Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  He had briefly worried that her expression would freeze in that fearful position, impairing her beautiful eyes and lips and cheeks.

  Stupid thought. He shook his head like an Etch-A-Sketch to erase his train of thought. Stupid.

  He took a step toward her, all professional again, when the cell phone in her pocket rang. She answered as he stood at her side.

  “I’m sorry?” she gasped into the phone, her tone dreadful. “What do you mean?”

  The speaker on the other side of the line gabbed a few sentences, then Cheyenne hung up.

  “What is it?” Jason asked, his own heart dropping into his stomach.

  “The DNA test gave us a name, matched one hundred percent to samples taken from throughout the apartment.”

  “Okay…?”

  “The man in that apartment, lungs filled with concrete,” she exhaled, “is Adam Fischer.”

  Jason took a second to register her words.

  “Hold on.” He crossed his arms. “If Adam Fischer is dead in there, then who is dead in the alley on Flight Street?”

  Cheyenne slowly put her hands on her hips, not saying a word, which said far more than he wanted to know: Nobody had a clue.

  Jason plunged his hand into his pocket and drew his phone. Without thinking of the numbers, he dialed Garth. His mind was a crazed merry-go-round, whirling too fast for him to think straight, but he had no control over it.

  Control was one thing that was vital for a detective to hold, and here he was, right in the middle of a mystery without the slightest iota of control. He needed to change that. Fast. Slow down this merry-go-round before somebody puked.

  Garth answered. “Jason?”

  He was already rattling off his thoughts. “Garth, you still at 8th and Flight?”

  “Yes…” Garth could hear the strain in Jason’s voice and knew something had not gone according to plan. He knew there was a lack of control.

  “All right, you get a blood sample from that guy, a hair sample, a urine sample, pull out a freakin’ tooth if necessary—”

  “Jason!” Garth interrupted with a shout. “Slow down. What happened in the apartment?”

  “We found another body in Fischer’s apartment. Frozen in a block of concrete, with only his feet sticking out like he was getting a damn pedicure. We took a blood sample, right? Lab test came back. Guess who this guy is?”

  “Han Solo? I dunno.”

  “The one-and-only Adam Fischer.”

  Garth was silent for a second, then grunted. “Adam Fischer? But fingerprints said that this victim on Flight Street was Adam Fischer…”

  “Just my point. That’s why you need to find out who the dead man at your feet is. Fingerprints must’ve been contaminated or skewed or something. Get an ID on him, ASAP.”

  “I’m on it.” Garth hung up.

  Jason pocketed the phone and took a few weak steps backward. He ran his hands through his hair, as if it would trigger some epiphany that might explain this murderous chaos.

  Ten seconds passed. No epiphanies, no ideas. Looks like he had to do it the old-fashioned way.

  A man bounded up to Jason, foggy behind the confusion that had suddenly clouded his mind. It took him a second to recognize Josh Locke, resolute and obnoxious as ever with his inappropriately experienced behavior. The whole being-scared witless-by-a-mirror incident seemed to be completely forgotten. By Josh, at least.

  “Detective,” he greeted.

  “Officer,” Jason said to the boy, if only to remind him how inexperienced he really was.

  “Some thickening of the plot, eh?” Josh wiped a layer of sweat from his upper lip, his head cocked to one side. “Two Adam Fischers. This only happens on cop shows, y’know?”

  “It does only happen on cop shows.” Jason straightened his back, rising a few inches over the boy. “There’s only one Adam Fischer. The other was only made up like him to trick us. One,” he held up his index finger, “count ‘em. Somebody murdered two citizens and then, on top of that, screwed with us, and there’s no way he’s gonna get away with either.”

  Josh grinned, his air of arrogance only inflating. “Right on, Detective. We’ll get him. Whoever ‘him’ is.”

  The rookie nodded several times, clearly enjoying the moment.

  Jason narrowed his eyes. “Now, Josh. You’ll be thoroughly questioned when you get back to the station.”

  “About what?”

  “Firing your handgun. You’ll have to fill out a weapons discharge report. There could be some pretty serious consequences. Now…” Jason lowered his voice, “I’ll vouch for you, help any way I can.” He ground his teeth together. “But this can never happen again. Do you hear me, Josh?”

