Lethal in Love

by Michelle Somers

  She didn’t fit the profile of the killer’s usual vics. Which meant either one of two things. This death was personal. Or it wasn’t the Night Terror.

  Instinct inclined him towards the latter. Now all he needed was to outdo the cops at their own game, write the story and collect the accolades. Then he could move his attention to breaking the real Night Terror case—a success impossible for anyone to ignore.

  Gina’s death provided his first lead. Moving round his desk, Seth dropped into the high-backed chair, pushing the laptop aside to make room for a thick, red folder. The third page yielded what he was looking for. One month before her death, Gina subscribed to a website, Angels of Harlem. A place where men hooked up with women interested in the kinkier side of sex. It was while following this lead that Seth had made an enlightening discovery—Angels of Harlem was founded by none other than Angelique Sutton, the victim preceding Gina.

  His sources in the Department stated that fiancé Joel Vance claimed he knew nothing about Gina’s other life. The swinging or the internet.

  Sipping at his beyond-cold Nescafé, Seth contemplated. Who was he to question how a man could remain oblivious to such an intrinsic part of his fiancée’s life? Still, this fact was like steak cut from the toughest, oldest, meanest bull in the herd—difficult to chew and even harder to swallow.

  With help, he’d dug further into the life of Mr Joel Vance. Seemed the man had a past. A couple of quashed misdemeanours and a rape allegation that never stuck. Speaking to ‘friends’ and neighbours, he’d gleaned that Vance had a history of obsessive jealousy. Why hadn’t the police uncovered this? The answer was a flashing neon sign—they believed they’d already identified the killer.

  He dragged his laptop back and opened his diary. A page filled with notes leaped onto the screen—thoughts, feelings, hunches. His system for making the world make sense. Without conscious thought his fingers tripped over the keys and the words flowed. His frustrations over his job, the case, the woman who ran before he could get her real name.

  Seth’s mobile vibrated, followed by the gravelly voice of Mario Puzo’s Godfather. I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.

  Caller ID showed a Melbourne Telegraph number—his editor’s right-hand man, a friend, and another fluff-and-feathers reporter, but one who loved it.

  He answered by clicking on the speaker. Richard Collins didn’t bother with formalities, his larger-than-life voice booming out from the phone. ‘Turn the TV onto Channel 0.’

  ‘Hi, Richie. Nice speaking to you, too.’

  ‘Yada, yada, just do it, Seth. You’re gonna want to see this.’ Coffee in hand, Seth moved into the living room and clicked on the widescreen LCD, flicking through channels until he reached 0.

  ‘. . . one week after her death, detectives have confirmed the latest brutal killing, of Melbourne woman Angelique Sutton, is the work of the man they call the Night Terror.

  The predator who terrorised Melbourne for more than a decade is back after a twenty-five year lapse.

  Before the murders ceased, more than forty women fell prey to the serial killer, who hunted and strangled his victims by night. All were unmarried, aged between twenty to twenty-five, with blonde hair and blue eyes. And in every case the ring finger of the victim’s left hand was severed. The fingers were never recovered, and it’s believed that the killer kept them as trophies.

  These more recent deaths are identical to those in the past. Detectives leading the case say . . .’

  ‘Hey, Seth. You still there?’

  His lip curled as he hit mute on the remote and turned away from the screen. ‘Yeah, I’m here.’ He positioned a coaster onto the over-polished 1920s buffet and set down his mug.

  ‘Seems your story’s no longer a story. Seeing as he did kill those last two women.’

  ‘Just because the police say so doesn’t make it true.’

  ‘Amen to that, brother! I’d be first to admit our esteemed police force can fuck up, and fuck up big. But with this case being so high profile and all, it’s hard to believe they’d say he did it without being 120 per cent sure.’

  ‘If you’re not looking, how can you uncover the truth?’

  ‘Meaning . . .?’

