Drop Dead Perfect (An Ellen Harper Psycho-Thriller) (3 page)

The whole package. Really?

“I’m Joannie,” she said, reaching her hand over the table.

“Joannie, it’s very nice to meet you. Call me Kyle, Kyle Black.”

Shaking her hand, his warm, firm grasp chastened the tingle through the rest of her body in a nanosecond. He’d cast the spell, or so it seemed, and she accepted it wholeheartedly, or so it seemed.

“Please allow me to buy you the drink of your
choice and then we can get to know one another, if that’s all right with you. I lean a bit toward the old-fashioned realm and believe a woman should be catered to. Especially one as lovely as yourself.”

The words rolled from his mouth like velvet, and she felt defenseless to resist him. Besides, she didn’t care to refuse him.

“Well, if you feel that strongly,” she answered, smiling like a giddy, high-school girl. “I’d like another skinny vanilla latte.”

“Coming right up.”

He moved to the counter and returned a few minutes later with a drink in each hand. She was pretty sure she hadn’t taken her eyes off him the whole time.

Kyle settled into the chair opposite her and grinned, saying nothing.

“What? Do I have something on my dress?” she asked, returning the smile.

“No. I’m sorry. I just want to say the right thing so I don’t scare you off. I’d like to be witty and unassuming, yet mysterious, to a degree. At least that’s what the damned article said to do in that men’s magazine.”

Joannie knew exactly what he meant. Maybe those tips worked for some folks, but the idea of having a relaxed, open conversation was far more appealing.

“And I’m supposed to be hard to get, yet sexy and obtainable at the same time.”

After a quiet moment, they both laughed, and then settled into conversation that seemed to be Heaven sent. He
was
witty and a tad mysterious, which only added to his allure.

Two hours later, the late March sun began to set, but she barely noticed. His ease and charm made her feel as if they’d known each other for years. . . and caused her to forget the early dinner she’d planned with her best girlfriend, Elizabeth.

Her phone vibrated in her purse. She excused herself, looked at the screen, and then decided not to answer. Beth would understand when she called her later, after she and Kyle had parted company, which, by the way things were going, wouldn’t be for a while, maybe longer.

“Do you have to leave? I’ve tied you up quite long enough, I fear,” asked Kyle.

He just keeps getting better and better.

“Just a friend. I’ll call her later. And I don’t believe you’ve tied me up; it might be the other way around
,” she said, grinning.

“Well, if that’s the case, would it be too forward to ask you to continue this conversation over dinner? I’ll make it worth your while, I promise, Joannie.”

The way her name cascaded from his tongue caused her insides to tingle almost uncontrollably. Not having dinner with him was totally out of the question. “I don’t want you to think I’m easy, but I’d love to have dinner with you.”

“That’s the farthest thing from my mind, Joannie. We’ll have a dinner for the ages, one that neither of us will forget.”

More tingling. She was sure he was right. “Is that more of your mysterious persona?”

He nodded. “Just the facts, ma’am
. Just the facts.”

“If you say so. Are you sure I can trust you?” she teased.

He stood, smiling, and reached his hand toward hers.

“Come with me, and your life will never be the same. I promise.”

CHAPTER-4

Stepping on the accelerator with authority, Ellen noticed the flashing lights dance on the hood of the Forensic Services SUV, prompting most of the vehicles to pull to the right or left and allowing her passage from I-90 to the 47
th exit. Some of the drivers had to be coaxed with the loud siren that her partner, Oscar Malloy, loved to manipulate.

“Are you having fun?”

“Why yes, yes I am. Thanks for asking, Ellie. Something has to get these ‘citizens’ out of the way,” he replied, wearing that patented infectious grin.

She looked at him, shaking her head. “Citizens, huh? Didn’t you just call a group of them idiots?”

“Yep. Some are. I mean who wants to get close enough to yellow tape to see some guts splattered all over the sidewalk after some poor soul jumped from the twentieth floor?”

“You make a good point, but apparently it’s a right for all Chicagoans,” she said.

“Yeah? You mean like some dumb-ass privilege?”

Ellen swung around another slow mover and looked at Oscar. “That’s exactly right. Entitlement. Want me to look
up the word for you?”

“You might be— Watch out!” he yelled.

Whipping her head around, she saw the moving van looming just yards away. A quick jerk of the wheel got her around the vehicle. Barely. Their SUV seemed to rise up on two wheels for a brief moment, then slam back down. She wasn’t sure how they hadn’t collided because she swore she could see the paint chips on the moving van’s left quarter panel as it sped past. Never mind rolling over. The rise and fall of several car horns only served to emphasize how crazy the last few seconds could have been. Her knuckles were bone white as she gripped the wheel.

“Woo doggie! Nice move by the Queen of the Crime Scene Techs. I thought we were going to be the next bodies in the ME’s dungeon,” said Oscar, hand on his chest.

“Me too. What a jerkoff. Damn. Don’t they know to pull to the
side
of the road? I should pull over and kick their asses,” she said, exhaling. “And you know I don’t like it when you call me that.”

“Yeah. Just what you need, to smack someone else around.”

“It’s awesome therapy,” she said, grinning.

“You’re sick. But I love the smile. Anyway, that’ll get the blood pumping. Good thing it’s early spring. Snow and ice wouldn’t have been
good. And as far as being the Queen, you know I’m right. For a geek like me, that’s kind of a hot thing. If I weren’t happily married, I’d make my move.”

“You’re not right in the head, you know.”

“That’s what the wife says. It’s scary how you both say the same things about me.”

