The Perfect Trap, page 13
“You’re disgusting,” he mumbled. He looked down and saw that his hands, pressed palms-down on the deck table, were ghostly white beside the unopened bottle of red wine.
"We both know what you're going to do," she continued, unashamed. "You're going to let me do what I want because it's too embarrassing to let the truth come out. I might deign to give you an heir of your own if you’re lucky, assuming I can make time for you between the other guys and assuming you can get the job done. That will be our tradeoff, Augie: I pretend to be the doting wife and maybe even the doting mother and you keep your mouth shut about anything else that goes on.”
“You really think I’d go along with that?” he challenged, amazed by her arrogance.
“Of course you will, sweetheart,” she said with mockingly saccharine sweetness. “It’s the only way. Every other outcome is just too messy for a coward like you.”
The words were still echoing in his ears when he grabbed the wine bottle. Before he even had time to fully process what he was doing, he swung it at her head like a baseball bat. There was a loud thwack as it connected with her temple. Penny dropped to the ground. Amazingly, the bottle didn’t shatter.
Austin looked down at his wife and saw the stream of blood pouring down her face. Her eyes were glassy. He couldn’t tell if she was dead or just stunned. He dropped the bottle and rushed to her side.
“I’m so sorry, Penny,” he told her, his voice choking with emotion. “Please, please, tell me that you’re okay.”
She blinked dully, and his heart began beating again. She was alive. He slid his hands under her head to create a kind of pillow on the hard deck floor. She looked up at him with an expression he couldn't identify. Was it fear? Regret? She moved her lips, but nothing came out. Her brain seemed slightly scrambled. Finally, she managed to form words.
“You’re going to pay through the nose for this, darling,” she whispered.
He stared back at her, uncertain that he'd heard her correctly. But the nasty smile on her face as blood dripped onto her teeth told him that he had. He wasn't sure exactly when his hands moved from behind her head to her neck, but at some point he comprehended that he was choking her.
She gasped, trying to push out words, but that only made him squeeze harder. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her neck until he could feel muscle and even bone. Eventually, the gasping stopped, as did the desperate shaking of her legs. He never learned what exactly she was trying to say with that last bit of breath.
He looked down at her empty eyes for some time, though he couldn't be sure how long it was. At some point, it occurred to him that he wouldn't be able to explain this away as some kind of accident. When he eventually returned to the marina, he would be arrested for murder. Unless…
An idea formed in his head much more quickly than he would have expected. Soon he was acting on it. He went down below and collected the gold, ornamental anchor his father had given him along with the yacht. It obviously wasn’t intended as anything more than decoration, but it was heavy, easily fifty pounds. Once he strapped it to Penny’s body with paracord and dumped her in the ocean, she only bobbed there for a few seconds before sinking out of sight. Then he opened the bottle of wine he’d hit her with.
He was halfway through it when he heard the weather alert warning alarm on the radio. He checked the report and saw that a big storm was on its way. It was supposed to pass south of Catalina and Los Angeles, hitting just of northern San Digo County around 3 a.m. But if he turned that way now, he could get to the danger zone just as the storm hit.
If he survived, then his planned story that Penny had fallen overboard would be much more credible. The authorities would go back to check his GPS data on his chartplotter and see that he was where he claimed to be. It was a solid, if not perfect alibi. Even better, rescue and recovery teams would be searching for Penny a good fifty miles south of where he’d dumped her. The chances of finding her, already remote, would drop to near zero.
It turned out he was right, because now—two years later—he was free and clear. Of course, there was a perfunctory investigation. But with no body, a credible alibi, and no indication of marital trouble, there wasn’t much to go on.
He hadn’t yet contacted the divorce lawyer. Anyone else who knew about Penny’s affairs wasn’t coming forward. Once he destroyed the sex videos—save for one to remember her by—there was nothing to even suggest a motive.
He spent two years in mourning, not so much for her but for his loss of innocence. He lived a monastic life both in persona and in practice. He didn’t want any hint of suspicion. And the truth was, he felt too burned to try his hand at love again.
But eventually, about a month ago, he got those romantic and physical stirrings again. He decided that it had been long enough to dip his toe back in the dating waters. But this time, he would do it differently. He wanted to meet a potential mate that had no idea who he was, who would be drawn to him based on his personal traits rather than his money.
So he signed up for several dating apps, but never using his real name. That would defeat the purpose of finding a girl who liked him for him. On the app that set up the mixer he was attending tonight, called IRL, he used the name Augie Melton, a combination of his nickname and his mother’s maiden name.
He created a profile, hit “submit,” and put himself out there, once again opening his heart to both the possibility of love and cruel disappointment. But he tried to stay positive, despite his apprehensions.
Monday was his first mixer and his first date—with a young woman named Noemi. Admittedly, it hadn't gone perfectly. The date last night with Rena went a little off the rails too. But that was all in the past.
He gave himself one last look in the mirror, then added a little dab of cologne. He grabbed his billfold, full of hundred dollar bills—he wasn’t sure how many—and placed it in his inner jacket pocket.
