City of Fire (30 page)

“I’m standing here trying to convince you, Lena. And I can’t even convince myself. I’ve got a problem calling this a suicide, too. Teresa Lopez and Nikki Brant were murdered in their homes. Jane Doe wasn’t. Why?”

“That’s one question,” she said.

“I wanted to retire in peace. I wanted to turn my badge in and get rid of my gun. Trade it all in for a life where a guy like me didn’t have to watch his back and might even sleep with both eyes closed. It was sort of a dream I had. Make a clean break. Walk away from all this with the feeling that in spite of my fuckups, I closed most of my cases and did a decent job no matter who the victim was.”

She had been thinking the same thing. That if they opened the box, what they found inside would rattle its tail, hunt them down, and bite back.

Novak flashed a sad grin. “You said you were playing phone tag with Holt. Any idea what he wanted?”

She shook her head. “That’s the other question.”

He turned back and gave her a long look. “If what we’re thinking is true, then someone’s chalked up two murders on Romeo’s account and made a move on our case. They’re fucking with us. If we’re wrong, then Romeo’s picking up speed and we’re chasing another phantom just like James Brant. Either way, we’re in the weeds and the shit just got a whole lot deeper.”

HE had spent the last hour watching Burell do Harriet on a towel beneath the gas heaters by the pool. She didn’t appear tired or cold. And it didn’t look as if she had taken her eggplant lasagna home and hit the sheets early.

Instead, Harriet was here, servicing the motherfucker and cooing like a tweety bird.

In the beginning, Fellows couldn’t watch. When he first realized that it was her, truly her, he turned away thinking he might puke. For a moment, maybe. For a second or two. But then he turned back, riveted to the spectacle, his eyeballs superglued.

The world could be a terrifying place, he thought. What people did to each other to get what they wanted. What they needed to chill.

Fellows knew full well that he had experienced these kinds of emotions before. And that over the years he had become an expert at regaining his composure. A master at tapping his enormous inner strength. Perched on the hill in the backyard, he found a place to hide that sported an uncensored view. And as he watched Burell remove Harriet’s clothing, as he looked at her naked body in the light of the moon, as he witnessed the dirty old man kiss and fondle his beloved Harriet’s young and voluptuous breasts, Fellows remained motionless. Not one muscle twitched. Not a single bone stirred. Just that wretched feeling in his stomach. His juices churning like a storm trying to break through his rib cage but bridled by his oversize will.

He watched and listened, recording every detail in his head. The images had been so vivid that he knew he would never forget them and had no need to write anything down. Burell fucking Harriet. Harriet fucking Burell. It was a spectacle that cut through. And when Burell finally entered her from behind as if a dog, when Fellows heard Harriet moan with pleasure and thought the sky was falling and the world might end, he was grateful for one thing and one thing only. His friend and spotter didn’t have to see this. Finn was keeping watch somewhere in the front yard.

He took a deep breath, replaying the images in his head as he watched Burell remove his stupid wig and serve Harriet a glass of red wine. Even from this distance he could make out the label and knew that it was from a cheap, $3 bottle on sale at Trader Joe’s. When the show finally ended, Burell rose to his feet quickly and grabbed a robe while Harriet lingered on the towel. Fellows was replaying the image because he found it so disturbing. That look of disappointment on her face. He could tell that she hadn’t wanted Burell to leave her so quickly and guessed that she wanted to be held.

He could feel his heart pounding as Burell ignored her. His blood reaching a rapid boil as she finally picked herself up and limped over to the chair. The wince of pain on her face as she reached for her clothes.

Fellows was thinking about that copy of her employment records he’d stolen from the office. Her medical history that was attached to page two. Although Harriet’s legs were breathtaking, one was shorter than the other by more than an inch. The aberration wasn’t a birth defect but the result of an operation after breaking her leg as a teenager. When Fellows had asked about her condition, she told him that she fell down a flight of stairs. Maybe it was the glint in her eye when she talked about the accident. Perhaps it was the way she always tried to change the subject that triggered his doubts. In either case, and after probing her as delicately as he could, Fellows came to believe that Harriet had been pushed. Even worse, the most likely suspect was her father,
whom she never mentioned and no longer talked to. He knew that she grew up in a strict religious family. That the setting was rural Nebraska, and as a child, Harriet was rarely allowed to play with her friends from school. After learning about her double life on Burell’s Web site, the picture seemed complete and he felt certain that she had been sexually abused.

He checked his watch. It was getting late. When he turned back to the house, he could see Harriet finishing her wine and heading for the stairs. Burell didn’t offer her another. Nor did he follow her up the steps. Like most animals, once he had taken advantage of her weaknesses, once he’d used her body and played with her head, all he wanted to do was move on. It was the law of the jungle. He had marked his territory and returned to the mundane. He was rolling up cable and putting the camera away.

The light from Harriet’s car brushed against the neighbor’s house. As the sound of the engine evaporated into the night, he spotted a familiar face in the side yard. It was Finn, motioning with a wave that the coast was clear. When his friend and spotter jogged back into the front yard, Fellows rose from his hiding place at the top of the hill.

He glanced at his clothing folded neatly on the ground. He could feel his muscles percolating. The cool midnight breeze breaking against his shaved skin. He rocked his head back and forth, rebooting his brain and shaking the blood in his arms.

It would be a mercy killing, he decided. A moral calling. No different from taking down a horse with a broken leg. In his own small way, he would be saving the world.

And then he dug his toes into the soil, charging down the hill and bolting for that sliding door. As his legs chewed up ground, he caught a whiff of Harriet and filled his lungs with air. He could smell her body, the sweet fragrance of her sex lingering over the towel, and thought he was passing through heaven. Energy ripped through his body in a series of crisp waves. His skin flushed. By the time he reached the house
and burst through the door, his arms had become wings and his entire body went red-hot.

