He realized he wouldn’t have to do this many more times. Tonight or tomorrow, he’d change it back to a Chevy, then maybe make the switch one more time for the last two killings. He still had to decide how he was going to play those.
He went back into his home and emptied his bowels. He had made that mistake once. Never again.
At seven on the dot, he climbed into his disguised van and set off.
* * *
Normally, Jess would have reveled in digging the dirt on a shady local businessman, but knowing that it was designed to add fuel to their burning misery, her heart wasn’t in it.
The killer had already given a decent rundown of Conrad Veldman’s dubious dealings, but Fifteen-X made it clear that he wanted her to show him in as bad a light as possible. That was easy enough. The case of Ingrid Harding, who had killed herself after Veldman’s cruel actions, was just one of many episodes that had his name stamped all over them. She picked three, summarized his transgressions, then added that there were more if people wanted to do their own research.
Her phone beeped, and she picked it up.
“My office,” Lehane said, and hung up.
He sounded pissed, but then, he always did. She’d thought the scoop of the decade would have mellowed him a little, but clearly not. She locked her terminal and went to see what he wanted.
“New contract,” he said as she entered his office and closed the door behind her. He tossed a folder onto his desk. “Pay raise and expenses for one year, to be reviewed after that.”
Jess picked it up and leafed through the pages. “Any hidden surprises?” she asked.
“One. If someone comes at you with a better offer, you have to pass. The story is the property of the Telegraph. If you leave, the story stays with me. If you so much as mention Fifteen-X in any other publication, I’ll sue your ass to hell and back.”
“Or I could just walk now, with no such clause holding me back.”
“You could, but you’d miss out on the fifty-grand bonus on page seven.”
Jess skimmed through the document and found the remuneration section. He was telling the truth. Would she be able to get as much from another company? Possibly, but not guaranteed. Besides, she’d never really wanted to move, just get a fair deal for her efforts. This was more than she’d ever imagined, which told her that Lehane was making a fortune from the story. He never, ever threw money around, yet here he was offering her a year’s salary just to keep working. Should she press for more? Probably not a good idea.
There was one more thing she wanted, though.
“Can you get Claire off my back? She’s been a royal bitch since I got this story.”
“Consider it done,” Lehane said. “Girl’s been coasting for too long now. Maybe it’s time someone stepped up and took over the number one slot.”
He was looking Jess square in the eye, and she understood what he was saying.
“Got a pen?” she asked.
He passed her one, and Jess initialed each page and signed the last one.
Lehane signed another copy and handed it to her. “That’s for you. Now, are we on track for the morning edition?”
“Yep. I’ll send it through in the next fifteen minutes. Just polishing it up now.”
“Good. Now get outta here.”
Jess returned to her desk, a new-found spring in her step. Fifty grand and a pay increase would enable her to get a better apartment, one closer to the office. Maybe a yard. With a hot tub…
“You do know that once this story blows over, you’re history.”
Jess turned to see Claire McMillan standing behind her, her hands on her hips, her face a mask of loathing.
“My new contract says otherwise,” Jess replied, facing her computer once more.
“We’ll see. Kieron and I are very close. One word from me—”
“—and he’ll give you two,” Jess said, spinning back to face her. “One of them will be off. In fact, I can give you them right now, if you like. Save you going to see him.”
Claire leaned in close. “I don’t think so, miss smarmy pants. I’ve got something you could never have.”
“Fake tits?”
Claire howled in exasperation, then turned and stormed off to her own desk.
Not much longer, Jess told herself.
She finished up her copy and sent it to Lehane for his approval. As always, it came back with a couple of changes. Jess assumed he did that with every piece, just to keep the reporters on their toes, striving for excellence. She accepted his changes, then submitted it for the morning run.
It was the only story she’d been tasked with working on. Lehane had told her to ignore everything else and see this through to completion, and with nothing left to do until chapter seven arrived, she decided to head home. It was already after five anyway, and she was sure the boss wouldn’t mind her sneaking off a few minutes early.
She stopped at a shop on the way home. She’d decided to treat herself to a night in with a movie and a bottle of wine. She also picked up some more ice cream and a couple of bags of chips. If she was going to get that treadmill, she might as well enjoy life while she still could. Dropping thirty-one pounds had to be the same as losing thirty, right?
She ended up with two bottles of wine, one red, one white. Plus a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate her bonus. And a novelty two-pound Hershey bar, because why the hell not.
When she got home, she opened her laptop to pick out a movie on Netflix. Much easier than searching on the TV. She added a classic rom-com to her favorites and was about to power off when her email client beeped.
The subject told Jess she wasn’t going to be drinking.
Not tonight, not with work to do.
She clicked on the message and opened chapter seven.
Chapter 24
Chapter Seven
I like this one, because the police already solved the case.
It’s the tale of Sheila Graham, who liked spending money. Not a couple of bucks on an air freshener or a hot dog. No, we’re talking tens of thousands on handbags that she’ll use once to impress her rich friends. She could get the same functionality from a forty-dollar bag, but she has to have the one with Gucci on the side. Why? Because the richer people get, the stupider they get. That bag probably costs a C-note to make, but slap a designer name on it and the dumb bitches come flooding in, waving platinum credit cards in the air and demanding the store takes their thirty Gs. They’re being ripped off, mocked by the manufacturers as the gullible elite, and they just can’t see it. And rich people think they have a superior intellect? Go figure.