He knew he wasn’t the most objective judge, but he thought he looked quite dashing. And he hoped someone else would think so too, because he was ready for romance to re-enter his life. He was sure it would work out this this time. He would find the perfect girl for him. That is, assuming the girl was worth it.
Assuming she wasn’t a conniving, backstabbing bitch.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Jessie didn’t think this was a great idea.
She could tell Ryan didn’t either. After they called him and told him not to bother going to Sharper, the club at Eastpark Century City because they knew where the killer would be tonight, he’d rushed back to the station. And as he stood beside her, looking over the outfit that Susannah had picked to wear to the mixer, Jessie she could tell that he was as concerned about the detective as she was. She just didn’t seem right.
Susannah was wearing a white dress with a plunging necklace, clearly modeled on the one Marilyn Monroe had worn in the The Seven Year Itch. She even had the white heels and the blonde wig. But she didn’t look comfortable.
She was pressing her hand against the wall as if unsure that she could balance herself on the heels. And she stood more stiffly than usual, without any of hip-thrusting, chest-forward sexuality that she usually brought to these kinds of assignments.
“I’m not sure this is going to work,” Ryan said flatly. “We’re sending you into a club where there might be a serial killer. You don’t look super steady on your feet. I’m worried we could have a repeat of this afternoon at the apartment complex, which would put the case, and more importantly, you, at risk.”
“I’ll be okay,” Susannah assured him. “Once the pain meds kick in, I won’t feel a thing.”
“Didn’t you just take some a few hours ago?” Jessie asked. “Are you sure you can have another dose this soon?”
“I’ll take them in the car on the way over,” Susannah said. “That’ll be close to the time the mixer starts and they’ll have started to work by the time we get to the club.”
“Why do you not just have another woman cop do this?” Gila Jabarin asked, before adding with her typical lack of tact, “you do not look healthy or sexy. How will you attract this man?”
“First of all, thanks Gila,” Susannah replied, showing more restraint than Jessie would have thought possible. “Secondly, we can’t just throw some other officer, or even a detective, into this. She wouldn’t know the case or the suspect. She wouldn’t know what to say to extract a potential confession if she got close to the guy. It might do more harm than good.”
“But you are sweating at the forehead,” Gila said. “It will make this man suspicious.”
“Really, I’m fine,” Susannah insisted, starting to sound irritated. “Once the adrenaline gets going, I’ll be ready to rumble. A Beverly Hills club is a lot different than this stuffy office—."
She stopped talking suddenly as she inhaled sharply, clutching at her left side with her hand. Her face turned pale, and her legs started to wobble. Her body began careening forward. Jessie leapt toward her but knew she was too far away to catch her in time. But Grover, who was standing in a nearby corner, dove headfirst to the floor in front of her and rolled over, extending his arms upward to catch her as she fell, before easing her softly down on top of him.
“I’m sorry,” Susannah muttered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Jessie knelt down beside her and looked in her yes. They were cloudy and damp.
“Lie her down on her back, Grover,” she instructed. “I want to check something.”
The bodyguard delicately placed her on the carpet. Jessie hesitated for a moment, then decided this was no time for inhibition.
“Sorry about this,” she said quietly as she tugged Susannah’s dress up past her waist. What she saw made her gulp hard. “Dear god!”
Susannah’s entire left side running up her rib cage was deep purple, with dark, spidery lines extending out in all directions from the giant bruise.
“I think she’s got internal bleeding,” she said, then looked up. “Jamil, get the nurse in here. Beth, call for an ambulance. Kat, go get some ice. She’s burning up.”
“Really, Jessie, I’m okay,” Susannah said, her eyes fluttering rapidly before closing. Then she went quiet.
“Susannah?” Jessie said loudly, “are you okay?” Can you hear me? Wake up!”
But there was no response.
***
They returned to the Research department after watching the ambulance tear off into the night.
Jessie plopped down in a chair, trying to get her bearings. The EMTs had stabilized Susannah enough to move her, but it was clear that she was in dire shape. Kat and Gila had left, too, following the ambulance to the hospital. Gila had initially protested but was shut down.
“No one here can go,” Kat told her. “Everyone else has to keep working on this case. We're of no use here, but Susannah needs someone with her. Besides, there’s no way Ash Pierce is going to be looking for me at the hospital. So I’m going. You’re welcome to come along.”
She stormed out of the office without waiting for a response. Gila looked helplessly at Grover, who then did the same to Jessie.
“She’s not going to be told no on this,” she told them both. “But I’d feel a lot more comfortable if she didn’t go alone.”
Grover nodded at Gila.
“You drive,” he told her. “Have her stay down in the backseat. Don’t let her sign in under her real name at the hospital, and don’t let her out of your sight. Not even when she goes to the bathroom. Getting to go there is her big win. All other security measures are non-negotiable, got it?”
Gila nodded that she did, then started for the door.
“And text me when you get there,” Grover added.
