Rock-A-Bye Baby, page 1
part #2 of Charlene Taylor Series
Rock-A-Bye Baby
A Charlene Taylor Mystery #2
Luke Murphy
ROCK-A-BYE BABY
A Charlene Taylor Mystery #2
Copyright © 2019 by Luke Murphy. All Rights Reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
http://www.authorlukemurphy.com
FIRST EDITION ebook
ANM Books
June 2019
ISBN: 978-1-7753759-7-5
Cover designed by Casey Snyder Design: www.caseysnyderdesign.com
Table of Contents
ROCK-A-BYE BABY
Copyright
Praise for Rock-A- Bye Baby
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Message from the Author
Books by Luke Murphy
About the Author
Praise for Rock-A-Bye Baby
“Rock-A-Bye Baby has everything—a haunted protagonist, heartfelt emotion, and a twisty, thrilling plot. A scorcher of a follow-up in a promising series.” —David Ellis, NYT bestselling author of The Last Alibi
“Murphy has cleverly crafted a riveting crime thriller, with a hefty dose of white-knuckle suspense. Entertaining and enticing to the very last page.” —Cheryl Kaye Tardif, bestselling author of Submerged
“Rock-A-Bye Baby is an exquisitely told thriller, full of surprises and terrifying moments. Murphy is a gifted storyteller who keeps the tension crackling throughout the heart-stopping journey. The protagonist Charlene Taylor drives the story to a very satisfying and unexpected ending.” —Kristina Stanley, bestselling author of the Stone Mountain series
For Elsie and Kathleen: Grandmothers are the best, and I had two very special ones. I miss our games together.
Acknowledgements
The most important people in my life: my family—Mélanie, Addison, Nève and Molly.
I’m the first to admit that this novel was not a solo effort. I’ve relied on many generous and intelligent people to turn this book into a reality. I’d like to thank the following people who had a hand in making this novel what it is today. I’m indebted to you all.
(The Conception) I need to thank the creative and very brilliant:
Mrs. Joan Conrod
Ms. Lisa Murphy
Mrs. Tracy Davis
Mrs. Nancy Arant Williams
Ms. Susanne Lakin
(The Research) For their professional expertise, knowledge in their fields and valuable information, thanks to:
Ms. Joanna Pozzulo (Institute of Criminology and Criminal Justice)
Keith MacLellan M.D.
Officer Laura Meltzer (Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department)
Any procedural, geographical, or other errors pertaining to this story are of no fault to the names mentioned above, but entirely my own, as at times I took many creative liberties.
And last but not least, I’d like to thank you, the reader. You make it all worthwhile.
Book I
Mind Games
Chapter 1
Charlene Taylor sped onto Mount Olympus, gunning the engine. The old Volvo bellowed with each shift. Less than a hundred yards from the crime scene, she killed the headlights and coasted to a stop on the shoulder of the road, a row of luxury homes directly in front of her. The lashing rain fell even harder, beating her windshield as the wipers’ steady rhythm struggled to keep up.
She waited and watched, looking for anything out of place. A shiver coursed through her, though she didn’t know whether it was due to the cold November rain or what awaited her.
The radio squawked, startling her; dispatch was finally answering the call. The radio crackled with responses. Knowing that backup was on its way, she felt somewhat relieved…but only somewhat.
Dispatch had used the reverse 911 system to alert neighbors, making sure they stayed in their houses and kept their doors locked. It looked as if it had worked. Houses on both sides of the street appeared deserted.
Charlene continued to scope the area. Her cell phone chimed, and she pulled it out of her pocket.
“Taylor, I know what you’re thinking!” her partner, Detective Larry Baker, shouted into the phone. “Don’t do anything until I get there. Don’t even think about—”
She hit the end button and switched the ringtone to vibrate.
Police procedure dictated that she should wait for backup, but it wasn’t her style to sit around and wait. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t waiting. Her adrenaline was already kicking in.
She shut off the engine, got out, and drew her standard-issue Glock 22. After checking the clip, she crossed two soggy lawns. Chilly water squished into her shoes as they sank into sodden earth.
Nothing looked out of place in the neighborhood. No hazard signs. Still no sirens or flashing lights. LAPD average response time was 7.8 minutes, but up here, in the hills, it might take longer.
Was this his plan? Was this why he’d lured her up here with his clues?
