by Hank Edwards
Brock Hammer pays you well.
“That’s Russell’s BMW,” Jazz said, indicating the silver car under the carport. “The favorite car of assholes everywhere.”
Michael offered a smile at the joke, but was unsure how to really take it as he angled in the small space behind the BMW. Jazz acted as if he hated Russell, yet he was eager to put Russell’s mind at ease over Dylan’s death. Relationships were complicated, he supposed, and his lack of personal experience with them offered him no insight.
A harder rain started to fall when Michael killed the engine.
“Figures,” Jazz grumbled, looking out the passenger window and up at the sky, his face scrunched in the cutest way.
“You wanna wait it out? See if it lets up?”
“Nah, we won’t melt.” He smiled at Michael. “And I’d like to get this over with. Maybe go back to your place and curl up in that big bathtub of yours with a bottle of vino.”
“Well, in that case, let’s get moving.” Michael fumbled for the door handle.
Jazz laughed and they both jumped out of the car and dashed toward the cottage. The rain pelted them even through the tree canopy, stinging exposed skin and the top of Michael’s head.
The back door had no overhang to protect them from the elements. Thunder crashed as Jazz knocked, and they both jumped.
“Fuck it, let’s go inside,” Jazz said.
Michael hunched his shoulders in a futile attempt to stay dryer. “You sure we should barge in?”
“I’m soaked to the bone. He can be pissed at me if he wants.” He tried the knob, and it turned easily, so he pushed into the kitchen. Michael followed him inside, brushing the water off his shirt. He couldn’t see anything with all the rain splatter on his glasses, so he took them off and squinted around the dark room. The kitchen, cabinets, floor, and ceiling were all oak, making the space seem darker still with the stormy sky diffusing away most of the natural light.
If this was Michael’s house, he’d paint everything white.
“Russell? You home?” Jazz called out.
Michael attempted to dry off his glasses with his wet shirt, smearing them. He popped them back on, though everything was cloudy now and worse than when it was just water.
Thump!
“What was that?” Jazz whispered.
Michael shrugged. “The storm?”
Thump, thud!
Their gazes met, and they both listened. The loud noises weren’t from the storm. Rather they came from somewhere in the cottage.
Brows furrowed together, Jazz cautiously moved toward the living room.
Lightning flashed, and a long rumble of thunder rattled dishes in the cupboard. Michael plucked a napkin off the kitchen table to dry his glasses as Jazz led the way from the kitchen to the living room. Finally he could see. The cottage was tidy and quaint and furnished simply. Russell’s car was here, so logically he must be home, but none of the lights were on even though the storm made it dark outside. The picture window, which should’ve afforded the cottage an amazing view of Lake Michigan, was covered with drapes drawn tight, almost making it feel like nighttime.
“Do you think he’s sleeping?” Michael whispered.
“Russell?” Jazz called again. “You here?”
A muffled sound, like a shout that wanted to be a scream, answered.
Goose bumps rose along Michael’s arms. “Maybe he’s hurt?”
Posture on high alert, Jazz waved for Michael to follow him. “I don’t know. Come on.”
Jazz carefully made his way through the very dim living room. Michael followed, noticing two crystal drink tumblers on the coffee table.
Shadows crowded the short hallway as they inched toward what Michael thought might be a bedroom. He heard running water and another thump, quieter this time. He really hoped they weren’t going to interrupt Russell taking a bath.
Jazz must’ve been on the same wavelength, because he whispered, “I apologize in advance if we walk in on a kinky fuck fest.”
An inappropriate shimmer went through Michael as he tiptoed into the bedroom behind Jazz. Again the curtains were drawn, a sliver of light cutting through the gap in the center. Clothing was strewn across the floor, a king-sized bed the focal point of the bedroom.
Jazz raised his brows at Michael as if to say, “See?” and pointed at the fuzzy handcuffs dangling from the headboard and the sheets tangled across the mattress. He moved quickly and decisively toward the slightly ajar bathroom door. They could hear the water running and the light was on.