Once she left, Jessie looked around the room. The only people remaining from HSS were herself, Ryan, Jamil, and Beth. Grover, his job done for now, returned to the corner of the room.
“What time is it?” Jessie asked.
“7:46,” Jamil answered immediately.
“We don’t have much time,” Jessie said to everyone.
“What do you mean?” Ryan asked.
“This mixer starts at eight,” she said. “What if our guy meets someone early on and leaves with her before we arrive? We need to be there soon.”
“We?” Ryan said sharply.
Jessie stared at him calmly. She could see him tensing up but didn't care. He knew what she was going to say, but she came out with it anyway.
“There’s only one option left with the time we have,” she told him, “me.”
“No way!” he objected.
"Come on, Ryan," she said gently. "You know I'm right. It's like Susannah said—we can't just pull in someone from another unit and get them up to speed in the next fifteen minutes. I know the situation, and if we find the guy, I’ll be able to read him, maybe get him to say something incriminating.”
“You’re not even a cop, Jessie,” he protested, “not to mention that you’re officially on leave for a medical condition that affected you just today.”
“And there’s an entirely different serial killer on the loose who’s got it in for you,” Grover added.
Jessie sighed, giving herself a moment to regroup after the double-barreled attack.
“Listen, guys,” she said, staying cool, “it’s not like I’m suggesting going into a darkened, abandoned warehouse by myself. It’s a Beverly Hills nightclub where people are dressing up as movie characters. Plus, I'm assuming you'll both be right there to help me if things get out of hand. All things considered, it's pretty low risk. And as to Haddonfield, I defy you to explain how he could possibly anticipate us going there."
The two men exchanged a shared expression of frustration. But not wanting to give any more time for them to come up with additional arguments, she pressed ahead.
“I’m going to head over to Vice to look for an outfit that will work for this event,” she told them. “Hopefully there’s something a little more up my alley because I’m not pulling off a Marilyn Monroe-type thing tonight.”
She started for the door and glanced back to find everyone staring at her, unsure how to respond.
“Jamil, let us know when you get a facial recognition hit on the guy from the Old Town Brewpub,” she said, hoping to snap them into action. “Beth, keep searching the IRL member database to see if you find a match for guys who fit our profile and have signed up for all three mixers.”
They both nodded and turned back to their computers. The typing began immediately.
“As for you two gentlemen,” she said to Ryan and Grover, “you better come along with me. If you don’t want to stick out like sore thumbs, you need to pick your character costumes too. Party time is in twelve minutes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
They didn’t arrive at the mixer until 8:13, but Jessie thought they’d made pretty good time.
Finding outfits that worked for the event and still allowed everyone to hide their weapons effectively was more challenging than it seemed. It was easier for the guys.
Ryan was able to throw on a trench coat and fedora to approximate Humphrey Bogart’s Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon. Grover hunted up a black leather motorcycle jacket, a gray t-shirt, cargo pants, and a pair of sunglasses, which combined to credibly recreate Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator.
The process required more creativity from Jessie. In order to come in character but wear something that would allow her to remain armed and not draw suspicion, she only had a few options. After a sixty-second brainstorming session, she settled on something resembling one of Meg Ryan's outfits in When Harry Met Sally…
She found a pair of blue jeans, along with a red, cable-knit sweater and a brown blazer that reminded her of the outfit Sally wore when she first reconnected with Harry at a bookstore after years apart. She threw on a blonde wig that resembled the hairstyle from the scene and called it a day.
After parking down the street half a block from The Citadel, they ran into a small complication when they saw that people waiting at the door for entry had to show their sign-up confirmations from the app on their phones. Ryan remedied the situation by taking them around back and letting one of the club managers know that that they were there on police business.
“Hopefully our killer got stuck waiting in the line, and we got in before him,” Jessie said as the manager led them through the kitchen and toward the door leading into the club proper.
Her hopes were quickly dashed when she peeked through a porthole window in the swinging door and saw the multitudes of patrons already in the place. It appeared that the entire club had been rented out for the event because there was hardly anyone, other than staff, not dressed for the occasion.
“Hold on,” Ryan said, pulling them back just as Grover was about to push the door open. “Let’s do a last review before we go out there.”
“Sure,” Jessie said.
“Is everyone’s earpiece working okay?” he asked.
They both nodded.
“I’ve also got an open line to Jamil in case he needs to give us any info,” Ryan continued, before directly addressing Jessie. “I’ll feed any useful details to you, so you don’t have too many voices in your head.”
“Sounds good,” she told him.
“Jamil,” Ryan said to the researcher back at the station. “How’s the wire doing? Can you hear Jessie clearly?”
Jessie and Grover waited silently as Jamil said something they couldn’t hear.
“He says it’s clear as a bell right now,” Ryan told them as he gave a thumbs up. “We’ll see how it does with all the club noise. I hate saying this, but if you find a suspect you like, make sure to get real close so the mic picks everything up. Ambient noise can be an issue in places like this.”
“Will do, boss,” Jessie said with a salute, hoping it might help de-stress her obviously anxious husband.
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