get revenge for the rapes? Because she was given a death sentence by one of her shrinks. And since she thought she was going to die, she had nothing to lose by killing the men who attacked her. She wouldn’t be risking jail or the needle for her murders because she was doomed already.

  Except the diagnosis was a lie.

  A trick to help poor Alice straighten out her life.

  Syd felt a growing affinity with Alice Waterman. And seeing the house she grew up in tonight, the weak mother, bullying father, hearing about how she was betrayed by her parents and abused by men only made Syd want to meet her more.

  She’d still have to arrest her, of course. She had no illusions about somehow helping the Lady in Red get away with murder. But she felt a bond with Alice, a bond she wanted, needed to share.

  Now the only question was, what to do about Ryan? She wanted to share these feelings with him. Wanted to tell him about who she really was, why she understood the Lady in Red.

  Could they actually be a couple if he didn’t know all of her secrets?

  More importantly, were they even a couple now? What was he doing, right now, with that bitch, Anne?

  One way to find out, Syd decided. Call him.

  She picked up her cell phone and hit the one on her speed dial.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The trouble started on the elevator. Ryan and Anne were alone and Anne shot Ryan a mischievous look. “Should I hit the Stop button?”

  Ryan laughed, the memories flooding back.

  When they were married, Ryan and Anne loved to make love in public. Trader Vic’s was the first time, but so exhilarating they found themselves daring each other to have sex almost anywhere. Anne climbed into Ryan’s lap when they were stuck in a traffic jam on the 405 and, to the delight of Fed Ex driver stuck next to them, she pulled out his cock, pulled down her panties and mounted him. The Anne-on-Ryan’s-lap became a favorite position. They used it in movie theatres, Starbucks’ bathrooms, during the half-time show at a Rose Bowl game, and in the back row of a lecture hall during one of Professor Moylan’s interminable Psych classes.

  They also used a variety of other positions depending on where they were; standing when Ryan pinned Anne to the wall in the Travel section of Barnes and Noble, missionary when Ryan took Anne golfing and she couldn’t find her ball in the woods, doggy style in the back of L.A. County Natural History Museum’s dinosaur display, and reverse cowgirl when Anne dragged Ryan into the empty break room of a Ralph’s grocery store.

  But their favorite spots were elevators. In high rises they used to wait until they could get a car by themselves, press the button for the top floor and see if they could finish before the car stopped. In smaller buildings they’d press the Stop button, the alarm would always sound but it actually served to drown out Anne’s orgasms.

  Good times, he thought. He was a different guy then, he suddenly realized. Less serious, certainly less structured, much more spontaneous. He’d closed down after Anne left him. He became much more conservative, cautious, not nearly as much fun, he realized.

  Or was it just that he was a different person with Anne? And if they got back together, would he revert back to a more carefree persona? He glanced at her and she was smiling.

  Standing so close to Anne, feeling her body heat, her scent, Ryan’s hand dangling just inches from hers, was such a turn on. And Syd be damned, there was something unfinished here. What if, okay, he knew it sounded stupid, but what if they were meant to be together? What if his getting the lottery ticket was all part of some huge master plan to get them back together? And as insane as he knew that kind of thinking was, Ryan was having a visceral reaction to Anne that he never felt with any other woman.

  Anne felt it, too. She had to admit she missed those crazy days herself. Anne and Ryan’s love affair was filled with wild abandon. Sure they were kids, but during those first couple of years she felt electrified. A feeling she hasn’t had since. Not with Rick, never with any of her lovers. And she suddenly wondered if she was a different person with Ryan? If, no, when they got back together, would they be able recapture that exultation? And suddenly, more than ever, she wanted to find out.

  DING. The elevator arriving interrupted both of their reveries. But as they stepped out of the elevator and walked down the thick carpet, something palpable had changed. They walked closer together, Ryan’s hand brushed Anne’s hand with every step until he finally wrapped his fingers around hers.

  They faced each other as they reached the door to her suite. Anne slid the keycard into the door but her eyes never left Ryan’s face. Ryan pushed open the door; they were still holding hands as Anne led him inside. The door swung closed behind them. Without a word, Ryan pulled her close and kissed her.

  It ignited a wildfire. Hands started flying, jackets hit the floor, he pulled out her blouse, she ripped open his shirt, undid his belt, he pulled up her skirt and pulled down her panties, she pulled down his pants and slipped his penis out of his boxers. Then, in a move they practiced while still UCLA undergrads, she leapt up throwing her legs around his waist as he caught her under the arms, then lowered her onto his cock.

  They both gasped as he entered her.

  And they stood there, staring into each other’s eyes, neither moving, both just enjoying the feeling of being a part of the other; a completeness neither had felt for so long.

