Wild Killer

by Tripp Ellis

  "How often are you here?" I asked.

  "She thought about it for a moment. "We have an arrangement. Maybe twice a week?"

  "And what do you get in return?" JD asked.

  Her eyes narrowed at him again. "Like I told you. I'm here because I want to be. I mean, it may have started as something else, initially, but I kind of like what we have. He's loaded, good looking, and helps me out when I need it. That’s more than I can say for a lot of guys I’ve dated."

  I asked her if she met Declan on the website, and she finally acknowledged that she did. “You’re not going to bust me for, like, prostitution, are you? Because that’s totally not what this is.”

  “We’re not going to bust you,” I said.

  "So, you get compensated for what you do?" JD said.

  She sighed. "So what? He buys me things. He pays for my rent. I get nice jewelry and nice clothes, and I don't have to worry about anything." A smug smile curled on her plump lips. "I'm just like a suburban housewife. Except that I don't cost nearly as much. Ex-wives can be expensive. Ex-playthings, not so much. Pay now, or pay later."

  "Ain't that the truth," JD said.

  "Has Declan ever become violent?" I asked.

  A naughty glimmer flickered in her eyes. "Only when I want him to be."

  "Do you know how many other women he sees?"

  "We don't talk about that. He has his playthings, and I have my boy-toys. I know this whole thing could end tomorrow, so I'm getting what I want while I can."

  "Have you ever noticed anything suspicious about his behavior?" I asked.

  "I don't keep tabs on him. And no, he's never had bloodstains on his clothes or anything crazy like that." She folded her arms. "If you guys think Declan is the killer, you're barking up the wrong tree. He's never pushed me beyond my limits and always stops when I say our safe word."

  It looked like our raid was a bust—and the county had a front door to pay for. I could only imagine the heat we were going to take on this one.

  35

  It was well after midnight by the time we got back to JD's. Scarlett was on the couch, watching TV. She wore fuzzy socks, and a long T-shirt. I’m not sure what, if anything, she had on underneath the shirt.

  "You're going to have to vacate," Jack said to her. "Tyson is crashing on the couch tonight."

  "Why? What happened?" Scarlett asked. "Did Reagan kick you out of the boat?"

  She laughed.

  I sneered at her. "No. It got stolen."

  "What?" Her eyes widened.

  We caught her up to speed on the details.

  "That sucks," Scarlett said. "You can take my bed, and I'll crash on the couch."

  "Thanks. The couch is fine."

  "Are you sure? I've been sleeping out here most nights anyway, watching TV."

  Scarlett was 18 and hell on wheels. She'd been trying to keep her nose clean ever since her arrest for possession. But she seemed to have a nose for trouble. I didn't trust her for a second.

  "I appreciate the offer. I'll be fine on the couch."

  Scarlett shrugged. "Suit yourself."

  She pulled herself off the couch and said, "I'll get you some sheets and a pillow.”

  She scurried away and returned with the linens momentarily. She helped me make an impromptu bed on the couch.

  "Did Jack tell you? I'm cleared to go to Los Angeles. I talked to Joel, and he wants me to come out as soon as possible. Jack said you might be able to take me out there and show me around?"

  "I might be able to do that."

  "And you better keep your ass out of trouble," JD said to her.

  Scarlett squinted at him. "Relax, Jack. Have I gotten into any trouble lately?"

  Jack didn't have a retort.

  "I've been a good little girl. I go to work, I come home, I watch TV. I don't drink, I don't do drugs, and I'm not out running the streets."

  I gave her a skeptical glance. I knew damn good and well she was smoking a little weed from time to time.

  "If I even get an inkling of trouble from you while you're out there, I'll send Tyson out to yank your ass back so fast it'll make your head spin."

  Scarlett rolled her eyes. "I'm an adult, Jack. Maybe you should start treating me like one?"

  "Maybe you should start acting like one? There’s a thought."