  ‘They’re focusing on the similarities instead of the inconsistencies, refusing to believe there can be two sickos out there at one time. Plus, Commissioner Brady is under huge political pressure. State elections run in six months, so his best bet is to pin all the deaths onto one offender.’ Seth turned back to the screen. ‘Unless they’re playing some game, and this is all just a smokescreen.’

  ‘So, what now, man?’

  He switched off the set. ‘I keep digging. Find out what the police really think.’

  Only one place for that.

  Ending the call, he grinned, grabbing his jacket and keys. Nothing like going straight to the horse’s mouth for the grits and gossip.

  7

  Exquisite.

  His nose twitched. The air hung thick with the scent of her. Frangipani. Coconut. And a whirl of honey. Sweet. Just the way he liked them.

  They were all sweet, satisfying, but this one was . . . special. Exceptional. The one to make all the difference.

  Damp mist swirled around the length of her tiny dress as she walked, the colour of sunflowers glowing incandescent under the blue-grey of the old city lamps. Beads clung to his bare face, sliding from the hair slicking his forehead to run an icy trail down his cheeks. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, flinging the sweat into the gutter, and licked his lips, tasting the night, her. Anticipating.

  A fox scampered onto the road, pausing, its blood-red gaze latching onto his in silent understanding—one predator to another—before it turned and fled between two towering brick edifices.

  The echoing click of her heels stalled, then quickened, matching in perfect synchronicity with his heart. It was always like this. The rush. The heady thrill and anticipation.

  Fear. Hers. Ambrosia slipping succulently between his lips.

  He drew out his gloves, sliding eager fingers into the familiar softness of well-worn leather. Almost there. His blood thickened, charging like a wild boar through his body. The hunt, the ultimate.

  And this one, the encore.

  She reached the corner and turned, disappearing behind the high boundary fence.

  Close now. He licked his lips, tongue quivering, tasting the air, sucking it in until all he could taste was her. The fear. The untouchable innocence he would suck from her body.

  Her footfalls ceased and he smiled. Close.

  He turned the corner and watched her fear turn to relief.

  ‘You!’ She dropped her stiletto and nudged her toes back into its grasp. ‘You gave me the fright of my life!’

  She stepped forward, only inches from him now. Her hand settled onto his bicep and the muscle flexed automatically beneath her palm. ‘I thought you were—’

  ‘Your worst nightmare?’ He grinned.

  She didn’t get it, even then. Not until his fingers wrapped tight round her throat, the tips digging deep into her flesh, her eyeballs bulging clear from their sockets.

  Her nails scrabbled at his leather-covered wrists and his groin tightened, his mouth closing in to swallow her final, shuddering breath.

  The kiss of death, from the master. There could be only one.

  8

  ‘What’s up with your sister?’

  Jayda glanced up from the sprawl of papers on her desk to watch her partner saunter through the door. Not that she’d absorbed a single, blurred sentence for some time. The precinct clock indicated it was past nine on a night that should have been spent celebrating the end of a long week. That explained her heavy eyelids and stiff back.

  She closed the file, effectively shutting Angelique’s battered remains away from her vision. Removing the slump from her shoulders wasn’t as easy. Whatever she sought, it wasn’t in the paperwork. If only she knew where the hell it was, where to look next.
>
  Chase shuffled behind her, reminding her of his presence and previous question. She swivelled her chair to face him. ‘Nothing, as far as I know.’

  He rubbed at a thin bandage on his wrist which hadn’t been there two hours earlier.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Just an old sprain giving me grief.’ He stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘Have you heard from her?’

  Jayda stared at him blankly.

  ‘Bec.’

  She blinked. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘We were meeting at Molino’s for dinner but she didn’t show.’

  ‘Knowing Bec, she was running late.’

  ‘By two hours?’

  The slump left her shoulders. ‘That’s not like her. Didn’t she call?’

  ‘Nope. I even checked with the restaurant in case she left a message.’