She glanced at him again just as they reached Lake Shore Drive. Oscar was a smallish man, average-looking with long black hair, who lived the vegan lifestyle—which led him to consistently chastise her whenever she or the rest of her friends had a burger or a steak. He was relentless in his quest to spread his proper
-diet religion. Most of the time, she either ignored him or threw some colorful daggers regarding his manhood. Add that to his compulsive behavior, which included brushing his teeth no less than once an hour, if he were able, and there was no question she’d drawn a strange partner. He was, however, as intelligent as anyone she’d ever worked with, great in the field, and a confessed family man. She’d been partnered with far worse but maybe none better.

“So how did the meeting with the Man go? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

She shrugged as she swung to the south and gunned it. “Like always, he takes a hunk of my ass, tells me to get it right or there will be hell to pay.”

“You know, one of these days, he’ll be right. Hell-to-Pay isn’t a place you want to keep visiting, you know?”

“Maybe, but it’s not happening today, so let’s talk about something else, okay?”

Ellen’s tendrils of anger reached for her just below the surface of a thin threshold, and she gave them a quick shove, trying to send them back to wherever they’d crawled out of. The shrink had told her to paint—a hobby she adored and was quite good at—to release the tension. In the absence of that opportunity, she was to do something fun and to try to laugh when she felt Mister Hyde coming on. The shrink even told her to get laid. Yeah, right. Like that w
as going to happen. She was old-fashioned, for one thing, and she’d had almost no attraction to a man since the divorce fiasco.

Fun it is.

“You know what else? I’m starved. Let’s get a burger. It won’t take long,” she said with a straight face.

“What? We’ve got a serious case to work, and you want to
eat meat
?” He looked at her wide-eyed, head shaking
no no no
, then said, “Ahh. Okay. You got me, and I’m glad you think that’s funny. But that beef will kill you, mark my words.”

“The old man says we’re all going to die from something and I . . .”

Ellen’s words caught in her throat as she swung around the curb and saw the flashing lights of several Chicago Police Department squad cars and at least two unmarked detective units. She swore under her breath. She’d become so wrapped up in her own world, she’d almost forgotten why they’d been called to the scene. Big Harv was right; she had to get her head screwed on straight. Her ex wasn’t worth this kind of distraction. But of course, she had told herself that a thousand times before.

She parked, looked at Oscar, and he nodded.

“I knew this wasn’t exactly a low-profile situation. It’s just that this seems like overkill,” he said.

Ellen remembered the look on Big Harv’s face and knew instantly why the response from the Chicago
PD was so intense. The old case he’d worked all of those years ago still haunted him, and he’d do anything to make sure it didn’t happen again.

“You’re right, but let’s get to it,” she said.

She exited the Ford Explorer and grabbed her crime-scene kit—her new best friend. With Oscar at her heels, they hurried through the park’s entrance, IDs in hand. The two uniforms guarding the scene, and keeping the public oglers away from the body, nodded them through. Ellen led the way toward a park bench about fifty feet to the right. There were several blues forming a semicircle around the area with four detectives standing just outside of them, per procedure. She could see someone sitting on the bench and felt her heart leap. Bodies weren’t typically found sitting up, at least in this situation, and she knew in a second that Clara Rice’s body had been staged.

Ellen looked up to the sky and closed her eyes. Not even the fresh scent of a new spring could stem the dread pulling at her heartstrings.

“Damn it,” she whispered, glancing at Oscar. The look on his face showed that he was in the same boat.

Clearing her thoughts, she grabbed the yellow crime
-scene tape from her pocket, tied one end to the rustic wrought-iron fence, and gave the other end to Oscar. In three minutes, he’d orbited the guardian cops and made a complete circle back to her. The radius was approximately seventy-five feet, and that was about as good as they could hope for. As always, any farther out and the probability of finding evidence was virtually zero, unless there was something blatantly apparent, like a gun or shell casings . . . or another body.

Fortunately, they still had a fair amount of light, even for a warm, late afternoon in the Windy City, and nothing that obvious appeared outside the perimeter.

A moment later, camera in hand, tugging absently at her earring with the other, she stood in front of the most bizarre display she’d been exposed to as a cop and a CSI.

She stared, turned her head in the other direction, shivered,
and then did it again. A different kind of anger fought to slap her around. The kind of anger her friend Kate called righteous anger. There was something to that. No one deserved to be put on display like this.

Beautiful Clara Rice was positioned on the curved, green bench, legs crossed, fully made up, eyes wide,
and not an auburn hair out of place. She was wearing a red, low-cut, long-sleeved designer dress, matching shoes and handbag, and a stone necklace that brought it all together.

As stunning as her appearance was,
and in several different ways, that wasn’t all the killer had accomplished.
Good God
, Ellen wished.

For the third time in a minute, she felt a tremor run the full length of her spine.

Taped to Clara’s breasts hung a computer-generated sign with large, red print that contained only two chilling words.

NOT HER

CHAPTER-5

“What the hell took you so long to call me? Don’t talk. I told you to call me the
minute, the very damned second, you received a report like this one. Is that so freaking hard to understand?”

Captain Harvey Patterson shifted the handset to his left, his hands shaking with emotion. He wasn’t just angry . . . fear was adding to his state of mind.

“Sergeant J.T. Foster. Didn’t I just tell you to stop talking? You not only didn’t tell me about this one, you didn’t tell me about the one last night. Does it sound like I care about some lame-ass, twenty-four-hour policy? I want to know about any possible kidnappings of women even remotely resembling this situation. Now do it. I can’t wait to hear your explanation when you get your scrawny ass up here to talk about your total incompetence—and your damned demotion to a parking ticket maid, skirts and all. Now send me those reports, and I mean
right now
.”