  She rolled her eyes. "You screw up one time…"

  Jack muttered, "It was more than one time."

  "Enough, already," I said. "It's been a long day."

  There was a long moment of silence in the room as the tension settled.

  "I'm gonna hit the hay. I will see you people in the morning." Jack pointed at Scarlett. "Behave."

  She rolled her eyes again.

  Jack sauntered into his bedroom and closed the door.

  "I swear to God, he’s so uptight," Scarlett said.

  "I can't imagine why?" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  She smacked my arm playfully. "Don't take his side."

  "I'm not taking sides."

  She arched an eyebrow at me.

  I raised my hands innocently.

  "I was thinking, maybe we could go to Los Angeles next week?"

  "I can't go anywhere until we wrap up this case."

  Scarlett gasped. "You and I both know this thing could drag on forever. How many serial killers are out there running around that have never been caught?"

  "Is that a rhetorical question? Because I can give you an answer. The FBI will tell you there are, on average, 50 at large. But some statisticians say there are 2000 active serial killers nationwide that are unaccounted for."

  Her eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

  "As a heart attack." It probably wasn't the best phrase to use, considering Jack's recent trip to the ER.

  The shock wore off momentarily, and Scarlett refocused on her ambitions. "I’m sure you can break away for a day or two in Los Angeles. It’s not going to kill you?"

  "Have you ever been to Los Angeles?"

  "No."

  "The traffic alone is enough to kill a person."

  She huffed and gave me a look that only a teenage girl could give. "Fine. I guess we'll just never know what could have happened with my career,” she said in a dramatic fashion. “There are opportunities passing me by as we speak. But, I understand."

  She gave me a sad, pouty face.

  "The whole guilt trip thing is not going to work on me."

  Scarlett smiled. "Yes it will. I can be very persuasive."

  "I know."

  "But my powers don't seem to be working on you at the moment. Why is that, Mr. Wild?"

  She wasn't just talking about the trip to Los Angeles.

  "There is a whole host of reasons."

  She made a pouty face again, turning out her bottom lip. In a breathy voice she said, "Are you sure you don't want to sleep in my bed? It's super comfortable."

  Her silken words slipped from her lips and lingered in the air.

  “Go to bed, Scarlett,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m immune to your charms.”

  She smirked. “It’s so fun to make you uncomfortable.”

  Scarlett brushed past me and strutted toward her room, putting an extra sway in her hips. She peeled off her T-shirt along the way. With a devilish glance over her bare shoulder she said, “Immune, eh?”

  36

  It was a disaster waiting to happen.

  I decided it was not a good idea to crash on Jack's couch. I snuck out and caught an Uber to the Seven Seas. It was far too late to go banging on Reagan's door.

  I strolled into the posh lobby in the wee hours of the morning. There was no one at the front desk. I waited for a moment before someone came out from the back.

  "Can I help you?" a woman asked.

  "I'd like to rent a room."

  "I'm sorry," the woman said, insincerely. "We are all booked up. There is a convention in town."

  "You don't have anything available?"

  "That's what all booked up means,"
she said with a forced smile.

  I decided to play the law enforcement card and flashed my badge. "Are you sure?"

  "I'm positive."

  "Okay, thanks. You've been helpful."

  I backed away from the check-in counter and strolled through the lobby. I took a seat on the couch not far from the baby grand piano. The check-in girl left the desk and went into the back room.

  The lobby was empty.

  The bar was closed.

  The trickle from the waterfall echoed across the cavernous space. It was the only activity, at the moment.

  I left the couch and strolled out to the pool. Underwater lights illuminated the clear water. I found a lounge chair in the corner and decided that would be as good a place as any to bed down for the rest of the night. I just needed to grab a few hours of shut eye.

  I closed my eyes and nodded off. The next thing I knew, the sky had turned a pinkish gray color, and a large man in a suit jacket hovered over me. The sun would crest the horizon soon.