  “You feel so good,” he whispered.

  “No,” she replied. “We feel this good.” As she began to gently rock her hips, he responded and seconds later the passion that had been building between both for the last two days exploded in simultaneous orgasms.

  They lay in each other’s arms an hour later. Naked now, sated after another less frantic lovemaking session, Anne cuddled
contentedly. She was surprised by the passion of their lovemaking. And she knew that something monumental had happened. She’d had a life changing epiphany. She loved Ryan.

  Ryan.

  Not his lottery money. Not the chance at a job running his foundation. But the flesh, blood, synapses and dimples of Ryan Magee.

  She felt safe in his arms. Protected in his arms. At home in his arms.

  This man, she realized, was her soul mate. She’d been a fool to leave him. The humiliating poverty of her childhood had skewed her priorities, and seven years ago, when she bolted from that cramped studio apartment, she made the biggest mistake of her life.

  But now, somehow, she’d been given a second chance and she wasn’t going to blow it. She knew Ryan still loved her. She saw it in his eyes, the way he touched her, the way he made love to her. Now she needed him to realize what she now knew to be a cold hard fact; they belonged together.

  Ryan propped himself up on an elbow, looked at Anne. “You lied to me,” Ryan said.

  Fear rattled Anne. “I did?”

  “You promised no funny business.”

  Relief flooded Anne. “If I’m not mistaken, you kissed me. So, from a strictly legal point of view, you were the funny business instigator and I, the helpless victim.”

  “There’s nothing helpless about you, baby,” he said kissing her.

  Okay, Anne thought. Let’s see how he feels. “Regrets?” Anne asked.

  No, more like a revelation Ryan thought. Wanting to be in love with Syd was different than actually being in love. Ryan cared deeply about Syd, knew how much she loved him and wanted to love her back because well, it would make Syd happy.

  But the depth of his affection for Syd didn’t compare to the feelings suddenly unleashed in Ryan for Anne. A giddy, intoxicating, euphoria he forgot existed.

  “No regrets.” Ryan said.

  Okay, then here goes, thought Anne. “Leaving you was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I love you, Ryan. I’ve always loved and I’ll always love you. If this was a revenge fuck, fine, I deserve it. But if it was more, if you feel the way I do, then please, take me back.”

  There they were, the words Ryan wanted so desperately to hear in those misery soaked months after Anne left him. He’d fantasized about a midnight phone call, a frantic knock on his door, an apology-filled email. He checked his cell phone obsessively hoping for the call.

  Then, slowly, his heart healed. Albeit a cell at a time, the way the body heals itself, and it took a long time.

  But deep down, Ryan realized, he never stopped hoping that one day he’d get that call, hear that knock, read that email. And now, finally, here it was.

  Please, take me back.

  He stared into Anne’s beautiful brown eyes, smiled “Welcome home.”

  Anne squealed with delight, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said, punctuating each thank you with another kiss. Then her fingers slid down his chest to his understandably exhausted penis. “Got anything left down there, big boy?”

  Ryan laughed. “Yeah, a full bladder.” He slipped off the king size bed. “Be right back.” He walked naked into the bathroom, closed the door.

  Anne fell back on the pillow nearly dizzy with joy. Somehow she’d turned Rick’s financial disaster and her own career debacle into a gold-plated life with the only man she’d ever loved. Life, go figure.

  She heard the muffled sound of a cell phone vibrating. She scrambled across the bed to her purse, but her cell phone was silent.

  She heard another vibration from Ryan’s clothes piled on the floor. She climbed off the bed, dug through the clothes and found the phone in Ryan’s jacket pocket. She looked at the Caller ID, Syd.

  Shit. Anne did not want Ryan talking to her now.

  The phone vibrated again.

  Anne turned the cell phone off, dropped it back into Ryan’s jacket then leapt back into the bed.

  Uh oh, Syd thought as she picked her way through traffic on the northbound 405. Ryan always picks up his phone. Possible exceptions: One, he’s already on the phone, and even though his phone would beep and tell him he had an incoming call and identify it as Syd, he’s so engrossed in the conversation he can’t possible pick up; two, he’s fucking the shit out of that bitch; three, he’s dead.

  Well, Syd thought. If it’s not one, and it is two, he’s going to wish it was three.

  His message came on, “Hi, this is Ryan Magee, sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message.”

  Syd thought about just hanging up, but there actually could be an innocent reason for the call not going through, so she said, “Hey Ryan, it’s me. Three boys raped Alice that night: Colin, Adam and a guy named Blake Hunter. He lives in Malibu, 22756 Pacific Coast Highway. It’s nine forty-five now, I should be there in less than an hour. Call me.”

