Psycho, page 11
Adam snorted. “Seriously?”
Once more, Noah cut his eyes to Adam, giving him a look. “Yes, of course, we will.”
“Thank you,” August said again, talking directly to Noah that time.
Once he was back in his car, he called Calliope.
She answered on the second ring. “Oh, this is a treat, I never hear from you.” There was a second of hesitation, and then she hurriedly asked, “Wait. Everybody’s okay, right? You’re not calling to tell me anybody’s dead. Right?”
“What? No. Do you think I’d be the person they sent to deliver a death announcement?”
“I mean, if everybody else was dead, maybe?” she countered.
“If my family had been slaughtered, it probably wouldn’t occur to me to call anybody to tell them so.”
“Wow, I’m honored.”
It didn’t take a genius to hear the sarcasm dripping from her words. “I need a favor.”
“What’s up, buttercup?”
August should have done this yesterday, but he’d gotten…sidetracked. “I need you to do a deep dive on a man named Laurence Kohn.”
There was the sound of nails tapping over keys. “I’m assuming it‘s not the ninety-year-old Larry Kohn in a nursing home in Boca.”
August frowned. “No.”
Calliope snorted. “Well, I hope it’s not the other one because that guy’s a fucking FBI agent.”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” August assured her.
“Oh, come on. You guys are punking me, right? You can’t really be asking me to hack the FBI?”
August didn’t have time for this. “The man is a serial killer. He has an unknown partner. There’s a chance he’s actively holding and torturing women right now.”
“What am I looking for?” Calliope said around a sigh.
“Kohn is here in town. I need to know what he’s doing here, how long he intends to stay, and who he’s been in contact with while he’s been here. He’s still got a badge, so he’s either on special assignment or he’s relocated. If he’s relocated, there’s a good chance he’s already hunting women in our area.”
“What’s his MO?”
“In New Mexico, he was hunting on the reservations. Indigenous girls and women. There’s no reservation near us, but it’s clear he’s looking for vulnerable populations. So, I’d start with high risk girls. But they’re not going to be easy to track when sex workers and addicts disappear daily.”
Calliope’s voice was grim. “Yeah, I’m on it. How deep a dive do you want?”
August gripped the steering wheel hard. “When you’re done, I want you to know more about him than his proctologist.”
“Done. I’ll get back to you when I have anything.”
With that, she was gone. August felt somewhat better knowing Calliope was tracking Kohn and Adam and Noah were watching over Lucas.
He doubted Lucas would feel the same way.
August liked to think of himself as a feminist. He didn’t really care about the sex organs of who was on the other end of his wrath as long as they deserved it. And Dorothy Bryer deserved it. She was the worst kind of monster, in August’s opinion. One entrusted to care for children, both others and her own.
She looked innocent enough. If anybody saw her tied to the metal folding chair, they would most definitely think August was the bad guy. Which he was. But she was so much worse. She was sweating through her Lululemon leggings and matching crop top, her ponytail bobbing as she shouted muffled curses at him from behind her heavily duct-taped mouth.
They usually panicked when the instruments came out. That was when they knew this wasn’t something they were going to charm, bribe, or scream their way out of. They knew they’d been found out. Dorothy, though… She wasn’t scared, she was furious. She looked two seconds away from asking for August’s manager.
Just for kicks, he pulled the tape from her mouth. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
She huffed out a breath through her nose. “I said, ‘Do you have any idea who I am? Who my husband is? You’ve just kidnapped the wrong bitch, asshole.”
August did know who her husband was. Reggie Bryer. Real Estate Mogul. August knew everything about Dorothy because she documented her every thought and feeling online, using social media to garner sympathy over her sick or dead children. Lamenting her shitty genetics or terrible luck. Asking God why he would keep taking her children from her.
“Does your husband have any idea who you are?” August asked, running his fingers along the surgical instruments laid out on the sterile metal table.
