Red Silk Scarf (3 page)

There was a
serial killer out there.
 
All the
information collected and scrutinized pointed disturbingly in one direction,
someone linked to law enforcement.
 
A
thorough investigation meant scrutinizing each officer, first on the list those
most suspicious.
 
Tonight, Cassidy was
riding in the backseat of their patrol car the wrong place to be when all hell
breaks loose, her thought processes suddenly obliterated by the combination of
the scanner and Sullivan's quick reflexes that spun the patrol car around
barely missing a parked car.
 

Men bearing
knifes were fighting two blocks away, the dispatcher relayed.
 
Lights ablaze, siren screaming, within
seconds they invaded the scene.
 
The
speed, the siren, the exhilaration, a rush Cassidy did not anticipate.

The very instant
the car screeched to an abrupt halt, both officers leaped from its confines
shoulder butting their way through a crowd that were cheering, jeering, and
egging the fighters on.
 
Consumed by
curiosity, frustration and an unexpected concern for two men she‘d just met,
Cassidy joined them.
 

As she charged
the scene Cassidy wondered why Pinkert and Sullivan distressed her so
considering, they were strangers.
 
Still,
frantically she pushed, and shoved trying to gain a peak.
 
One peak, that's all she wanted, a sight that
brought a hand to her lips just in time to muffle a surprised squeal.
 

Two African
Americans were fighting, clad in leather, covered with tattoos and wearing
bandanas both smeared with blood from slashed skin and punctures.
 
In the midst of eminent danger, Patrick and
Mark separated them, never for a second hesitating, nor showing signs of
fear.
 

God, they were
crazy for being so damn brave, Cassidy whined, particularly since the
illumination from the streetlights reflecting off the weapons exposed the large
size of the saw tooth blades slashing and jabbing.
 
She couldn't watch any more, simply couldn't,
but did anyway, her eyes uncontrollable as they followed one man in particular.

What was wrong
with her tonight, or, did it actually begin months ago upon first examining
Sullivan's picture a time when a scary feeling in the pit of her stomach told
her she knew this person, that somehow, in some way they were connected.
 
Having taken numerous psychology courses over
the years she learned to search people’s eyes for the soul within, Sullivan's
sparked her suspicion.
 
Mystery lurked
within those sky blue orbs.
 
She supposed
for the first time she could be wrong.
 
Now, for some peculiar reason, she hoped so.
 

Surely, Sullivan
wasn't God's gift to women she lied to herself.
 
Then why upon observing his strength and agility was there an undeniable
physical attraction?
 
Her emotional
upheaval was pathetic she whined.
 
Having
chosen a life of social recluse, with law enforcement her soul purpose, she
never allowed any man into her heart.
 
It
would be too dangerous to permit Sullivan to be anything other than a
suspect.
 
Then again, maybe it was the
“danger” drawing her to him.

Pressing his knee
into the back of a much larger man thrown on his stomach to the pavement for
hand cuffing, with one yank Sullivan hauled the prisoner to his feet.
 
At that, moment Cassidy realized in just a
few hours she'd learned a great deal.
 
Who would have thought on the edge of darkness one could become
enlightened?
   

Sullivan had a
temper, one easily directed toward a woman.
  
Not only was he strong, quick, and agile, but street smart, qualities
necessary to survive ten years of hell, and, though his shirt was slashed and
blood stained, he'd been unscathed.
 

Like molecules,
information collected multiplied and exploded.
 
Sullivan was on the edge.
 
Having
spent too many years protecting himself he could no longer feel or think
objectively. Possibly pure hate governed his actions.
 
For some reason, with an awful certainty, Cassidy
knew he was involved.
 
Yes, someone like
Sullivan was more than capable of, murder the mere thought shot chills up her
spine.

Mark, though
flirtatious, he appeared quite the man despite a record that was far from
clean.
 
A husband and father of three,
he'd been Sullivan's partner for two years.
 
During his six-year career, quick fists and a foul mouth brought about
numerous reprimands and suspensions. “Don Won,” himself, Cassidy would bet her
badge he occupied his share of prostitute's time yet her instincts were telling
her there was something in his voice; his touch that said even a flea would be
safe?
  

Considering that,
the present matter at hand was under control, feeling somewhat successful Cassidy
decided not to linger and disappeared into the darkness.
 
There was work to do and tonight was only the
beginning.
 

CHAPTER 3

           
Pelting water did nothing to ease
Sullivan's anxiety, nor did four shots of Scotch.
 
Lingering in the shower, allowing the
steaming water to anoint his head and rain over his body, he considered
drugs.
 
Truth was recently drugs were all
he thought about, how the deadly powder anesthetized pain immediately entering
the brain it traveled to every nerve ending giving off pleasurable, indefinable
sensations taking him on a journey into a void where his conscience became
non-existent along with his vow to uphold justice,

Even now after
rehab, the residue remaining continued to tease and torment him sexually,
bringing on an insatiable desire for scarlet women.
  
Despite newly refurbished brain waves, no
matter how hard he tried to seal them out, endlessly parading before him were
women far from the likes of his mother and sister, women he deemed wholesome to
the point of ridiculous.
 
Quite possibly
the reason whores enticed him, women that willingly chose their profession that
often enjoyed the acts more than he had, particularly those with ruby lips,
warm mouths, and manipulative tongues capable of tantalizing and sucking venom
from the body.
 