  “Yes, sir, Detective Flynn.” The officer turned to leave, but then added, “Oh, by the way, Adam’s neighbors are getting pretty curious. What should I tell them?”

  “Let me.” Jason waved off Josh and walked away.

  He eyed a woman who slipped out of apartment 4-B and gawked at the officers congesting her hall.

  The slim woman leaned against the wall, twirling hair the volume of spaghetti and staring apathetically at the ceiling as if no one else in the area deserved to look her in the eye. Jason approached and cleared his throat as noisily as he could. She slowly gazed upon him, her overly applied lipstick and blotchy mascara giving her the appearance of a demented clown.

  That face is gonna haunt my nightmares. Jason smiled cordially and drew a small notepad and a pen.

  “Good morning,” he greeted. The woman didn’t react, her face a lump of spongy indifference. “My name is Detective Jason Flynn of the Los Angeles Police Department. If I could have a moment of your time…” And even if I can’t…”I’d like to ask you a few questions—”

  “Am I a suspect?” she blurted. She had been born and raised in Boston judging by her accent, in one of the coarser neighborhoods judging by her attitude.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You think I whacked the guy?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t.”

  “So why’m I bein’ integrated?”

  Jason assumed that by “integrated” she meant “interrogated” and said with the nicest tone he could muster, “You’re not being interrogated, ma’am. We’d just appreciate your help in better understanding this event.”

  “Do I get my phone call?” The woman raised a finger in the air, feeling very powerful. “I got rights, ya know. I’m an American! You can take yer Patriot Act and shove it!”

  This was going to be a long conversation.

  Jason raised the tip of his pen over the surface of the notepad. “Your name, madam?”

  A layer of irritation was lifted from her face. She obviously like being called a madam. “Cy.”

  His pen remained frozen above the paper. “Like the kind you heave?”

  The exasperation returned. “No,” she snapped impatiently, as if he had told her the sky was green. “Cy, like Billy Ray Cyrus.” She then spelled it. “C-Y.”

  Literally biting his tongue to keep his irritation in check, Jason wrote the name. This woman was already getting on his nerves, and he hadn’t even asked her a single question about the crime scene yet. Besides, what self-respecting Bostonian refers to Billy Ray Cyrus?

  “Last name?” he asked.

  She shot Jason her best that’s-none-of-your-dadgum-beeswax-you-idiot-cop glare, but grudgingly answered anyway. “Perri.” She pointed a hooked pink fingernail that looked more like a hawk’s talon at him. “With an i,” she emphasized, as if it was the most important thing she would say all day.

  Jason jotted down her last name, making a big show of dotting the i.

  Cy’s glare intensified, but it didn’t faze Jason. He had seen them all, from the I’m-packing-heat-and-can-and-will-blast-you-away-at-the-drop-of-a-hat look to the who-do-you-think-you-are?-John-Wayne? look. Cy’s didn’t even make him shudder, much less back down.

  “Now, Ms. Perri…” he assumed she was a Miss, not a Missus. “…
what can you tell me about Mr. Adam Fischer?”

  “Who?”

  He grimaced slightly, not bothering to hide his annoyance anymore. “A tenant of this apartment complex, your neighbor, room 4-H? Y’know,” he gestured a thumb at the crime scene and the dozens of forensic officers behind him, “dead guy?”

  “Not much.” She scratched at a crusty stain on her tank top. “This ain’t exactly the olden days when we would walk down and ask for a cup of sugar.”

  “Your paths never crossed once?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen him occasionally. Like, 3:00 a.m. Saturday nights…or Sunday mornings, I guess, technically…anyways, when I’m gettin’ back to my room from the clubs ‘n bars ‘n stuff, he’s always leaving his own apartment in these spiffy suits and ties.”

  Jason mulled this over and jotted it down, along with the note, What’s Adam’s job? Follow up.

  Cy clacked her spindly fingernails together, making a sound like a tambourine. “And sometimes, he’s entering his apartment early Monday morning when I’m grabbin’ my paper and morning cuppa caffee. Always got one of those vanilla folders tucked under his arm.”