There it was—the barest hint of fear, a momentary panic they could never hide no matter how devoid of feeling they might be. “Excuse me?”
August grabbed a scalpel, holding it up to the light. “Does your husband know what you did to his children? What you keep doing to his children?”
“You’re sick. How dare you bring up my children. You can’t even imagine the hell I’ve been through. My life is a nightmare.”
With that, she began to weep, real tears streaming down her face. August grabbed the other metal folding chair, loudly scraping it across the concrete before he sat before her, straddling the back as he faced her. “You can skip the theatrics, Dorothy. I’m immune to tears or crying or begging. It just gives me a headache.”
She sniffed delicately. “You’re a fucking monster.”
“I know you are, but what am I,” August chided, slowly dragging the scalpel across her cotton covered forearm. She didn’t even scream, just hissed as the blood bloomed across her snowy white top. She glared at him now, her tears disappearing as fast as they appeared. “That was expensive, you dick.”
August thought this would be fun, but Dorothy was just proving to be tedious. “Funerals are expensive, too, but you seem to love planning those. Ironic since black’s not really your color.”
She strained against the duct tape around her wrists, working them this way and that. He let her tire herself out. When she flounced back against the chair, she glowered at him. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
“Why do you do it?” August asked, ignoring her question.
“Do what?”
“Kill them? Hurt them? Drown them, smother them… Why kill poor, defenseless children?”
“I didn’t! Both of my children were born sickly. No matter how many doctors they saw or treatments they tried, nothing worked. Why are you doing this to me? I was a good mother.”
“Both your children were born sick?” August asked, feigning interest.
“Yes. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t know what you’ve heard but I swear, I loved my children. I was a good mom to both of them. Please, you have to believe me.”
August jerked to his feet and he watched her recalibrate. She thought the tides had turned, that she’d somehow gotten the upper hand. He walked to the table and grabbed the small pile sitting on its surface. When he was sitting down, he held up a photo. A little girl of about four. “Is this the child you loved? The one you were such a good mother to?”
“Yes. Look at her,” she sobbed.
August tossed the picture at her, watching it flutter into her lap. “She died of an overdose of allergy medication.”
“That’s not what the coroner said,” she snapped, mouth tightening into a hard line.
“And this child? Your son, Hunter. Six years old. Did you love him, too?”
“Of course, I did.”
“Yet, you sat on his chest and held a pillow over his face.”
Her eyes grew wide, then narrowed as she sneered. “You can’t prove that.”
“Did you know there were fibers found in his throat? Something else the coroner just overlooked.”
“You’re insane.”
“Let’s say that I believed you. That you loved your two children and it was just bad luck and bad genes that took them out. Say I did believe you…”
He stood. Holding up another photo, another child. “Children have a bad habit of dying around you, Dorothy. Did they have bad genes, too? Benny Ortega, ten months old, Harry Beckett, age three, Ginger Dunnigan, age five, Flora Eckerd, age two.” As he listed each child, he tossed the picture on her lap. In all, there were ten children that they knew about, and probably several they didn’t.
She wasn’t talking any longer, just seething. She was clearly a psychopath like him. She had no guilt or remorse. She was a shark, cold and calculating. She was already trying to pivot, to plot her next move. Part of him wanted to keep playing with her. He’d thought to torture her slowly, wanting her to feel the fear and anxiety her children must have felt, betrayed by the one person they should have been able to trust above all.
But it would be unfulfilling. She was just an empty husk, barely a person. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He replaced the knife on the tray and reached into his pocket. Lucas.
“One moment,” August said to Dorothy. He swiped to answer, “What’s wrong?”
Before Lucas could say anything, Dorothy began to shout. “Help me! Help! Please, he’s a fucking murderer!”
August sighed, setting his phone down to slap the duct tape back over her mouth. She was back to violently cussing him out. She might be his first victim to chew her way past the gag.
He picked his phone up once more. “Is everything alright?”
“Why is there a woman screaming bloody murder in the background?” Lucas asked.