Charlene stepped onto a cobblestone walkway and followed it between white marble pillars to a set of oak double front doors. She gripped the brass knocker and banged, listening as the noise echoed in the silent night air.
After counting twenty seconds, she checked around the outside edges of the door. No signs of forced entry.
She proceeded around the back, sweeping the ground with her flashlight. No shoeprints. No broken windows or anything else amiss. Of course, the violent rain would’ve washed away all trace evidence, if there had been any.
Thunder cracked overhead.
She returned to the front, using the knocker again but followed up with a firm rap. “LAPD, open the door!”
Where was her backup?
Going in was the wrong decision, one she was trained not to make. Procedure demanded that she: secure the area and wait for backup. She had always tried her best to play by the rules, but, as usual, the Celebrity Slayer dared her to break them. Why did he have this effect on her?
Ignoring her better judgment, she twisted the knob. Locked.
She had to get inside. Now. She knew the Celebrity Slayer—knew his inclinations. That’s what scared her. He had tipped her off to something.
Charlene pulled a set of lock picks from her pocket and worked the door, a skill she’d acquired from her father. Once she let herself inside, she quietly closed the door.
She searched the walls for a light switch, then flicked it, but nothing happened. Had the storm blacked out the neighborhood? She couldn’t remember if lights were on in nearby houses or not.
Fear crawled up her already-tingling spine. She listened for movement in another room or overhead—a squeaky door or creaky floorboard.
She shone the small light around the ground floor, methodically searching the corners. Nervous energy swept over her, and she bit the inside of her cheek, a Taylor trait that surfaced in an emotionally-charged situation.
She crossed the marble-tiled floor, taking a long hallway and entering the main room through an archway. It led to the stairwell, with a wide, curving staircase. She stayed close to the side of the stairs as she climbed, avoiding the middle, where most of the creaks would likely come from.
Upon reaching the top step, she moved to the landing and stopped. Waiting, gun pointed. Every crack, every creak, had her flinching, poised to fire. The gun swung from right to left, primed for an attack.
As her eyes readjusted to the darkness of the space, she sidestepped down the hall, gun extended, checking and clearing each room. She was drawn to the master bedroom. Always the bedroom.
The upstairs was quiet, deadly quiet, except for the ticking of a clock and the low hum of central air-conditioning.
Before entering the room, Charlene crouched just outside and stuck her head in. The blackness limited her vision, until her eyes could adjust. She stepped in tentatively, moving through the bedroom with caution, the only noise her short, shallow breaths. The back of her neck was soaked with sweat.
The scent of stale, metallic flesh assaulted her nostrils. She drew closer to the four-poster bed, its drapes pulled and tied, and saw the chenille bedspread soaked in red. Sick.
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She clenched the small flashlight between her teeth and held her breath as she searched for a pulse. None. The woman lay awkwardly, her satin robe flung open, revealing the ragged cut from a serrated blade. Her soft, milky white skin was now a mangled mound of flesh.
Charlene trailed her hand along the floor, and rubbed blood through the tips of her fingers—still warm. The victim had died only a short time ago. Was someone still in the house?
She stood and let out a breath, swallowing, stifling the urge to vomit.
After checking each upstairs room again, Charlene returned to the body and knelt. She made sure not to touch the victim again—the body was the most significant piece of evidence in any case. It never lied.
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the sting from hot tears of rage. A vibration on her hip brought her hand down instinctively. She hit the Talk button.
“Hi, Charlie.”
Him.
Charlene couldn’t speak; her throat tightened, but she didn’t end the call either. She choked on her breath, her stomach turning in knots.
It couldn’t be him. She had watched it happen in front of her own two eyes, months ago.
“I’ve missed you, Charlie.”
“You’re dead,” she whispered, her voice frail.
Charlene mentally processed the crime scene around her, registering facts before her colleagues arrived. But there would be no clues, no evidence. He was too smart for that. But there was no mistaking who had performed this heinous act—Darren Brady.
“Did you miss me, Charlie?” The killer let out a soft chuckle.
Charlene remained on the floor, like a lost child, seated with her legs crossed. Sirens approached the house, accompanied by the squeal of tires and car doors slamming. The police were too late.
She punched off her phone and stood, then crossed the room and opened the French doors that led to the second-floor balcony overlooking the front entrance. The bright-red flashing lights cascaded across the front lawn and into the upstairs bedroom as two more cruisers pulled up.
