Drop Dead Perfect (An Ellen Harper Psycho-Thriller) (12 page)

He lingered another minute then gently dropped the small door into place. He felt his heartbeat stir to the next level as he headed out of the small ten-by-ten room and started for the
stairs. It was time for her to meet the real him and, in a sense, for him to meet the real her. No games, no yuppie-type façade, no coffee shop games or bar scenarios. Just people meeting people.

“Are you ready, my darling? Are you ready to embrace your destiny?”

He smiled. He hoped so. Really hoped so.

He’d waited far too long for his.

CHAPTER-20

Ellen stood in the doorway of her second bedroom that served as a
studio for her ultimate escape: painting. She watched as Kate carefully ran her hand over an almost-complete rendition of the sparkling Chicago skyline, just barely touching it. Kate was like this every time she walked into Ellen’s studio, almost gentle in her approach to the art, appreciative. It was of no consequence to Kate whether Ellen’s work hung on the wall, still awaited final touches on one of the three easels lined up in a perfect row, or was under the black tarp where Ellen discarded the creations she deemed pure, unadulterated shit. Kate loved all of it.

“You got to get a gallery show for this stuff, Ellie. You keep gettin’ better and better,” said Kate without looking
away from the painting.

“You say that every time you come here. This isn’t gallery material. Besides, I do this to get in touch with sanity, not to give others something to tear apart, like those jerk-off critics love to do. I’d just end up smacking one of
them anyway.”

“For a smart chick, you don’t know goose shit from apple butter now, do ya? This stuff is goooood. No, better than good. You got talent, girl. And maybe some of those little sissy boys and shiny girls runnin’ those galleries could use a good smackin’. Bring them to their senses. God’s word says to not spare the rod. I like that part.”

“Goose shit from apple butter? That’s new. Anyway . . . we can talk about this later. Detective Brice Rogers is on his way over. We’ve got our first task-force meeting this morning. Plus, I need to get to the lab to look at the evidence collected at . . . at Oscar’s . . . site.”

Oscar’s site. It sounded so cold. All through her shower and two cups of coffee, even
during a quick snuggle time with the enigmatic Mulder, who occasionally allowed such foolery, she’d staved off the scene that pounded at her eyes, her mind, and worst of all, her heart.

Good God in
Heaven, she was going to miss that boy. His work, his face, even his incessant ragging.

Don’t know what you got until it’s gone.

And why were the evidence bags from Holly Seabrook’s scene missing? Did that have to do with Oscar’s death or was there something else?

She shifted her feet, staring at them as she did. Figuring all this out was burning a new imprint in her psyche. She felt her very soul grow just a little colder, a little harder. Murder happened all of the time, everywhere on this sick-ass planet, but not to her people, not to people she had coffee with and spent holidays with, and confided in. Murder didn’t happen there, in her circle. It wasn’t allowed. So how had this happened?

His open, unseeing eyes would haunt her, but not like when they’d been filled with life, when those eyes had sparkled with all of the energy he’d brought to the table. Her table.

She tugged at one of her earrings and inhaled. There was only one way to ease that pain, at least some. She was going to catch whoever was responsible for his death. And if there was any justice in the universe, she'd be there when they cuffed the perp, or perps. Better yet, maybe the perp would give the Chicago Police Department a reason to protect themselves. She wasn’t opposed to letting the Beretta bark. Not at all.

“Hey. You still here?” asked Kate, moving away from the skyline painting and over to the next one.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Just need to get to work. That’s all.”

“You’ve been through hell. Work can be a great healer. I can see how it must be terribly exciting to look through those fancy electronic microscopes at bugs, dirt, blood, fibers, and the like until your eyes bug out. Mm-mm. I don’t think I could contain myself. Probably better than emptying a sixteen-shot clip on a target at the range. Hell, probably better than sex,” said Kate, her eyes dancing.

Ellen smiled
, despite the weight of the world. “Stick it, Kate. I never said I wasn’t a geek. And what the hell is that other thing you mentioned? Sex? What is that?”

“You’re a little old for me to explain it to you, don’t you think?”

“Oh, help me. You giving The Talk? Really? Talk about giving a kid nightmares.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Ellen felt her heart jump a little. She still wasn’t totally clear as to why she reacted the way she did when Brice was near. Well, maybe she was, but infatuations were not on the agenda today.

“Saved by the knock on the door. But you can hold that thought,” said Ellen, as she left the room.

Opening the door, she focused on Chicago
PD’s version of Superman. Okay, more like feasted on him. His suit fit like it was supposed to, and the blue tie set off his eyes and her imagination. She quickly recovered. Almost.

Brice smiled, his iceman persona apparently on sabbatical for the moment.

“Ready for this?”

“Yes. Let me get my jacket.”

She grabbed her brown blazer, stroked the unknowable Mulder as he came to see who was at the door, and nodded to Kate as her friend walked out of the painting room.

“Lock up when you leave, and we’ll talk later, okay?”

“Got it, Ellie.”

Kate gave her another bear hug and whispered in her ear, “That boy’s hot. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Ellen stepped back and rolled her eyes. “Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

After a few minutes of stop and go in Chicago’s infamous rush-hour traffic, Brice broke the almost-awkward silence. “I, ah, sort of want to apologize for some of my behavior last night. I have a tendency to take charge and get into protection mode when the shit hits the fan.”

“I noticed. But at least you had my back, and I appreciate that.”

He nodded, opened his mouth to speak again, and seemed to think better of it.

“What?” asked Ellen, her eyes glued to that face of faces.

“I
. . . I . . . you know, we’ll talk about it later, maybe. I want you to know why I do what I do, but I’ll wait.”