  She most likely meant “manila.”

  “This morning?” Jason asked, realizing Cy Perri was getting more and more comfortable with the questioning the more and more important she felt she was. Everybody loves to be hoisted on a pedestal.

  “Nah,” she answered.

  Obviously. He already knew that answer. He was taking a nap in a half-ton of concrete.

  “Wait,” she said, getting her fingers tangled in her forested mass of stringy hair. “Wasn’t he dead this morning?”

  Jason smirked. “Just making sure you’re keeping up.” He quickly shot out another question to keep her on her pedestal. “What did you think of him?”

  Cy seemed physically upset by Jason’s choosing of the word “did” instead of “do”.

  “Uh, well, he’s tall, dark ‘n handsome, like a guy you only read about in those Harley Quinn books. Sharp, hot, nice caboose.”

  Jason didn’t bother writing that down.

  “He always had the same exact smile, but it wasn’t a nice one, y’know? It was more proud, better than you, right?”

  “Arrogant,” Jason offered, more to himself than her.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Arrogant!” She seemed very proud she had thought of the right word.

  “So,” he said, “you’re telling me that he was pretty easy on the eyes?”

  Cy scoffed. “That’s how my great-great grandma would put it, but, yeah.”

  “Did he ever make a pass at you?”

  “No, no. He’s a gentleman, one hundred percent,” she said as if she resented him for it.

  A cramp had formed in Jason’s back. He shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his notepad. He had gathered very few notes from Cy Perri, and none of them were very useful. He donned his gentle smile and was preparing to thank her for her time when she suddenly perked up.

  “Oh!” She shook her hands excitedly, as if she had just remembered she had the winning lottery ticket in her pocket. “Remember that I told you how he would go into his apartment early Mondays?”

  “With a vanilla folder. Yes,” Jason responded, one eyebrow raised.

  She grinned. “Sometimes there’s another guy with him.”

  Houston, we have liftoff. This was useful stuff. He leaned forward, a grin of his own spreading across his face. This was the info he had come here for.

  “Did this man happen to be about five foot ten, forty years old, have black hair with gray lining and heavy wrinkles?” He was describing the dead man who lay in the alley on Flight Street just outside Sinai Hills.

  “Nah,” Cy responded.

  Jason deflated. He had been positive these two dead men were connected somehow, but he couldn’t see a relation of any sorts.

  “This guy was tall, long arms ‘n legs. Small, round li’l glasses. Oval nose. He looked like one of them Muppets from that one show.” She pinched her temples, desperately digging through her thoughts. “Ah, what was that show called?”

  Jason answered, “The Muppet Show?”

  “Yeah!” Cy squealed, overjoyed at their breakthrough. Jason wished he was that excited about remembering the blatantly obvious title of some unrelated TV show.

  He raised his pen, about to jot down this mystery man’s description, but Cy interrupted him before he got the chance to write a word.

  “Oh, and he walked with a limp. The other guy did, I mean.”

  “Which leg?”

  “The, uh…” She assumed her thinking position once again, trembling from her effort. “I think the right. No…the left! Definitely the left.”

  Forgetting all about the glasses and oval nose, Jason scribbled down a note about the left-legged limp. That should be enough for a positive ID. Besides, even if it wasn’t, it shouldn’t be too hard to identify a Muppet.

  “Thank you very much, Ms. Perri,” Jason said, surprised by his own sincerity. This woman had been quite useful, unexpectedly.

  Cy giggled like a rusty motorboat that wouldn’t take a fisherman ten feet through the water. “It’s my pleasure, Deck.”

  Jason grinned plastically and slid away. He didn’t particularly care for the pet name she had just given him.

  Deck, short for Detective, I guess.

  He didn’t waste any more brainpower worrying about Cy Perri.

  A mysterious guest visiting Adam early Monday mornings, while others are fast asleep, unaware of his presence. Today, Monday, both Adam and this guest were absent from their routines. One was dead, which left the other unaccounted for.