I digress.
One of the things Sheila liked to spend money on was sex. In particular, a young gigolo named Cal. Cal from California. He was a model, a fine specimen of a man. The kind you see on the front of sexy novels, shirtless, with rippling muscles. I don’t know how they first met, but I do know they got together at least three times a week. Did you know that, Ross Graham? Did you know your wife was getting boned on your dime?
Well, she was.
She would visit his house in West Hollywood, get jiggy with him, then go do some shopping.
I decided to take her while they were doing it. Coitus interruptus, if you like.
One problem was leaving a witness and I didn’t want to kill Cal if I could avoid it. A murder investigation would be a lot more thorough than a missing person case. So I researched sleeping gas.
Cal’s place was quite small. I say Cal’s, but I’m pretty sure Sheila was the one who paid the bills. It didn’t seem like the kind of place a young stud would own. I reckoned Cal had a lot of money, especially if Sheila was paying him three times a week, so this must have been their love nest, a safe place to fuck and nothing more. Or maybe it was Cal’s place and he was saving up for something better. Who knows? He must have charged her a fortune, too, because Sheila wasn’t the prettiest of women. She was only forty, but she’d reached that plastic surgery phase in her life. Her lips looked l
ike she’d been stung by a swarm of bees. Her skin was so tight and shiny, it looked like it had been transplanted from a Barbie doll. And those eyes. Nothing more than slits, her cheek implants almost pushing them closed. She was no picture…unless it was a Picasso. So yeah, Cal must have been getting paid a shit-ton of money to diddle that one.
I had to practice first. What if I pumped the gas into their bedroom and it didn’t work, or there wasn’t enough? That wouldn’t be good.
So I tried it on myself at home. I put the canister outside my bedroom window, which I cracked open about half an inch. Then I fed the hose through the gap, turned it on, then ran inside, turned on the video camera to record it, and got on the bed. I pretended I was in the throes of passion, just like Cal and Sheila would be doing when I struck. One minute I’m humping my pillow, the next I’m waking up with a storming headache.
Nine hours had passed. Success!
I checked the camera, and I’d only been writhing for seven minutes when I went limp. That was good to know. I’d also set an alarm to go off after one hour, one that would last for two minutes and then stop. I’d slept through that, too, and I’m normally a light sleeper. It was getting better all the time!
But I had a problem: Cal didn’t like leaving his windows open. Sheila was a noisy fucker, if you get my meaning. She shrieked and hollered when he stuck his tube in her, and he wouldn’t want complaints from next door. Worse, some nosey neighbor might call the police, thinking a woman was being attacked. That’s how raucous she was. I know, because I staked her out a few times and once got close enough to hear them going at it. I crouched underneath the bedroom window listening to her scream his name.
You picturing this, Ross?
But that was easily remedied. I drove past Cal’s place a few times, but his Porsche was always in the driveway. And then one day, it wasn’t. He was out, so I made the most of my opportunity. I parked up the road and walked back to his place with my backpack over my shoulder. After checking no-one was watching, I sneaked around the back of Cal’s house and took out my drill. It was one of those manual ones, the kind no-one uses anymore. I couldn’t use an electric one because of the noise. Anyway, I looked through the bedroom window and saw that directly beneath it was a dresser. That was perfect. I drilled a hole about eighteen inches from the floor, straight through to the bedroom so that it emerged behind the dresser. I made sure the hole was large enough for the tube to fit through, then used a piece of gum to plug the hole until I was ready to use it.
That was two days later, at four pm on March 17th, 2015.
Sheila skipped out of the cab right on time. She looked thrilled, exhilarated, like a kid who just found out they were going to Disneyland. She must really like her sessions with young Cal, I thought.
How does that make you feel, Ross? Did she ever skip to the bedroom to be serviced by you? I bet she didn’t.
I let her get inside, then waited ten minutes. I was parked down the street, about four houses away. I walked casually to Cal’s place, had a quick look around, then went around the back.
They were already in full swing. Animal noises came from behind the wall, and Cal must have been asking all the right questions, because Sheila was shouting Yes! Yes! Yes!
I picked the gum out of the hole, took the canister of gas from my backpack and fed the tube into the room. Then I opened the valve and waited.
It was nine minutes before they were silent. I gave it fifteen more, then got dressed. I’d bought a full-body paper suit, the one forensics people wear. Can’t be leaving evidence at the scene, can I? I went around the back to the French doors. I was prepared to smash my way in, but Cal had been good enough to leave them unlocked.
Thanks, Cal!
I eased them open and waited, but there were no sounds inside the house. I was about to step in when an idea came to me, one that brought a smile to my face. I put plastic bags on my feet and entered the living room. The bedroom was the first on the left in the hall. I stood outside it and listened some more, but all I heard was gentle snoring. I put my head around the door and took in the scene.