  ‘Did you try her mobile?’

  ‘Went straight to voicemail. I thought maybe she’d changed her mind.’

  ‘She’d have told you. And me. And I know for a fact she planned on seeing you.’ She grabbed her phone. ‘Maybe she’s stuck in traffic or has a flat tyre or something. Maybe her mobile died and she couldn’t call. She might even be waiting for you at the restaurant now.’

  Regardless of all the logical, possible maybes, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. First her parents, now this. Everything was off. As if the entire planet had skewed on its axis.

  Her gut squeezed into a macramé of knots, and without thinking she was already speed-dialling Bec’s number. After the obligatory five rings, the phone clicked over to voicemail. Jayda’s nails tapped the desk, racing her heartbeat. A lifetime later, her sister’s greeting ended with a beep.

  ‘Hey, sis. Just checking you’re okay. I know you were meeting Chase. What happened? Call me as soon as you get this.’

  She tried not to panic. There was a reasonable explanation for Bec’s no show and they’d all laugh about it when she called back.

  She stared at the phone in her hand and willed it to ring.

  It was all about balance.

  Seth nursed his first and only whiskey for the evening as his gaze scanned the area surrounding the bar. He picked out a few familiar faces, officers he’d seen in the media in relation to this or other cases—men and women who regularly frequented The Traveller, whether to let off steam or wash away the grit of the job.

  He’d seen photos of the victims, waded through anything and everything he could about the Night Terror from twenty-five years ago and now. The images made his usually hardy stomach heave. What did it do to one’s soul? To see those dead, debased women in the flesh, revisit almost identical crime scenes day after day after day.

  If all it took was a couple of drinks to make the job bearable, who was he to judge?

  And it served his purpose well. If you sought information, this was the place. Start up a conversation, buy a round or two. Get a few drinks into a cop and their tongues were looser than Mia Faircliff in twelfth grade.

  You just had to find the right one.

  His gaze roved, a casual I’ve-got-all-the-time-in-the-world-and-nowhere-else-to-be type of gaze. Important to give the right impression. A man out for the evening, after nothing more than a drink and a few laughs. He passed over the groups, seeking a loner. Someone not too high in the food chain. Then again, pick someone too low and they’d have no worthwhile information to share.

  His head whipped back.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  He took in the faded jeans and black tee, wild hair the colour of a rich, full-bodied burgundy. He edged closer so that when she turned he could note her green eyes. Green, not blue. The two women looked nothing alike, yet he’d swear it was her. The tilt of her head, that nervous tug on her bottom lip with her teeth.

  And she was a cop. He’d bet his life on it. He couldn’t prevent the grin attacking his lips, or the tightening in his gut, and below.

  Suddenly the night was filled with promise. And extracting the information he needed was looking a lot more enjoyable.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’

  Jayda held her breath and turned slowly, as if by delaying she could alter the outcome.

  Unsure whether to be happy at the familiarity of the male voice or not, she clutched at her glass and tried to remember how to breathe. In, then out, and repeat. Not difficult, unless your brain had turned to the consistency of pea soup.

  Fire blazed up her neck, branching out over her cheeks. Even her ears burned. She refused to acknowledge what was happening in places less exposed. Shaking her head, she lowered her gaze and took a deep sip of her martini.

  Hopefully he’d take the hint. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t recognise her. Sure, her drink was identical, but any number of women must drink citrus martinis. And, anyway, the similarities ended there. The wig and contacts were gone. Not to mention her sexy outfit. Her hair hadn’t seen a comb all evening, her lips were pale and dry, without lippy or gloss. Her old jeans and faded tee were more suited to a rock concert than attracting men in a bar. In short, she was a mess. Not the glamorous woman he’d approached almost a week ago. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned their reconnection.

  Thoughts of what she had envisioned made her blush all over again. Erotic, evocative images best left back in the house where they’d first met.