  The first step would be to acquire security footage from the apartment, then get a visual look at Adam’s guest. Could this limper be the killer? Maybe. In fact, most likely. This was only a working theory, however. Too many investigators tended to distort evidence to suit theories instead of vice versa. The left-legged limper could merely be a victim of circumstance in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Jason pocketed his notepad and pen, the information on the paper seeming to singe his pocket. He glanced down the hall, spotting Cheyenne knocking on 4-G’s door. The frighteningly inexplicable situation they had thrown themselves into seemed to weigh down on her, like a physical weight sitting on her shoulders. Her figure was weary, forming a question mark, appropriately enough. This entire situation was nothing but one big question mark.

  He needed to get off this case. His thoughts had turned gruesome, each one filled with blood and screams and never-blinking eyes. Eyes that made him jerk awake in the dark of the night. Screams that made him cover his ears and whisper like a little boy for them to please go away.

  Evil men like the type he tracked had a bad habit of affecting more people than they realized. A raped little girl directly influenced the family and friends of the victim, certainly. But the cops, the cops’ families and friends, the citizens and neighbors who now thought twice about going out after dark also felt the grave repercussions of one psycho’s fleeting sexual instinct. One act could affect the entire globe. Evil’s morbid cloud swirled more and more.

  No more. He needed to leave this behind him. Jason felt the cloud swirling around him at this moment. No more! Forget homicide and death. A simple change of cases would blow away the cloud. He’d heard embezzlement was nice this time of year.

  Yet he knew he would never leave. His mind was designed to see the invisible evidence, find the path that had been hidden by a sinister man who was evading justice. Cheyenne would be completely swallowed by evil’s morbid cloud; she needed him to keep her sanity, just like he needed her and Garth and Ted. He needed to serve justice. He would serve justice.

  He absently smiled at Cheyenne. They could do it. Not only would they serve justice, they would serve it on a silver platter with fancy hors d’oeuvres and top-shelf wine. Isn’t that a nice visual?

  I’d recommend a nice Chateau Rouge with that justice, sir.

  Jason
laughed quietly to himself as he stared at Cheyenne a moment longer. Just then, he spotted a slim female body in the very corner of his vision. She scaled the staircase leading to the fourth floor and then stood frozen at the end of the hall.

  His eyes jumped off Cheyenne and landed on the woman. Her features were indistinct from a dozen yards away, but she was tall, with the physique of a champagne glass that had decided to become a fashion model. Curled hair to her shoulder blades, impossibly high high-heels, and a skirt that looked more like a small lampshade.

  The woman stood at the end of the hall for a brief moment, saw the swarm of police, and then casually turned back for the staircase.

  Jason strode down the hall.

  By his thinking, there were only two reasons this woman would flee police presence so quickly: One, she had a lot of speeding tickets she’d weaseled her way out of, or two, she had something to hide.

  Jason had a feeling it was number two.

  He tapped Josh on the shoulder as he passed the officer and beckoned for him to follow.

  The woman scampered down the stairs, her heels making the sound of pinging bullets.

  “Josh,” Jason murmured, “c’mon.”

  The young officer furrowed his brows, suddenly all G.I. Joe with a kung-fu grip, and jogged alongside Jason.

  “Ma’am!” Jason called out, his voice booming through the hall.

  The woman picked up her speed, pretending to not hear the shout.

  Yep, definitely hiding something.

  “Hey, hey!” Jason broke out in a dead sprint for the staircase, Josh struggling to keep up. He bounded down the stairs, the mysterious supermodel mere yards in front of him.

  Showing a large amount of grace for her freakishly high heels, the woman bolted off the staircase, entering the third floor of the apartment block. Josh and Jason zipped after her, probably leaving skid marks on the linoleum.

  “Ma’am!” Jason shouted again, although he knew she wouldn’t stop.

  She continued jogging, her long hair bouncing merrily. However, she was boxing herself in, running toward the end of the hall. In a matter of seconds, she would have no place else to flee.

  Sure enough, she slowed to a trot, her steps slow and defeated. Jason stopped and kept his distance behind her, allowing a brief smirk of victory for himself, but quickly focused. She was cornered, yes, but that did not mean she was vulnerable.