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Gary Starta
Category:
Mystery/Suspense
Publisher: Canaan Star
ISBN-10: 0957146280
Type: Fiction
Pages: 338
Copyright: Oct 31 2012
ISBN-13: 9780957146280
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
Det Carter faces his dark side when a serial eludes and a BIS conspiracy threatens his relationship with Jill.
Homicide Detective Stanford Carter uses Zen meditation to deal with the gruesome crimes of humanity. But his composure is severely tested when an unfaithful husband and stripper are not only murdered but showcased for their immoral lives. To test his mettle further, department policy is jeopardizing his romance with his CSI colleague Jill Seacrest. Marrying colleagues is prohibited and Carter must either end his romance or have Jill put in for transfer. The private detective hired by the family of the victims becomes the only suspect. Carter theorizes someone with knowledge in law enforcement is responsible for leaving clean but disturbing crime scenes. Further investigation leads him to believe a pair of killers might be working as serials. As Jill goes undercover to investigate the PI's social life, Carter fears he might not only fail to stop the vigilante killings but lose the love of his life.
Excerpt
Cheryl Thomas had left Cherry Sorbet behind. A night of dancing for pay once again came to the end, a carbon copy of the night before and the night before that. Cherry—Cheryl’s sexy, mature, overly confident dancing persona—only existed under the spotlights of the Spread Eagle.
When she exited the door, she had become absorbed in the harsh reality of her life. It was as if the truth—which was sometimes equated with probability, or the way things most likely will end up—lived within the stifled air of the very hot and humid July night she walked into. It stuck to you, never giving you true freedom.
The truth—in fact—would not set people like Cheryl Thomas free. The truth, in this case, was often not a nice companion. It was the voice telling Cheryl that she’d never amount to shit in life. It was the voice that warned her not to tell her mother about how inappropriate a family member had acted. It was the voice that sounded an awful lot like Cheryl’s father—the very reason life as a topless dancer beat living rent free in the comfy confines of a two-story home in suburbia. The truth had a bitter ending. The truth was better kept pushed to the back of one’s mind. The truth—for Cheryl Thomas—sucked lemons and she was not about to make lemonade out of them in reference to the old adage.
She drove home wishing her fucking boyfriend’s car had a working air conditioning system. The bastard. He could have had it fixed for her. He could have let her slide on sharing rent. He could have strongly suggested her not to work at a strip club. To Cheryl, her boyfriend Tim was just another asshole. She hoped her true feelings wouldn’t rise to the surface. She was using him. She needed shelter. But she reasoned Tim deserved a phony girlfriend. He was a phony as well. He promised her (when she got enough cash together) she could quit and attend a community college. She nearly laughed the other night when he suggested it. The puppy dog eyes he made at her. The bastard just wanted to get laid. She had told him how exhausted she was from the dancing. She couldn’t explain why she felt her ass was literally dragging on the floor. She was tired because a bunch of assholes had leered at her all night. Their dumb faces, big eyes and hungry mouths made her think of them as animals. The really stupid ones—the ones with beer courage— had foolishly tried to lay their hands on her, inviting a nasty bounce out of the club. But they had to try. They had to behave like ‘men’ in front of their buddies. The more Cheryl thought about it the more she hated every fucking man who walked the fucking face of this fucking earth. She had given in to Tim’s wishes last night. He fucked her hard and mercilessly. He fucked her like she was his object. She didn’t want to hook up with Tim tonight. She began to fantasize an escape scenario. Maybe she would just keep on driving on, head to New Hampshire or something, right on the friggin’ spot. Spontaneous. Just like she had fled her father. Just like one half of Thelma and Louise.
A rumble of distant thunder caught her attention. High humidity had promised a thunderstorm, according to the Weather Channel. She had watched the forecast on the screen in the backroom while she gave a lap dance. The client didn’t give a shit she was watching it either. His eyes were too busy staring at her boobs.
The dark wooded streets she navigated were barely illuminated. She slowed her car. Up ahead she saw something. Her headlights bounced off it. It was a pair of wooden sawhorses. The kind police used to create barricades. But she couldn’t see any kind of police logo on the sawhorses. Suddenly a clap of thunder boomed directly overhead, surprising her. She could hear her heart beat in tandem with a heavy downpour that beat upon her car. It was raining very hard. The water hit the car with an intensity reminding Cheryl when she was five, a time when she still liked her dad. He would take her along when he visited the automated car wash. She recalled it was always on a Sunday. She remembered her father saying something strange one time, like: “God can’t be expected to get everything clean on His own.” He laughed strangely, scaring her. She stared ahead at the windshield, but couldn’t see anything through the shower of water. Nor could she open the door to escape.
Years later Cheryl would come to understand what that strange phrase had meant—physically. He began hating and hitting her, blaming her for his sick impulses. Blaming her for having blossomed into a woman so soon.
