Leona Jackson had fainted when Susan fired the gun. Later she told police she was sure the bullet had been meant for her although she had refrained from telling them the reason why she had feared her foster daughter wanted to kill her. Sophie had sat silent in the cop car, her heart aching and tears running down her face. She had gone straight to the house after finding the note but she had been too late. Her only consolation was that Susan had done it when the neighbors had been having a big party, Leona could not hide the girl’s body, though Sophie had no doubts she would have if she had the opportunity. Lord knew she had been hiding her husband’s sins for years, even as she sang in the choir while he preached every Sunday.
Some Sundays, sitting in the pews looking up at the two of them, Sophie had felt a murderous rage in her heart. She had not been the only one. They had rebelled by stealing: their clothes were few because they were not allowed more than those; they were required to know humility and to understand earthly goods were just that. That didn’t stop the Jackson’s from cashing the checks the foster system gave them every month and paying the payments on their Cadillac however, just one of their many hypocrisies.
They stole candy and sodas and small trinkets: hair bows and pretty bracelets they kept in their desks at school. As they got older they stole makeup and cigarettes. They stole beer and a car. The Jackson’s had beaten them bloody the night they had had to be bailed out of the Youth Detention Center over that escapade. As they had lain in bed Susan had sobbed that she wished they had just left her in there and Sophie had held her, wishing the same thing.
“You’re safe now,” Sophie said into Sassy’s hair. The little dog wagged her tail and gave a little sigh that could have been agreement.
Ten thousand dollars, the goal was closer than ever and she could feel hope starting up in her belly. It had been so long since she had felt it she was almost afraid of it. The apartment in the city was rented, she had a lot of job prospects and her record was finally clean. The last arrest she had gotten had happened two days after her eighteenth birthday, she had punched a guy who had grabbed her ass at the diner and he had pressed charges. Coupled with her lack of higher education and lack of skills that had been the final blow to her being able to get a better paying job.
“We can do anything we set our minds to,” she said to the warm lump on her lap, “And we are going to be happy.”
***
Kane paced the apartment, making sure not to step inside of the taped off spaces. The place was big for the city, at least a thousand square feet. It had a good view of exactly nothing except the building across the alley but the kitchen was full sized, another rarity in Manhattan, and decked out with quality chrome appliances. The refrigerator alone would have been worth a half month of his salary. Copper-bottomed pots and pans hung above the added-in island that did double duty as a breakfast bar.
The walls throughout had good, if not incredibly expensive paintings, the sofa and ottoman were leather and the bed was a tall oak number covered in designer sheets with a thread count numbering in the high hundreds.
“She had good taste,” Lynette Pierce, the Coroner said as she watched him prowl. “She was a model you say?”
Lynette pointed to a large framed print that hung on the bedroom wall. The woman in it was sultry, sulky. Her black hair hung over one incredibly green eye and her mouth was a vivid scarlet flash against the monochrome black and white. It was the face of someone living, not the battered remains of the women in the bathtub.
“Julia Storm, rising star. “ Lynette said softly, “He likes them young and beautiful.”
“Why do you think he takes their heads?”
“Trophies I suppose, “Kane replied.
Blake Forrester, his partner, gnawed on his toothpick and grunted out something that was too low for Kane to hear, or care about. If Blake ever got a single idea in his head he had yet to share it with the rest of the force. He had been a good cop once, or so the story went, but for the last five years he had just been watching the clock and marking time toward his retirement. Kane had never known the man before he went lazy, and he didn’t want to know him right then either, being partnered to him was like dragging a corpse around.
That analogy made him wince and he turned away, only to come face-to- face with the green eyed beauty again.
“I wonder how they got just her eyes and lips to show in color.”
Of all the things to wonder about at a murder scene, Kane thought. Nobody answered Blake’s question and he whistled as he leaned against the doorframe, his suit jacket flopping open to reveal a pudgy waist hanging over the top of his worn shiny slacks. A mustard stain marred his light blue shirt and his gun looked like it had gotten glued into his holster. Kane doubted that would be an issue, Forrester would likely drop dead of a heart attack if he tried to chase down a felon and he was too cowardly to put himself in the line of any kind of fire.
“She’s ready for transport.” Lynette said softly.
Kane gave her a smile; he appreciated her calm demeanor and her sympathy for the people who came into her life. She never referred to them as “the vics” or worse, “the stiffs” like some did.
“Good, I’m f**king starving, let’s get some lunch.”
“Do you think it’s possible he has a heart below the surface?” Lynette asked, wincing.
“I doubt it,” Kane replied, watching Forrester’s rapidly disappearing back, “I think his heart left the job years ago.”