“Because she’s a drama queen,” August said, causing an increase in the muffled voice behind him.
“Are you…killing a woman?”
“I’m killing a child murderer who happens to be a woman. It’s the twenty-first century, darling. Equal rights and all that. Now, did you call me to yell at me for killing a woman?”
Lucas gave a huge sigh. “No. I called to yell at you for sending your brother and his boyfriend to babysit me.”
August frowned. “Why? What’s the problem? Is Adam being a dick? You get used to it, I promise.”
“It’s not that.” August noted that wasn’t a no. “I just think it’s unnecessary and more than a little embarrassing.”
“I told you this morning that I wasn’t going to leave you by yourself after what happened with that stupid Post-it note. Noah will keep my brother under control, and I’ll be there soon. She’s no fun anyway.”
A sound like a shriek tore August’s attention from Lucas, his head turning just in time to see Dorothy snag the scalpel and swing it wildly. August watched as the sleeve of his black shirt grew wet. August stepped out of her way. “Gotta go,” he said, slipping the phone back in his pocket just as Dorothy hit the ground hard.
Her ankles were still firmly tied to the folding chair’s legs. That didn’t stop her, though. She dragged the chair along as she Army crawled towards August. He cut a wide path around her, coming up behind her like he was approaching a rattlesnake. He placed one booted foot on the hand holding the scalpel, feeling a bit of excitement when she screamed. He’d probably broken her fingers.
“You know,” he started, leaning down to snatch the scalpel from her now useless fingers. “I’ve been really looking forward to our time together. I could be at home with my boyfriend right now, eating dinner and probably having sex. Instead, I came here to kill you, something I’ve fantasized about doing since I found out you even existed. But I have to be honest, you’ve really taken the fun out of this.” He put a knee into her back, yanking her head back by her ponytail. “See you in hell, Dorothy.”
“Oh, fuck y—” The scalpel cut through her skin like butter, severing her carotid artery and spraying August with warm blood. He sighed, pulling off a glove to reach into his pocket and grab his phone once more, this time dialing Adam.
“Are you almost here? I think your boyfriend hates me.”
“You are rather unlikeable. I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Can you leave Noah with Lucas for an hour and come help me clean up a crime scene?”
Adam groaned. “That Dorothy chick? I thought you were just gonna drown her and toss her in the river?”
“Yeah, well, she turned out to be a lot more trouble than predicted.”
“They usually are,” Adam commiserated. “How bad is the clean up?”
“Arterial spray bad.”
“Oh, come on, man. I hate wet work. Call Archer. Or Atticus. He owes us after the hatchet incident.”
August rolled his eyes. Adam was so lazy sometimes. “It was a meat cleaver. Besides, Archer is still at his poker tournament in Vegas, and Atticus is introducing Dad at that Man of the Year thing.”
“How many times can Dad win that thing?” Adam grumbled.
“As long as he keeps being hot and rich. All those old ladies on the committee love him. Are you coming or not?”
“Yeah, fine. Like I said, I don’t think your new man likes me anyway.”
August grinned. “I told you he’s smart.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there in thirty. Gotta swing by Dad’s to grab the van.”
“I’ll text you my location. Oh, and tell Lucas I’ll be a little late with dessert.”
Adam didn’t respond, just groaned and disconnected the phone. August grimaced as he looked down at the pale face of Dorothy Bryer.
He couldn’t believe he’d given up dinner with Lucas for this.
Lucas felt like a child. He was thirty-three years old, sitting on a couch, while a kid barely old enough to buy beer babysat him. Lucas wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he thought of August’s family, but it wasn’t his supermodel brother or his freckle-faced, cherubic boyfriend.
His anxiety spiked when he overheard Adam’s side of his and August’s conversation, especially when Adam grabbed his keys and smacked a kiss on Noah’s forehead, promising to come get him as soon as they were finished cleaning up ‘the mess.’ What mess? Was August okay? Adam hadn’t seemed concerned, more annoyed and slightly amused.