  The man had a walkie-talkie in one hand and a gold acetate name tag above his left breast pocket. He was hotel security, and he was asking me, "Excuse me, sir. Are you a guest of the hotel?"

  I squinted at him through sticky eyes. I fumbled for my badge and flashed the shiny gold thing. "I'm deep undercover."

  He chuckled. "What's the matter, deputy? Did the wife kick you out?"

  "No. I’m a liveaboard, and my boat got stolen."

  “No shit?”

  I told him the story.

  “Damn, that sounds like it was a nice boat. And you can afford that on a cop’s salary?”

  “Long story. It's my buddy’s boat. He lets me stay there. It pays to have friends who invested well."

  “I was about to say… If you can make that kind of money as a deputy in this town, I’m in the wrong business."

  I chuckled.

  I guess he took pity on me, because he said, "Come with me. I’ve got a place you can stay for a few hours. I just can't have you sleeping poolside, looking like a vagrant."

  I pulled myself off the lounge chair and followed the man to a spare room. He slipped his master key into the slot, and a light flashed green on the card reader. He pushed open the door and flicked on the lights. "We always keep a few rooms empty in case of emergency. Mostly for staff use. You can stay here till noon."

  I was stunned by his generosity. "Thank you. That's very kind."

  "Just remember, I did you a favor. If I ever get in trouble with the law…" He smiled.

  I grinned back at the man.

  "If anybody gives you any trouble, tell them Big Carl said you could stay."

  “Thanks, Carl.”

  We shook hands, and I entered the cozy room, pulled the blackout shades shut, fell into bed, and got a proper rest.

  I woke up a few hours later and staggered out of bed. My eyes became narrow slits as I pulled the curtains open, and a wash of light bathed the room. When my eyes adjusted, I saw the pristine beach just outside the sliding glass door. There was a small patio area with two lounge chairs and a coffee table that opened to the white sand. Waves crashed on the shore and gulls hung in the air.

  It was a nice room, and I knew the prices at the Seven Seas weren’t cheap. Big Carl had done me a solid.

  I took a shower and put on my dirty clothes, then I tried to call Reagan, but the number was disconnected.

  My face twisted with confusion.

  It left me a little concerned. Why the hell would her phone be disconnected?

  I left the Seven Seas and caught an Uber over to Ray’s Cycle Universe. My helmet, gloves, and leathers were all on the boat, along with my entire wardrobe. I had no personal belongings anymore, but my bike was still sitting in the parking lot at Diver Down.

  The chime rang as I pushed into the dealership. New bikes glimmered under the lights, and the smell of fresh tires hit my nostrils.

  "Hey, Tyson," Ray said. "How's it going?"

  "It's going."

  By the look on my face, Ray could tell I wasn't thrilled. "What did you do this time? Please tell me you didn't crash."

  I chuckled. "No. No crashes. I need to get another helmet and gloves."

  I told him what happened.

  "You need another set of leathers?"

  "I'll save that for when I actually have a closet to put them in."

  He smiled. "Fair enough."

  He made me a good deal, and I put the whole thing on a credit card. With my accounts un-frozen, and the money from my Hollywood sale firmly in the bank, cash flow wasn't an issue. But I had six figures in cash stuffed in a compartment on the Wild Tide. There was no doubt I would never see that money again. The thought of it just burned my ass.

  Ray offered to have Jorge give me a ride back to Diver Down. Ray picked up the phone and dialed the service center extension. A few minutes later, Jorge pulled around front in a courtesy car. I thanked Ray, then hopped in the passenger seat. I was at Diver Down a few minutes later.

  I strolled inside and took a seat at the bar. "Have you heard from Reagan?"

  Madison shook her head.

  "Her phone is disconnected."

  She raised a curious eyebrow. "Maybe she didn't pay her bill?”

  I shrugged.

  “You stay with Jack last night?"

  "Not really."

  "You can always crash on my couch."

  "I may take you up on that."