“Russ, you okay in there?” Jazz asked, pushing the door open. He gasped and froze in place. “What the fuck?”
There was a squawk of surprise, and Michael hurried in behind Jazz.
He stopped.
And stared.
Eyes wide in shock, Russell gaped at Jazz. He let out another squeak when he spied Michael.
Russell was nude, kneeling on the tile floor beside a big whirlpool tub.
A shower curtain was draped neatly over the tub, perfectly centered.
The angry, stocky man they’d seen arguing with Russell—the disgruntled fan they’d followed to the marina—was lying naked on top of the shower curtain inside the tub.
Russell jerked his hands off the man’s face, splashing water.
But not before Michael saw that Russell had been holding the man’s mouth directly under the running water.
The toxicology report found tap water in Dylan’s lungs….
“What the fuck is going on, Russell?” The shock was gone, and Jazz’s voice was flat now, low and unnerving.
Another rumble of thunder seemed to punctuate the question.
A cold spot of dread formed in Michael’s gut as he looked around the room and tried to process the details. A second shower curtain was draped across the floor, covering the toilet and bidet. A third closed off the walk-in shower. And another covered the vanity. Cloudy squares of Scotch tape stood out on the mirror where the curtain had been taped in place.
What had they walked in on?
Russell looked wild-eyed as he frantically turned the faucet off. “Wh-what do y-you think is g-going on?”
Jazz shook his head. “What the fuck, Russell?”
Russell clambered to his feet, stumbling a little on the shower curtain lying on the floor. When he stood and faced them, his cock jutted out, fully erect beneath his pouchy white belly.
My dick is bigger and thicker, Michael thought with an untimely sense of pride. No wonder Jazz liked it so much, if Russell only brought five skinny inches to the party.
“We were bathing together and he fell.” Russell gestured to the man. “Can’t you see that?”
The man in the tub was completely motionless, his dark hair dripping with water, mouth agape.
“Your hair isn’t wet,” Jazz countered.
Russell stood straighter, chest puffing up despite his nakedness. “I hadn’t gotten in yet… obviously. I-I heard him fall.” He waved his hand around, staring up at the ceiling as he spoke.
Like he was looking for the answers up there.
“I was… attempting to revive him… wh-when you came in,” Russell went on, eyes still roaming around the plastic-draped bathroom. His erection had gone flaccid.
“Why are there shower curtains all over?” Jazz asked, the hint of fear in his voice spiking Michael’s adrenaline.
Russell laughed, a shaky almost hysterical sound. “You know how much I like to play with baby oil, Jasper.”
“I don’t see any oil,” Michael whispered.
Mood changing in a flash, Russell’s face went red, and Michael’s pulse quickened. “How dare you barge in on me and my paramour? This is outrageous, even for you, Jasper. Get out!”
When Russell stepped forward, Jazz took a step back, bumping into Michael.
That’s when Michael saw the rest.
A large paper cutter, like the ones used in print shops, sitting on the bathroom floor.
“The cuts to the vict
im’s wrists are sharp and clean, done with one sweeping cut. Weapon could have been any number of industrial cutting blades….” The words Michael had written in his report echoed in his mind.
Head spinning, Michael saw the bottle of bleach next, a small black light, and a spray bottle. He was willing to wager his left eye that spray bottle contained luminol.
Michael looked right at Russell. “This is how you killed Dylan.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
JAZZ SUCKED in a tiny gasp. “No….” He stumbled back into Michael, trembling.
Michael gripped his upper arms tight, and then he captured Russell’s gaze.
“You gave him a sleeping pill, drowned him in the tub, then cut off his hands, and dumped him in the lake from your dock here. That’s how his body floated north to Hardscrabble Beach,” Michael stated, startled by his calm voice and how even his pulse was. “How do the drugs fit in?”
“Russ… no…,” Jazz muttered.