Lucas hadn’t asked. Adam wasn’t much of a talker anyway. Noah, on the other hand, seemed like he’d been waiting for an opportunity to get Lucas alone.
As soon as the door closed, he turned towards him, pulling his knee up on the sofa and leaning closer. “You get used to it.”
Lucas frowned. “Get used to what?”
Noah waved a hand. “The weirdness. The possessiveness. The acting like we’re incapable of taking care of ourselves. I have to constantly remind myself that Adam only does it because it’s his only way of showing he’s concerned about my wellbeing.”
Lucas frowned. “August doesn’t have any reason to be concerned about my wellbeing. We’ve known each other for less than a week.”
Noah snorted. “You act like time matters to the Mulvaney boys. It doesn’t. They’re like animals. Once they’ve locked onto a scent they like, whether it’s been ten seconds or ten years, you’re theirs. August won’t allow you to walk away from him. I know that sounds scary, but being around the family is…never boring. And nobody will protect you like they do.”
“Don’t I have a say in this at all?” Lucas asked, trying to maintain Noah’s casual tone.
A fond smile spread across Noah’s face. “He’ll tell you that you do. Thomas has drilled societal niceties into all of them—and they know this behavior isn’t right—but it’s like putting a fresh coat of paint directly over a cracked one. Eventually, the original stuff begins to…push through. You know?”
Lucas had seen it time and again as a profiler. Compulsions couldn’t be tamed or forgotten. Sometimes, even years of therapy was no match for the incessant, gnawing need to enact the most depraved fantasies. Eventually, the person had to meet that need and that was when things got messy. But August met that need regularly… Did that make him better?
“What do you think of him? August, I mean,” Lucas finally asked.
Noah’s gaze slid away from Lucas. “He’s funny… Intense. He tries really hard.”
That was an accurate representation of August. Intense, funny, but also charming and passionate. It made Lucas smile just thinking about August scrawling silly sayings on his morning coffee cup.
“But you like that, though, huh?”
Lucas’s gaze jerked up to see Noah studying him intently. “What?”
“You like being the object of August’s attention.” Lucas started to protest, but Noah shrugged. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I get it. Believe me, nobody understands where you’re coming from better than me. Adam is intense in his own way, but he looks at passing as a normal person as a game. He slides in and out of being the bored socialite and the relentless vigilante seamlessly. August…not so much.”
This time, it was Lucas who leaned in. “Why do you think that is?”
Noah thought about it. “I think, when you have a brain as big as August’s, it’s hard to remember the little things and, to him, it’s all little things. That’s why he smiles when he’s not supposed to and then it slips away. That’s when he’s recalling his training from Thomas. So, it makes him seem off.”
The thought of August trying so hard tugged at something inside Lucas. Was he really feeling sorry for a murderer? “He told me he likes it. Likes torturing people.”
Noah’s tongue darted out to lick over his lower lip. “Does that freak you out?”
“It should, right? I should be horrified by it. I used to hunt guys like him, ruthless killers who enjoyed what they did. August isn’t a good guy, not by any standard. Any normal person would run screaming in the opposite direction.”
Noah shrugged. “You can’t be normal and be with a Mulvaney. It’s just not possible. They live equally extreme yet polar opposite lives. They have to be the over-achieving sons of a billionaire one minute and calculating, cold-blooded killers the next. There’s no room for screw-ups because the consequences would be a domino effect, ruining everything Thomas has tried to accomplish and landing all of them in prison. Maybe me, too.”
“You kill people, too?” Lucas asked point-blank.
Noah’s chin jutted forward, his expression guarded, almost antagonistic. “I killed a person, yeah. A man who raped me repeatedly before I was old enough to write my own name. I made it hurt, too. Made him suffer. And no, I didn’t lose a second’s sleep over it. Maybe that makes me a psychopath, too.”