  Sheriff Daniels called.

  I knew it wasn't going to be good.

  "When I suggested that you find probable cause to enter Declan's home, I meant real probable cause."

  "JD heard a scream and believed a crime was in progress."

  "I know. I've heard his bullshit story."

  "We rescued a girl?"

  "Who was there consensually," he added.

  "Left unattended, she could have—"

  Daniels cut me off. "Spare me the BS. Declan's out."

  "What?" I exclaimed.

  "He was arraigned this morning, and the judge tossed the charges."

  "Why?"

  "He's got a good attorney. The judge said the arresting officer didn't have probable cause to search the vehicle. Declan's suing the department for the damages to the house."

  I frowned.

  A call from a number I didn’t recognize flashed on the screen.

  I usually didn't answer calls from unknown numbers, but it was an excuse to get off the phone with Daniels.

  37

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, it's me," Reagan said.

  "Did you get a new number?"

  "Yeah. I had to separate myself from this whole thing. I was starting to get terrified of my phone, dreading the next call from the killer."

  "So, you cut our line of communication with him?" I asked, a little upset.

  "What was I supposed to do? I need to protect my mental sanity."

  "I wish you would have talked to me before doing that."

  "Oh, now I have to run all my personal life choices through you?"

  "No," I said. "But have you ever stopped to consider the fact that our friend might not take too kindly to you cutting him off?"

  She was silent for a moment.

  "At least when he was calling you, we had some idea of what was going on."

  "Well, I think he's calling the studio directly now. They've gotten several calls today."

  "Has he left any messages?"

  "Not yet."

  "Where are you at?"

  "The studio." She sighed. "I don't know. I just need a little distance from this whole thing.“

  Someone shouted for Reagan. I could barely hear the voice that filtered through the phone in the background.

  "Hang on just a sec," she said.

  She had a brief exchange with someone, then a moment later, she grumbled. "Shit."

  "What is it?"

  "So much for distancing myself," Reagan said. "I just got another note. It was delivered by messenger."

 
"I'll be right there."

  I left Diver Down, hopped on my bike, and zipped over to the television station. I signed in at the desk and found Reagan in the studio. A crowd hovered around her, peering at the note over her shoulder. Another cryptic message—the same format as the previous ones.

  We found Elijah in an editing bay, working on the graphics for segment intros.

  "How fast do you think you can decode this?" Reagan asked.

  Elijah shrugged. "If he's using the same type of encryption, or something similar, maybe an hour? Maybe less? He's been using a pretty basic cipher. There are dozens of online resources for this type of stuff. He's not making something that's impossible to decode. He's just making us jump through hoops for his own amusement."

  "You said this was delivered by messenger. What service?" I asked.

  Reagan still had the 9x11 cardboard envelope. It had the logo of a local delivery company that was known for transporting small items around the island with same day service. Need food from a restaurant that didn't deliver? Call Quick Key. Need important documents sent across town? Call Quick Key. Didn't have time to grocery shop? Call Quick Key.

  I called the delivery service to track the package. They should have had a record of who sent it, and the delivery person, but the woman on the phone assured me that no such delivery had been made. There was nothing in her system that showed a scheduled delivery to Reagan MacKenzie at the television station.

  “Son-of-a-bitch," I grumbled to myself after I hung up the phone.

  Reagan looked at me with concerned eyes. "What is it?"

  "Do you have security footage on the premises?"

  "Yeah."

  "If I were a gambling man, and I am, I’d bet money that our killer delivered the message himself."

  The color drained from Reagan's face. She looked horrified.

  In the security suite, we were able to review the security camera footage. It was all high definition stuff—multiple feeds from various angles. Chuck was the lead security guard on the premises, and he helped us navigate through the footage.

  The delivery guy wore a red cap, red shirt, and shorts. He had long curly hair. Sunglasses covered his eyes, and his face was obscured by the brim of his hat.

  I was pretty sure the long hair was a wig.