His grip on Jazz never wavering, Michael stared at Russell, waiting.
A flicker of understanding passed between them in that millisecond. Rain lashed the outside of the cottage, and a crack of lightning illuminated the crime scene in bursts of light.
Russell lunged forward before the last flash of lightning faded, his roar swallowed up in a rumble of thunder echoing across the water.
“Fuck!” Jazz cried, and he backpedaled quickly, arms flailing. He stomped on Michael’s foot in the process.
Michael fumbled to retreat as Russell charged them. But when Jazz spun around, trying to run away and turn Michael at the same time, Michael stumbled backward. They both fell through the bathroom door, landing hard on the soft carpeting in the bedroom.
They wrestled, a tangle of arms and legs, Jazz squirming on top of Michael and Michael using his feet to inch away. Jazz rolled off Michael and they were both on their backs when Russell burst from the bathroom.
“Get back here!” Russell shouted.
He grabbed Jazz’s feet and started dragging him back into the bathroom.
“Russell! Stop!” Jazz shouted, kicking wildly to break free. “What’s the matter with you?”
The hysterical pitch of Jazz’s voice sent Michael’s heart pounding faster.
Russell’s grip was too strong for Jazz to escape. His hands looked like vises locked on Jazz’s ankles. Scrambling for something to hold on to, Jazz attempted to flip onto his belly, but he couldn’t manage it.
Like a man possessed, Russell pulled Jazz halfway into the bathroom.
“Lemme go, fucker!” Jazz clawed at the carpet, at the furniture, at anything near him, finally managing to grab the edge of the dresser. “Let go!”
Shaking off his feeling of shock—your favorite author is a murderer—Michael lunged forward. He grabbed Jazz’s arms and pulled back, hard.
The carefully positioned shower curtains on the floor tangled around Russell’s feet, but they did not deter him. When Michael pulled again, Jazz managed to flip halfway onto his stomach, using his elbows as leverage.
Plastic wrapped around his ankles, Russell stumbled out of the bathroom, never breaking his hold on Jazz’s feet. His eyes were wide and his hair in complete disarray. “Let me explain!”
“Let go!” Jazz shouted as they wrestled.
Michael studiously avoided looking at Russell’s flopping cock and swaying balls as a line from a Brock Hammer mystery ran through his mind over and over, as if it were a song on repeat.
I realized, almost too late, that he’d been the killer all along.
A newfound strength burned through Michael, and the next time Jazz kicked, Michael yanked him free.
Russell scrambled to catch hold of his feet once again, but Jazz kicked out. He caught Russell on the chin, and the blow sent the naked man stumbling back into the bathroom, legs tangled in the shower curtain.
“Quick, get up!” Michael cried, pulling on Jazz. “Let’s go!”
“Jasper! Wait!” Russell shrieked, but they were already on their feet and fleeing the bedroom. “Don’t leave me! He’s lying! I didn’t kill Dylan!”
Michael glanced back at Russell. A flicker of lightning illuminated him. He stood in the bathroom doorway, anguish contorting his expression. His hands were outstretched, clutching the air as if trying to grab onto Jazz and get him to stay. The lightning superimposed the sight onto Michael’s mind, and he knew it was one he would never forget.
Shaking off the unsettling image, Michael held tight to Jazz’s hand as they ran down the hall and into the living room. Wind gusted around the house, slinging rain against the windows and shaking the panes. Michael’s heart pounded hard in his chest, his breathing rough. Lightning flared again, making the drawn linen curtains glow, and thunder followed right on its heels.
The turn from the living room into the kitchen was as far as they got.
Jazz’s hand flew out of Michael’s grip.
Russell crashed into Jazz’s back, screaming as he flailed at him with his fists.
The force knocked Jazz off-balance, and he stumbled into the wall.
“No!” Michael shouted when they both went down. “Get off him!”
Jazz fell onto his hands and knees with Russell on his back, like a possessed demon child getting a pony ride.