  She sipped, swallowed without spluttering and traded her glass for her mobile, tilting it to stare at the blank screen. No missed calls. Where was Bec?

  ‘Waiting for someone?’

  ‘Just a call from my sister.’ Biting her lip, she dropped her mobile back onto the bar. Why’d she say that? This stranger didn’t need to know her business. Although, after that kiss, could he still be dubbed a stranger?

  ‘Is she okay?’

  She spun round to face him, tangling with familiar blue eyes she’d thought never to see again. ‘Of course she’s okay.’

  The blue darkened to steely grey as he raised a brow. She might be worried—her heart racing like a horse in the Melbourne Cup—but that didn’t give her the right to be snarky when he was just being polite.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Now she’d looked up, her focus stuck to the wide curve of his lips.

  ‘I’m a good kisser, you know.’

  Her gaze whipped up to meet his. ‘W–what?’

  ‘I said, I’m a good listener.’

  She’d misheard. Of course, she’d misheard! The poor man had no idea he was talking to a loony-tune who wanted him to kiss her so badly she was even now imagining how he would taste.

  ‘If you want to talk, that is.’

  She shook her head, shaking off the images that were making her crazy. ‘I’m fine. I expect she’ll call any moment now.’

  ‘Let me buy you a drink while you wait.’

  ‘Why?’ The word slipped out before she even knew it had been conceived.

  ‘Why not?’

  He had a point. Not that she needed another drink. She’d already had two. One with Chase—after he’d dragged her to the bar only to cry tired, deserting her for home. Then ‘one for the road’—a ‘drowning your bad day in good liquor’ kind of drink.

  She should be on her way home too. Only she couldn’t—wouldn’t—rest. Not until she heard from Bec.

  ‘Are you going to make me beg?’

  She snorted, the words bringing her back to reality with a colossal thump.

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do I have to?’

  Swivelling in her seat, she faced him, experiencing that familiar bolt of awareness as he stared down at her.

  ‘Much as I’d love to call your bluff, that requires energy I don’t have.’ She turned to the waiting barman. ‘Lemon, lime and bitters, thanks.’

  ‘No more martinis?’

  She pushed away her almost empty glass. ‘That’s my limit.’

  He turned to the bar, thoughtfully swirling the lone, dry cube of ice in his tumbler. ‘And another whiskey.’

  Steel s
oftened to electric blue as he returned every bit of his attention to her. ‘I’m Seth, by the way.’

  ‘Jayda.’

  His eyes widened, then blanked. Surprise? Had he expected another name? Shana, for instance? Or was her current paranoia getting the better of her?

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jayda.’

  Her name melted from his tongue and sinuated its way into her blood. She’d never heard it spoken like that—all soft and smooth, rich and warm and golden, like treacle over a large, hot stack of fluffy pancakes.

  ‘So, tell me, are you a police officer like ninety per cent of people in this room?’

  ‘A detective.’

  What the—? Since when did she blurt that out, least of all to a stranger? It had to be stress, and the drink. And the heady way his eyes seemed to all but consume her.

  ‘Good for you.’

  The barman delivered their drinks.

  Seth handed the man a twenty, waving away the change. ‘Sounds like you love it.’

  It wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it. As if he really got what being a detective meant to her.

  ‘Most days.’

  ‘But not today?’

  Perceptive and hot. ‘No. Not today.’

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really.’ Her hands tightened around the cool length of her glass. ‘What do you do, Seth?’

  He knocked back a mouthful of whiskey. ‘Communications.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Not nearly as interesting as investigating, I’d bet. Like that serial killer all over the news. Twenty-five years and suddenly he reappears. What’s with that?’

  ‘Isn’t that the gazillion-dollar question?’

  He stared at the golden swirl of liquid in his glass. ‘Wouldn’t it be great to know?’

  He didn’t seem after an answer and she gave none.

  He drank again, then dropped his glass onto the bar. ‘You must have thought about the case at least a little. Any theories?’