The erotic acts they were
all too willing to perform served as a temporary relief for the pressures of
life.
 
They were accustomed to using
their sexy, revealing clothes as weapons to nurture desires until they bled,
until weakness took control and made him touch the silk, the lace, the
hourglass firmness beneath.
 
The ability
to find that kind of woman was all too easy in L.A., convincing them, even
easier, particularly for men who wore a badge.

Oh, yes indeed,
Shawn Patrick Sullivan lost his sainthood ages ago.
 
He’d experienced all of life’s temptations
except for that of another male, entertaining the slightest thought made him
shake uncontrollably.
 
It was bad enough
he labeled himself, a drug addict, a whoremonger, had he turned gay too?
 
Drugs did that to people, transformed them
into aliens that desired things, committed acts they ordinarily would never
imagine.
 
Problem was, when the fix wore
off, there was little or no recollection of the illicit behavior.
 
Not only did L.A. lure and snare him, but
also little by little stripped away all the good his father ever taught.
 
If Shawn Sullivan Senior knew of his son's
transgressions, he'd turn over in his grave.
 
Reflections that made chills of disgust raise the hair on Patrick’s skin.

A quick twist of
a wrist increased the heat and force of the spray serving as Novocain for
troublesome thoughts.
 
A hand
administered to the part throbbing from desiring what he swore he'd no longer
have.
 
Standing beneath the mist as if
cleansing his past he masturbated while somewhere in what remained of his
conscience where painful honesty was unavoidable, Patrick plotted to destroy
the memories before they destroyed him.
 

Tonight, again he
was riding the roller coaster of artificial highs and blood sucking lows.
 
Did he expect purification overnight?
 
Miracles didn't happen in two months that’s
when he quit drugs, gave up whores, and tried to dig his way out of the quick
sand sucking him into hell.
 
Actually,
hell wasn't the word for what he'd been going through, the barest reflection
bringing on nausea.
 
It didn’t matter
that he wasn't alone.
 
Disgustingly, many
of his colleagues went down with him, the reason for praying every second of
every day that he'd finally freed himself from their grip.
 
Torturing him most now was, wondering if he’d
been successful.

Large wet
footprints painting the bedroom carpet halted on the patio of a tenth floor
apartment.
 
Gazing down at the black
python of doom, hands wringing the railing he stood allowing the slight breeze
to blow-dry the remaining moisture.
 
It
didn’t matter that he was naked; such sights were far from unusual in L.A.
 
A city determined to imprison the weak within
its iron bars.
 
As he tilted his face
skyward, the decorum of the evening, no moon and no stars, raised the hair on
his skin.
 
A sudden gust of sultry air
rushing his lungs made him beg for the millionth time, “Please, God, not again,
not the fifth time.”

Another month had
passed.
 
No wonder Patrick’s nerves were
rattling and bile was scorching his throat, the next victim might be someone
Mark and he knew intimately, the possibility enough to make him question when
lady-luck would run out.

Suddenly
awareness set in, little time remained to dress, pick up Mark, and report to
work.
 
He had plenty to do before
leaving, mother needed to be settled into bed, her medicine administered, her
dependency, a strangling kind of helplessness,
 
Damn her for giving up, for giving into the suicidal bouts of depression
that attacked relentlessly, damn the doctors who offered little hope of
recovery.
 

One sunrise and
sunset altered Patrick’s life.
 
A loving,
dutiful son overnight he became the head of the house responsible for providing
desperately needed financial and emotional support.
  
How could he fail his father, a man who was
the epitome of love, and praise, a model perfect husband, and father?
 
A beloved Chicago police officer fatally
wounded at the early age of fifty-eight.
 

Dear God, he
missed his father.
 
What someone might
believe to be droplets remaining from showering dribbling down sun-reddened
cheeks were not, he could taste the salt.
 
Today marked the third year since his father's premature death and his
heart was still aching for parental love and guidance.
 
If his father were alive, surely, he would
have advised him not to take the assignment in L.A., but the substantial raise
that came with the risk and new responsibilities left no choice.
  
Patrick sincerely believed the move from
Chicago to L.A. was in the best interest for the family, instead disappointment
reigned.
 
The change had terminated his
life.
 
All he'd managed was to exchange
one hell for another.

Forget his
sister.
  
Pamela was too much like her
mother, shy and withdrawn, particularly since her divorce.
 
One time too many she came home with cuts,
and a bruised face accompanied by swollen, black and blue eyes.
 
She’d forever blame him for putting an end to
her persecution.
 
Extremely introverted,
her chances of marrying again were nil, she screamed.
 
Shit, he was always wrong.
 

           
Would his responsibilities ever
end?
 
The two women who should love him
enough to set him free instead had sterilized his life.
 
Reflections wrinkling his face into a
miserable expression caused him to release a heavy, strangling sigh that
managed to redirect his thoughts.
  
Before
the evening began, Patrick had no idea it would become one gigantic surprise,
one enormous migraine.
 
Cassidy wasn't at
all on his list of expectations; certainly, if she were he would have taken an
overdose.
 

Life was
complicated enough he didn't need “Another woman” on his mind tonight, tomorrow
or ever.
 
He was certain he knew every
whore in his district, therefore Cassidy coming out of nowhere immediately
sparked suspicion.
 
A neon sign of
pleasure, before now she would have caught his attention as instantaneously as
she did tonight.