CHARLES BURELL WAS
having another bad day, two in a row, and he wondered what he’d done to deserve this kind of shit. It had started yesterday when those two cops knocked on his door and pressured him into forking over his fucking client list. Now, as he tossed the cables onto the shelf and glanced into the mirror, he could see some weird geek hiding behind the stairs following his every move.

What next?

Although he didn’t recognize the man’s face, he guessed that he was from the neighborhood. His fuck session with Harriet had been a command performance. And let’s face it, he knew what turned the bitch on. At this time of night, sound carried. The guy probably wandered into the yard, saw him getting a piece of ass, and got all worked up. Maybe if he ignored the idiot, he’d cool his jets and split.

Burell closed the cabinet, reached for his wineglass, and took another peek in the mirror. He was still there. Still fixated on him from behind the stairs.

He glanced at the phone as he considered his options. Calling the cops didn’t seem like the way to go. He hated cops. Particularly the local-yokel variety. If they came to the house and got a look at his basement, they’d start snooping and want to know more about his business just as those detectives had. Only they wouldn’t keep their big mouths shut because they wouldn’t be working a murder case. It might cause a problem in the neighborhood, even damage his reputation and standing. Burell had taken great pains to keep his business secret. Every clodhopper in the neighborhood still thought he practiced law. That he was just lucky with women. Getting laid five or six times a week by different women went with his success like the Rolex he wore and the fleet of Mercedes he drove.

He would be much better off handling the situation on his own, he decided. Chase the rat bastard out and lock the door.
He set the glass down, dusting off his courtroom demeanor. When he thought he’d found it, he breezed into the basement, looked straight at the guy, and spawned a healthy dose of this-was-bound-to-happen surprise.

“Show’s over, buddy,” he said. “Take a hike and get the hell out.”

The man was hiding in the shadows. But as he rose to his feet and stepped into the light, Burell took the jolt and fought to regain his cool.

The intruder was completely naked. Built like a shit house and hung like a mean horse. Yet it was his face that shook Burell to the core. His eyes were beyond lifeless, smoldering in their sockets and reaching out to him from across the room. No doubt about it, this one was a bona fide loony tune. Time to bite the bullet and call 911.

“You’re too late,” he said, back-stepping his way toward the office. “She went home. You want a piece, get your own gig. This one’s mine.”

The man didn’t say anything, but just stared at him with those eyes. When he suddenly charged forward, Burell yelped but was too frightened to make a move. The man seized him by the neck and rammed him into the wall. Something snapped and the air rushed out of his lungs. Before he could scream, the bodybuilder picked him up like a man toy and drove his face into the floor.

He blacked out after that. Everything went lazy until he finally came to.

Then he cracked his eyelids open, watching the hairless giant step away. He tried to catch his breath. Tried to think through the fucking haze. His courtroom routine was working about as well as it ever had, and he needed a new plan. He saw blood puddling on the floor, his Rolex beside his foot with the lens smashed. When he noticed that his mouth hurt, he ran a finger over his teeth, felt the pins in his gums, and realized that several caps were missing. Two in the upper front, and three on the bottom. His mind cleared as he calculated what the night had cost him. Twenty grand easy, plus $3.19 for that bottle of wine.

He needed a way out of this. Something that would be agreeable to both parties.

He knew from experience that the trick to any successful negotiation was figuring out what your adversary wanted. He looked the man over. His chiseled body and extrasmooth skin. He was perusing the studio, passing the office and bedroom sets. When he reached the bogus hospital room and stopped, Burell lifted his face off the floor and finally spoke.

“I could make you a star.”

The man turned back and looked at him, remaining silent. Burell’s heart fluttered in his chest, but somehow he dug deep down, found his voice, and kept going.

“I could make you a fucking star. The way you’re built. You’re a stud and I could do it.”

He had the odd-looking man’s attention. He was sure of it. In spite of his broken mouth and slurred speech, he had his attention. If he could just get him to bite. If he could somehow manage to get him out the door.

“I’ve got friends in the business. Lots of friends. All it would take is a phone call. You could get laid any day you want and make real money.”

The man smiled at him like an idiot. Burell sat up, snatched his Rolex off the floor, and slipped it over his wrist. He had him. He was in the game.

“We’ll make an audition tape. You pick the model. I’ll pay for everything because I take care of my friends. Say, you’re not much of a talker, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“What’s your name? A stud like you needs the right name.”

The man didn’t say anything. Instead, he grabbed a patient’s gown off the hospital bed and threw it at him.

Burell giggled nervously. “Not tonight. Not with me. We’ll pick a girl and shoot the tape tomorrow. Anytime you want. If you’re into kinky, they charge extra, but I can afford it. I can afford anything.”

The man kicked him. “Shut the fuck up and put it on.”

It had been a hard kick. One that would leave a bruise.
Even worse, it looked as if the guy wanted to do
him.
Burell suddenly became aware of his erection and tightened his robe. It hadn’t come from the bodybuilder. It came from the double dose of Viagra he’d dropped an hour before Harriet arrived. His dick was still so hard it actually hurt more than his mouth. It would take another two or three hours to subside. But what worried Burell was what this man might think if he noticed. What really worried him was that the bodybuilder might think he turned him on.

His face heated up and he started sweating. He chewed it over in his head.

He didn’t have those kinds of thoughts and considered himself the original
ungay blade.
While it was true that he’d sucked his best friend’s dick when he was eleven, it had been the one and only time. Something that had ruined his confidence with girls as a teenager and he’d tried to keep buried ever since. He didn’t want to get screwed by a guy tonight. Not by this creepy guy or any other guy.