She let out her breath—the life of a cop. She had seen so much bloodshed in her short LAPD career. There were no days off. No wonder she had no social life to speak of, and her family life was on the rocks. She missed her dad.
The detective was about to call down to the troops, when a noise caught her attention. A light creak, barely audible, like a footstep behind her. Before she could turn around, a hand clamped down on her shoulder—
Chapter 2
Charlene jolted awake, her chest heaving, sweat glistening on her naked body. She threw off the damp sheets, kicking them away in panic, and rolled onto her stomach, tasting the salty dampness from her pillow.
She reached down and checked the time on her iPhone; it must have fallen from her hand onto the hardwood floor when she’d dozed off: 11:34 p.m. She shook her head, rolled off the futon and onto her feet, then slipped on a pair of men’s boxers.
Charlene made her way to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She looked in the mirror and shook her head again, this time for different reasons. She was thin, her rib cage visible, not as athletically fit as she had once been, and prominent bags lingered under her eyes.
But it wasn’t the physical changes that bothered her the most. She could handle them, because she had always been a motivated, hardworking cop who could will herself back into shape. No, it was much more than that.
After emptying her bladder, she stumbled back to the futon in the living room, her eyelids heavy, and threw herself down. She reached for the prescription bottles that waited tauntingly beside a bottle of warm beer on the floor.
Propranolol. Benzodiazepine. Fluoxetine. Paroxetine.
It had been months since her final showdown with Darren Brady, aka the Celebrity Slayer. Ever since that night, she’d been on a steady diet of antidepressants prescribed by Dr. Gardner, the LAPD psychiatrist. Sleep was now elusive.
She’d taken two months off after the ordeal, upon doctor’s orders, to recover and recuperate. She thought she was fine. In her mind, that night had only made her stronger—the intense confrontation, the near-death struggle with one of the most brutal serial killers in LA history. She had survived to tell about it, believing she had put it behind her. Until the flashbacks and nightmares started a couple of weeks ago. Why now?
She hadn’t told anyone about them, because if she did, she’d probably lose the promotion she had worked so hard to earn. The late Darren Brady simply would not leave her subconscious. As hard as she tried to eliminate her former LAPD colleague’s image from her mind, he still consumed her thoughts; apparently her scars were only superficially healed.
Brady had been a psychotic killer, someone who’d ruined her life, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
During the daytime she was fine, but the darkness haunted her. She wasn’t eating consistently, and her sleepless nights came in waves. Many people worried for her—loved ones, friends, and family. But there was only one person who could help her.
The doctor diagnosed it as PTSD, common among military veterans, brought on by a traumatic event. She had visited her own personal war in hell.
She had attended a month of psychological debriefings after the incident, a series of interviews meant to directly confront the event and share her feelings with Gardner and to help structure her memories of the event so that she felt more in control. She bullshitted her way through those, as she had done most of her life, learning strategies to avoid her father’s constant disapproval of her lifestyle. But Gardner had still prescribed the drugs, and she kept refilling the vials.
She continued weekly meetings with Gardner, but she had been cleared for full duty the previous month. It felt good to be back doing what she knew and loved. It felt real, and took her mind off other things. During the day.
Charlene checked her phone for missed calls, hoping that Andy had called while she slept, but he hadn’t. Andy, her on-again, off-again boyfriend, had permanently turned their relationship to “off” a few weeks after the Celebrity Slayer sequence of events.
She didn’t blame him. She was a basket case throughout the entire ordeal.
The relationship had probably ended long before that, but Andy had felt the need to stick around to support her after everything that happened, but eventually they both agreed to move on. She couldn’t say she was disappointed, because she hadn’t put in the effort to make it work.
She hadn’t been easy to get along with while battling demons and knew that he deserved better. She didn’t think she would care that much, but at night the loneliness seeped into her bones, and she missed his comforting presence.
Darren Brady had turned her life, her whole world, upside down.
She remembered the scene. Brady, someone she’d trusted as a cop, hovering over her, two hands holding a knife to her chest, ready to thrust down with a vengeance. She was seconds away from the plunge of the blade when her new partner came in and shot Brady point-blank.
Since that fateful moment, her professional life, her career, soared, while her personal life went in the opposite direction. She received accolades, high fives, back pats for bringing down the man known as the Celebrity Slayer. But her boyfriend had left, her family grew distant, and she hadn’t slept in months.