Michael wrapped his arms around Russell’s chest from behind, narrowly missing the swings Russell was raining down on Jazz. With a roar, he used the strength of his legs and his tight hold to haul the man off Jazz.
Russell turned his fury on Michael, kicking and screaming as he clawed at Michael’s arms.
“Dammit, calm down!” Michael cried, shaking the naked wild man in his arms.
“He deserved it!” Russell shouted, pushing his feet off the ground, jumping and attempting to break free. “It was self-defense. That crazy fan tried to kill me. He’s the one who killed my beautiful Dylan. Not me. It was him!”
Michael struggled not to let go while trying to understand what Russell was screaming. Russell sprung up and threw his body weight back one more time. The backs of Michael’s knees hit the coffee table.
With a cry, Michael fell over the table, landing with his legs on the table and his back on the floor, the breath knocked out of him.
Not a half second later, Russell came down on top of him hard, still kicking and shouting. As he thrashed, Russell’s elbow struck Michael in the gut. Michael couldn’t breathe and he let go of Russell to push him off.
Russell scuttled free and jumped to his feet.
One hand over his stomach where Russell had struck him, Michael sat up. It took several heartbeats for his lungs and diaphragm to start working. Chest tight, he sucked in a breath.
Another flash of lightning lit up the room.
White skin glistening with sweat, Russell towered above Michael like some naked monster, eyes wild and teeth bared. He held one of the crystal tumblers high over his head.
“You will never tell on me.” Russell’s voice was calm, almost normal.
The eerie tone of voice was more frightening than anything that had happened thus far. Still having a hard time catching his breath, Michael scooted back along the rug, his back bumping against the couch and trapping him. The thought that Russell was—without a doubt—completely insane, spun through his mind.
Russell’s arm started to come down.
Lightning flared off the tumbler in his grip.
And then Russell cried out and stumbled away. The tumbler fell to the rug and rolled to a stop against a leg of the coffee table.
Michael blinked in shock.
Now Jazz stood in Russell’s place. Blood ran from his nose and the few scratches on his face. He held the fireplace poker tight in both hands. Panting for breath, he glared down at Russell.
The cold, dark fury in Jazz’s eyes made Michael suck in a gasp of surprise.
Then Jazz looked down at Michael, and his expression changed to one of concern and tenderness. Michael wondered if he’d even seen the previous expression at all.<
br />
“Are you all right?” Jazz crouched before him, still clutching the poker.
“Yeah. Just got the wind knocked out of me.” Michael let out a humorless laugh. “I’ll be okay. But you’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.” Jazz looked at Russell.
Moaning, Russell rolled back and forth on the rug, holding his head.
“I can’t believe it.” Jazz shook his head and plopped on the floor beside Michael, as if he couldn’t stay up against the weight of this startling discovery. “It was him all along. He killed Dylan, and now this other guy. But why? Because he didn’t like Russell’s book?”
“I don’t have the foggiest,” Michael admitted. “Should we call the po-po this time?”
After an inappropriate sniff of laughter, Jazz started to agree. “Yeah, I—”
“Oh God!” Michael cut him off. “The guy in the tub! We have to check on him. He might not be dead.”
“Shit, you’re right.”
Before they could move, the back door opened and shut.
“Russell!” someone called in a singsong voice. “It’s raining like it’s the apocalypse out there, but I’ve brought you a surprise latte. And whose car is parked crooked in my spot?”
Norbert stepped into the kitchen and stopped.
“What the fuck have you done?” he shrieked.
He threw the messenger bag and the coffee carrier in his hands to the floor. Both cups popped open and an explosion of hot coffee splattered everywhere, a few droplets stinging Michael on the arm.
Oddly, Michael swore he smelled lavender.
“Oh, Russell!” Norbert rushed to Russell’s side. “He’s naked and he’s bleeding! Oh, Russell. Are you okay? Are you okay? Talk to me.”