***
Sophie walked into the small bookstore with a determined smile, and her completed application. She peered into the gloom, looking for the desk, which seemed to have been moved from the place it had occupied before. Closer inspection revealed it had simply been buried under books.
“Hello?” She called nervously, “Anyone here?”
A frizzled mess of solid white curls surrounding an oddly cherubic and yet dour face popped out from behind a long shelf. “Depends on what you want.”
“I brought the application back.”
The man stalked toward her and she had to suppress a giggle, his body was incredibly long and so thin he looked as if he had a terminal case of tapeworm. His malicious elven face seemed even more incongruous atop that frame. Dust motes buzzed his head and he sneezed explosively.
“Damn dust!” He roared. “I just hit up a fabulous auction in the Berkshires. Got a lot of good books. And an armoire. The armoire’s shit but some of the books are pretty good. Except for that entire collection of Barbara Cartland that I got. Those bastards tucked a few moldering paperbacks I actually enjoyed reading on the top and wouldn’t let anyone dig through the box. Cost me fifteen dollars. If you say you like her I will fire you.”
“You haven’t hired me,” Sophie pointed out.
“Well aren’t you the stickler,” he muttered as he pulled inch thick glasses over his light blue eyes and glared down at her application. “Nice penmanship.”
“Thank you.” Sophie wanted the job badly, there were very few people she liked on sight but she liked him. Besides, she was tired of working in diners and pubs, she had enough money to get by for a while as long as she was working and she could feel a warm feeling in her belly as he gave her another long look.
“Tell me, are you a model?”
“What? No.”
“You could be, but not if you want to work here; ditto for actress, singer, band member, mime or any other variation of those things. I need someone who is going to work, period. There will be no running off for open cattle calls or getting calls from agents who just landed you an audition that will get you into the role you have been waiting for your whole life.”
“I haven’t been waiting for anything my whole life.” Her voice held sincerity.
“Hmm, I see. What was the last book you read?”
“It was a collection of short stories by Eudora Welty, I just finished them last night.”
“Death of a Traveling Salesman was always one of my favorites. You’re hired. I’m Goeff Fisher; your pay is twelve bucks an hour, thirty hours a week. I can’t go higher than that. I’m so g*y I make Liberace look straight so don’t think your charms will get you a raise or even a day off that wasn’t scheduled, unless it is an emergency. Are we clear?” She nodded. “Good, your first job is to do something with those damn Cartland novels.”
“What do you need me to do with them?”
“I don’t really care what you do with them, as long as I never have to see them again.” He pointed to a dusty cardboard box and vanished once again, muttering something about forms needing to be filled out.
Sophie glanced out at her car, parked at the curb. She toted the box out and hurled it into her backseat, closed the door and dusted off her hands, grinning with satisfaction.
The warm spring air had brought green to the leaves of the trees that stood in the tiny park across the avenue. Pigeons by the hundreds pecked along the red bricks, gobbling down the crumbs from hot dogs and knishes. She stood there for a few moments, engrossed by the street scene and the way people ate as they walked, nonchalantly stuffing pretzels and other foods into their mouths with one hand, their other hand on their phones or holding shopping bags.
“Are you running away?” Geoff asked from the doorway. “Tell me now because these tax forms are an absolute bitch and if I don’t have to bother I would rather not.”
“Absolutely not.” Sophie replied with a flash of a smile, and went back into the shop.
***
The eyes looked right past him, avoiding his stern gaze. He stood there nak*d, letting them all see him for what he was. A television droned in the background, its hazy dull light flickering between scenes, and he moved so that they could see the latest news report. Of course he was once again being featured. The Creeper.
The name made him laugh, bringing to mind a nineteen thirties villain. It was outlandish and yet it fit, he crept up on his victims. They never saw him coming until it was too late.
He stroked himself, feeling his organ swelling under his fingertips. The eyes now watched him and he began to work his hand faster, squeezing his groin fiercely. The doorbell suddenly rang, a strident squeal that instantly broke his concentration, interrupting his maddening desire to cli**x. His hand came away slightly sticky from pre ejaculation and he cursed.
The blue-eyes seemed to smirk at his predicament and he stopped himself just in time, his hands itched to rip those eyes right out of her head.
Buttoning his fly he left his trophy room, calling out to the person ringing his bell to hold on.
***
Kane leaned against the kitchen counter in his apartment, surveying the place with a critical eye. It was a one bedroom in the East Village, a third floor walkup. He had moved in after he had broken up with Janelle, his girlfriend of four years. That had been two years earlier, and he had never really bothered to unpack most of his things: cardboard boxes sat against the walls, his desk was cluttered with papers and photographs of crime scenes, the couch was a long lumpy thing that had come with the place and bore the stains of too many previous owners and the bed was not much better.