She thought she could swerve around the sawhorses. But she also thought if this were a roadblock a cop might write down her license plate number. If that happened, Tim wouldn’t be very happy with her.
A woman in a raincoat approached her. The hood covered the woman’s head, but Cheryl could identify the person as female because long copper colored bangs hung over her forehead.
“Hi, officer,” Cheryl stammered.
The woman shined a flashlight into Cheryl’s car as it idled noisily. No other ID was visible. Cheryl found this strange since police raingear was usually transparent so civilians could see their badges and uniforms.
But she refrained from asking for ID. The female cop squinted as her bangs were dripping with water.
“Where you headed?” the cop asked.
“Home? Uh . . . about a mile and half off the main road.”
“Lived there long?” the woman in the poncho asked.
Why the fuck should that matter?
When Cheryl didn’t respond, the rain soaked woman in the black poncho mumbled something inaudible.
Cheryl began to fish in a duffel bag for her driver’s license. Maybe if I cooperate she’ll let me go. I don’t need my fucking parents to find me. She hadn’t been drinking, but her clients had. Their stink of gin and vodka must have been all over her. And what if they do a car search? Cheryl was panicked. She didn’t want the officer to find her Spread Eagle outfit. She was so panicked she didn’t reason the officer had no probable cause.
“What’cha doing?” the cop asked.
“Getting my license.” Cheryl heard her voice shake, the way it quivered when she talked to her father.
‘Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
She hoped the cop wouldn’t ask her where she’d been.
“I’ll take your license later, Miss. Right now I need you to slowly step out of your vehicle.”
Cheryl hedged, her foot was on the accelerator. The officer shined the flashlight into the car. “Turn the engine off first.”
Cheryl obeyed. She turned the key, twice, cutting the engine but keeping the car on battery power. She still hoped the cop would show mercy. She hadn’t done anything wrong, driving wise that was. And if she tested for alcohol, she’d find her sober.
“I want your hands where I can see them.” Cheryl held them up as the officer maneuvered herself behind her.
“Are you going to make me walk a line? I can do it. I’m as a sober as a nun, officer.”
“You may be sober, but you’re no nun.”
Cheryl couldn’t believe the officer’s rudeness. Her tone was malicious, hateful.
Cheryl stammered. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I know your family. You fucked them over royally, running away once a couple of years ago. Now you’re at it again. Do you even give a rat’s ass about your parents?” The officer waved a fist at air.
Cheryl realized the officer was capable of venting her hostility, not only verbally, but also physically. She had learned some psychology from working at the strip club. She would change tactics and speak with congeniality. She would try to reason with this lunatic if there was still time. She felt the woman’s breath on her from behind. It had a weight to it. Even through the pouring rain.
Lightning flashed. From the corner of Cheryl’s eye, she saw it had illuminated the sawhorses. Again, she couldn’t see a word or symbol on it. She doubted it was police issue. She also began to wonder where this woman’s car was. She had stalked out of the woods like some animal. But in the darkness of the storm, Cheryl couldn’t be sure a vehicle wasn’t concealed somewhere off the roadway, hidden by some brush or overgrowth. She began to plead with the officer. She kept a soft, even tone when pleading. She hoped a demure approach might garner her release. The officer grunted oddly, but Cheryl interpreted this as a confirmation of power. Just keep empowering this fucking bastard. She repeated this to herself.
“Look, officer. Do you want money? I’ll pay you. I just can’t let my parents find me. My father is abusing me.”
The woman behind her only grunted. This time, the grunt didn’t sound approving.
“Look, I love my family. But things are complicated right now . . . ”
“I don’t believe you’re sincere.” Cheryl heard the woman spit some rainwater out of her mouth.
“It’s time to come clean with me.”
Before Cheryl could think, the officer’s arm was wrapped about her neck as if it was a python, hoping to squeeze the life out of her.
“Uh . . . oh God . . . please . . . ” Cheryl heard the words in her head. She couldn’t be sure she was verbalizing them. She felt as if she was somewhere else watching what was happening to her. She felt her feet lift off the ground. She kicked them but her boots flailed harmlessly against the woman’s shins as she was dangling in the air. The officer had Cheryl in a bear hug. One arm wrapped completely about her stomach, the other tightening its vice like grip about her windpipe.
As Cheryl’s face turned blue, she wondered why she didn’t ask for the officer’s badge number. Did she cut the officer some slack because she was female? Did she think this woman would be any less unkind to her? And as the black of night engulfed Cheryl, she thought of this irony. She always thought she might die at the hands of some huge horny guy who thought the ‘no touch’ rule was for mamma’s boys; or perhaps at the hands of Tim, when she finally mustered the courage to betray him. The killer released her grip and Cheryl fell to the ground, lifeless as a marionette whose strings had been severed. The rain began to lighten and the only sound that could be heard was the slapping of windshield wipers on Tim’s beat up old Chevrolet.
Kindred Killers
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