She shrugged to display an indifference she didn’t feel. Her insides tumbled to think that he might want to confide in her. Then again, she wasn’t sure she was ready for that either.

She nodded, turning back to him, and saw the final remnants of a glance—he was checking her out. She wondered if the warmth she felt was visible on her cheeks.

“Suit yourself. I’d listen,” she said, smiling.

“Thanks,” he answered, almost shyly.

And she thought Mulder was tough to figure out.

“So I've not been involved in one of these task-force meetings. What goes on?” she asked.

Brice exhaled, seemingly relieved to change the subject. Her curiosity rose a notch. What was he keeping to himself that invoked such emotion?

“It’ll be intense. This killer has one of those unique signatures that scares the hell out of cops. He’s organized. Goes about what he does seemingly unnoticed. Has a purpose. That much I know. We’ll need everything on this. The FBI will bring one of their Behavioral Analysis Units to help with reviewing the evidence. They’ll try to come up with a profile after they get all of the forensic input and then any info we can get from canvassing the areas where the bodies were found.”

“That’s another thing. Why would someone take the evidence bags from the SUV?” asked Ellen.

“I don’t know. I know what it looks like, but it could be just some crazy coincidence. Someone taking time to screw with the cops. It happens all of the time.”

“Maybe. Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that wasn’t the case. That would mean that the killing of the two young women had something to do with Oscar’s shooting, wouldn’t it?”

He frowned. “Again, that’s not likely, but yeah. If the two cases are related, we’ve got more on the table than we bargained for. Far more.”

Her mind raced with possibilities, and she hadn’t even been to the lab yet. All she had was the fieldwork observations, the pictures on her camera, and the victims’ cell phones in her evidence case. That reminded her of the question Brice had been in the process of answering when the call came in regarding Oscar’s shooting.

“Last night, you were about to tell me what you thought the symbolism of the buried phones might mean, other than some kind of memorial or funeral set up.”

The light turned red and he turned her way, his expression even more perplexed.

“I’ve been thinking about that even more. What if the killer thinks that he’s going through some kind of final separation? That somehow things didn’t work out with him and his women.”

Ellen felt the dread drape her right to the core. “You mean like a divorce?”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

CHAPTER-21

The two men stood at the entrance of the door, each with a black piece of satin cloth gripped in their hands. They mirrored grins that were eerily similar. Kyle Black nodded at the other man, his grin growing wider.

“Are you ready for this, Damon?”

The other man, the exact height and weight as Kyle, tilted his head and looked at his brother. “I’ve been ready for this my whole life. You know the saying that the heart wants what the heart wants? Well, this is my version of that.”

“Good to hear. She’s beautiful. Everything we could have hoped, she is. She’s different than the others somehow,” said Kyle.

“I know you’re right. I’ve seen her.”

“I thought you were going to wait?” asked Kyle, trying to mask his displeasure.

“I . . . I couldn’t help myself. Don’t be angry. I only wanted to see her.”

“It’s all right. I’d probably do the same.”

“It didn’t turn out the way we’d hoped with the other two, so I was curious.”

“You’re right. It didn’t.”

Damon glanced at the floor, his tone subdued. “I loved them, you know. They were both perfect. If only they’d—”

“They’d what? Loved you back? Listened to what you had to say about trusting you, living forever with you?”
taunted Kyle, a tinge of bitterness and less-than-subtle anger creeping into his voice.

Damon scanned the other man’s face. “Yes. That was part of it. But there was something more required, and you know it.”

“And what was that, Damon? I want to hear you say it.”

“Honesty,” he whispered. “I only wanted honesty. Is it unreasonable to expect the love of your life, the perfect love of your life, to be honest? To tell the truth, always? I think not.”

Kyle put his hand on Damon’s shoulder, his eyes growing kind.

“You’re right. It’s not. After all of the shit we had to put up with from high school through college, then struggling to get a job worthy of what we could bring to the table, it makes sense to think we’re worthy of that much. No more lies, no more condescending asshole bosses to make us feel small,
and no more women who don’t deserve us. Just the truth. I think that’s fair. We’re entitled to it because we’re special, Damon. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I try not to, and I know you’re right. We are. We are.”
He nodded his head emphatically up and down, up and down, up and down.

Kyle pulled the black cloth over his head and nodded. “No more delays. Let’s see what we have. Well, what
you
have. Joannie Carmen is yours, and I might add, you’re a lucky man.”

Damon smiled a crooked smile and then followed Kyle’s lead and pulled his mask over his head.

“Thank you. I couldn’t agree more, brother.”

CHAPTER-22

“About damn time you two got your asses here. It’s eight ’o one and late is not an option,” growled Big Harv.

“Sorry, sir. Traffic was worse than usual,” answered Brice as the two of them found empty seats near his partner, Bella Sanchez. Sanchez gave a sour look and rolled her eyes. Ellen ignored her, for now. She had a quick thought that another ass kicking might be in store for Sanchez, the pompous cow, but she shelved it. Later.

The main conference room in the Chicago PD headquarters was less than modern with the main culprit being the huge, semi-warped table in the center of all of the activities. It was probably the best money could buy thirty years ago, and budget cuts said it might have to last another thirty. The chairs weren’t much better. The unpadded, blond wooden frames had faded to something resembling a gray, wet Chicago morning rather than stylish furniture for Chicago’s finest. There were few signs of modern times. At least post 2K.

A large projection screen and four older computers, along with four speakerphones, were spread evenly over the length of the table. The only other notables in the rustic chamber were the profile pictures of the long line of Chicago police commissioners, wrapping around the pale walls at the front of the room.