Clothes littered the floor, from the doorway to the foot of the bed. Sheila wasn’t waiting around, it seems. The two of them were on the bed, him naked, Sheila wearing just a garter belt and stockings. She must have been straddling him when the gas hit them. Now she was lying on top of him, her legs either side of his body and her head on his chest. I’d put on a mask, just in case, but I didn’t need it. They were both out for the count.
Time to get to work.
I took off my mask, pulled the dresser away from the wall and cleared up the dust from the hole I’d made in the drywall. Then I went to the bathroom and got a piece of wet toilet tissue and used it to fill the hole. Next, I searched for the remote for the garage. I found it on Cal’s key chain. I took it and walked back to my van—minus my paper suit—then drove it to the house. I opened the garage and drove in. It was easily big enough for two cars, so I could drive past Cal’s Porsche without having to move it.
Thanks again, Cal. You made it so easy for me!
I closed the garage door behind me, dressed in paper again, and went to fetch Sheila. They were both still fast asleep. First, I picked up all her clothes and handbag and took them to the van. The idea I’d had at the French doors seemed better and better all the time. I went to the kitchen and took a sharp knife from the block and took it through to the bedroom.
I pulled Sheila off him, easing her to the floor. Neither of them noticed when Cal’s limp cock slipped out of her. I sliced Sheila’s hand until there was a trickle of blood. I smeared it on the hardwood floor, then used tissue to clean it up. It wasn’t visible, but I knew forensics would pick it up with UV light and luminol. I then wiped the knife and put it back where I found it. That, too, would have traces of her blood on it. Just to be sure, I left one drop on the brown rug and another just under the bed. I then bandaged her hand and dragged her through to the garage, where I put her in the van.
I didn’t have to worry about her car; she never used it when she was going to get her meat injections. Maybe her husband had LoJack installed so he could see where she’d been. Maybe that was why she always took a cab to Cal’s place.
All I had to do now was drive out, close the garage and put the keys back in the house. I could have just driven away with Cal’s fob or left the garage open, but I wanted to leave everything as I found it. I didn’t want Cal to have any reason to think someone had been in his home.
I went back inside the house and checked the front door was unlocked. It was. I returned to the garage and removed my protective clothing, then opened the door, drove out, and closed the doors again. Then I went in the house and put the remote back where I’d found it.
All I had to do now was get back in my van without anyone seeing me. I peered out the window, and when there was no-one in sight, I walked back and got in.
I know now that nobody saw me there, because Cal was arrested and charged with Sheila’s murder. I followed that story in the newspaper and on TV, and I must admit, I felt sorry for him. He went from fucking that rancid bitch to getting ass-raped in the showers by some big guy called Bubba. Poor bastard. I guess they can let him go now. I wonder if they’ll compensate him for the time he spent in prison. Maybe, maybe not. Oh, and sorry for giving the police that anonymous tip-off, Cal. It had to be done. I’m sure you’ll understand.
Sheila and I had some fun of our own when we got back to my place.
No, not like that. What do you take me for?
No, I gave her some plastic surgery of my own. Turns out I’m not very good at it. She didn’t look very nice when I’d finished. Ladies, leave your ears where they are. Don’t have them sewn onto your breasts. It’s not a good look.
She was a stayer, though. Almost eighteen hours. That’s a new record, folks! And she didn’t save the moaning and screaming for humping, no sir. She yelled her heart out…literally. One minute she was wailing, the next, Boom! Gone.
I wonder if number eight will last so long and give me so much pleasure.
Tune in next time for more of the same.
Chapter 25
Jess wasn’t short of material for the Ross Graham profile. She found at least thirty articles after searching for him and the company he ran, Brownstone Health Partners. The vast majority were negative. His company was little more than a boiler room. They sold health insurance over the phone, cold calling the elderly and offering them huge savings on their current plan. From what she could gather, the new plans were worthless. Most had thousand-dollar deductibles, or only covered the first five hundred in costs. The rest was up to the patient to pay out of their own pocket. There had been lawsuit after lawsuit, with many plaintiffs claiming that the terms and conditions weren’t given to them until after the cooling-off period had expired, by which time it was too late to do anything. Ross Graham’s firm had won every case.
Jess picked three of the stories to expand on, knowing they’d go well with the interview she’d had with Calvin Holland.
She’d gone to visit him at California State Prison first thing in the morning after asking Corrina Stone to help her make an appointment. Cal had been so relieved to hear that someone had confessed to the crime he’d been accused of. He’d maintained his innocence throughout, but of course no one believed him. He wasn’t the first inmate to claim he hadn’t done it, and he wouldn’t be the last.
Jess told him the DA was on the case and was looking to expedite his release. Once it was confirmed that Sheila Graham’s body was where the killer said it was, the rest would be a formality. She then asked Cal about his time inside and his hopes for when he was released. Cal told her that the last four-and-a-bit years had been harsh. Dehumanizing. Brutal. He’d been beaten dozens of times, placed in solitary for his own protection, stabbed in the side with a homemade shiv and lost three teeth. His weight had ballooned, and his dreams of returning to modelling were over.
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