  She disconnected then refocused on her top priority. The Lady in Red.

  FORTY-FIVE

  The Vest Pocket Colt .25, with its miniscule two and a quarter inch barrel was designed to shoot at targets five to eight feet away. After that, luck has as much to do with hitting a target as skill.

  This was only the second time Blake had ever fired a weapon; the first was high school when they took Adam’s father’s .44 Magnum to the city dump and shot at rats, so his skill level was low. But Blake’s luck was good and he hit his target.

  Alice screamed as the bullet ripped into her shoulder, blood spurted as the slug shredded her deltoid muscle, just missed the cephatic vein before nicking her clavicle bone, tumbling through the trapezius muscle and bursting out of her shoulder before finally plowing into the living room wall.

  The force of the bullet hitting Alice spun her around, and her brain was already calculating how she was going to survive a battle with a man with a gun when she’s just got a small scalpel.

  So she instinctively let the spin knock her off her feet and she tumbled to the ground. There was no way for Blake to know exactly where he hit her, Syd realized, so she shuddered once and then went still.

  Dead still.

  Blake stared at the lifeless body. God damn her, he thought. He was counting on a lengthy interview to stitch together his documentary. And her murder trial would have been the icing on the cake. Fiery statements from the D.A. intercut with righteous indignation from the defense. Mix in a few shots of the beautiful defendant and you’ve got real drama. But now, all he’d have was a funeral.

  Of course, a funeral makes for a much more definitive ending, and his own role in the story had been enhanced. Enhanced big time, he suddenly realized; he’s become the fucking star. After capturing the Lady in Red, he had to fight it out with the desperate serial murderer, finally killing her with her own weapon.

  And then it hit him, documentary, hell! This should be a feature fucking film. Someone sexy but deadly would play the Lady in Red: Angelina Jolie, Scarlett Johansson, or maybe Keira Knightley. And an A-lister like Brad Pitt or Matt Damon would play Blake.

  He’d write and direct, the first time ever a victim/hero told his own story on screen. What a publicity dream.

  He looked at Alice’s body.

  Did she just breathe?

  He thought he saw some movement. He aimed the gun at her. He should put a couple of more shots into her to make sure, he decided. He centered the muzzle at the back of her head, tightened his finger on the trigger and squeezed.

  Then stopped.

  The cops would be able to figure out the trajectory of the bullets, determine that he was standing and she was on the ground. Realized he’d shot a defenseless victim.

  Not very heroic.

  How would an audience feel watching Brad Pitt shoot the inert body of Scarlett Johansson just to make sure she was dead?

  They’d hate it. It seemed so cowardly.

  But what if she was still alive? He was sure he saw her move.

  Keeping the gun aimed at her, Blake slowly stepped toward the body. When he reached her he saw a pool of
blood gathering beneath her.

  That’s good, he thought. But blood alone wasn’t enough to prove she was dead. He nudged her stomach with his foot.

  Alice’s right hand shot out, the scalpel slashing Blake’s ankle, severing his Achilles tendon.

  Blake’s leg collapsed. Furious he pulled the trigger, but too late, his aim ruined by the fall. Three shots went harmlessly into the ceiling.

  His back hit the ground first, followed by his head and gun hand. The force of the impact popped the gun out of his grip and sent the Colt skittering across the floor.

  Alice pounced on him. She straddled his chest and began slashing his face with the scalpel. Blood spurted as the tempered steel of the #10 blade sliced down his left cheek, up his right cheek, across his chin.

  Blake screeched in pain. He looked into Alice’s maniacal face; she was pure animal now desperately fighting for her survival.

  In his periphery vision Blake could see the gun on the floor, eight or nine feet away. He had to get her off him and reach the gun.

  She slashed again, this time the knife sliced across his forehead, opening a flap of skin and sending a river of blood into Blake’s eyes.

  He let out a roar, placed his hand on her chest and shoved as hard as he could. Alice fell back, tumbling off him. He was free.

  Blake clambered toward the gun. His right leg was useless, so he pulled himself across the floor with his hands as his blood drenched the floor.

  He could hear Alice scrambling to her feet behind him. He reached out, his fingertips touching the gun. Got you, he thought.

  But as he tightened his grip on the Colt, Alice drove the scalpel through the back of his hand pinning it to the floor.

  He screamed in agony.

  Alice plucked the gun off the floor, turned it on Blake. Blood poured from the gashes in his face. He looked at her, terrified. “Don’t shoot.”

  Hate simmered off Alice. The rape was Blake’s idea. She’d watched him direct her degradation. He was actually going to try and use her rape to re-launch his movie career. And now he was begging for mercy.