Deadly Lies (25 page)

Peter Young wasn’t just a rapist. He was a fucking coward. He took what he wanted without a struggle. Jill closed her eyes. She could almost smell the bitter stench of her stepfather’s breath. Master Sergeant Sam Morris preyed on the defenseless, too. A picture of his cruel face filled her mind, and she pushed it away. She refused to let the memories surface. She held everything back behind the thick wall of her resolve.
Everything except the hate. Hate seared through Jill’s veins. And she thought about Peter and the one thing he hadn’t counted on. Her. She had come here ready to fight. The comforting weight of the gun in her pocket guaranteed it.

Jill turned off the bedroom light and disappeared into the large closet, pulling the sliding door most of the way closed. The bag of roofies was clenched tightly in her fist. All senses were on full alert, waiting for Peter’s grand entrance.

There was nothing stealthy about Peter’s arrival. The door banged shut, and she heard him stumble through the living room. He stayed there awhile. How long, she couldn’t tell. Antsy, she thought about leaving the safety of the closet, but no sooner had she thought it than Peter shuffled into the bedroom.

Peter bumped and crashed his way through the room in the dark. Jill glimpsed his shadowy figure as he passed by the closet door. He let out an earsplitting fart, and Jill grimaced.
Pig
. Next, the bathroom light flipped on and she was serenaded by the sound of a long, gratifying piss in the toilet. The lights clicked off, and Peter’s discarded clothes hit the floor in a heap.

Not long after that, the buzz-saw sound of his snoring filled the suite. Jill waited as she went through the plan again and again in her head. Peter would pay for what he’d done. Anger uncoiled at the pit of her stomach. Jill slid the closet door open and stepped out into the darkened room.

Her gloved hand sweating, she gripped the butt of the revolver. The barrel of the gun trembled slightly as she pointed it at Peter’s sleeping form. It was evident from the boozy cloud of breath he dispelled with each bed-rattling snore that Peter had made the most of the open bar. She hoped he was still lucid enough to understand what was happening to him. And why.

Leaning forward, Jill shook his shoulder, still keeping the weapon aimed directly at him. Maybe it was the smell of Wild Turkey on his breath. Maybe it was the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Whatever it was, for a moment Jill was transported back to the small bedroom in her stepfather’s house. She could see Sam’s sweaty face poised inches above hers in the darkened room as his gravelly voice called to her.

“Jill.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears. She gritted her teeth and focused on the man in front of her. He was not Sam. He was a small, pathetic coward. And she was not a scared teenaged girl. Not anymore.

“Peter, wake up.”

Snoring.

“Wake up,” she demanded, shaking him even harder this time.

“What? What?” He asked, waking with a start. His eyes, at first squinting in the dark to get a look at who dared disturb his peaceful slumber, popped wide as he caught sight of Jill, and the gun.

“What the fuck?”

“Bet you didn’t expect to see me again so soon.” Jill’s tone was dangerously soft in the quiet room.

“Goddamn it, Jill, what the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

Even in the dark, she could see the hard glitter of fear in his eyes. Adrenaline spiked through her veins. She was gratified by the terrified look on his face.

“You know, I can’t believe I fell for all of that ‘Scout’s honor’ bullshit. What did you do to me last night?”

The expression on Peter’s face turned from fear to dread, and a cold certainty stole through Jill. Her hands steadied. She knew she was right to come here. With each passing second, she felt less like a victim and more like an avenging angel.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter lied in a shaky voice. His hand darted toward the night table, and she cocked the gun.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said. He froze.

“Reaching for my glasses, that’s all. We should talk this through.”

“Unless you want some extra ventilation for your brain, I’d keep your hands where I can see them.”

“All right. All right,” he repeated, holding his hands up in surrender. “Let’s talk.”

“Talk? Well, sure. Let’s talk about these.” Jill dropped the baggie with the pills she had found in the bathroom onto his heaving chest. “I think you slipped one of these pills into my drink last night so you could do whatever you wanted to me. Which was what, exactly?”

Peter’s eyes fluttered closed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Jill’s gut twisted—a mixture of disgust and certainty. This is what she’d come here for. It was as close to a confession as she expected to get. Hate blossomed within her, and her hand tightened on the gun.

“Listen, Jill, I’m sorry. Okay?”

“You’re sorry,” she cocked her head in disbelief. “You raped me, and now you’re sorry?”

A humorless bark of laughter escaped her lips. She plucked the baggie off the bed and stuffed it into her pocket.

“Rape is a strong word,” he stammered as his eyes shifted away from hers and toward the phone. But it was too late to call for help.

“Rape
is
a strong word. But having sex with someone against their will is the very definition of the act, is it not? Did you think you could get away with it? Did you think I wouldn’t tell? Did you think that your little white pills would put you in control?”

“I’m sorry, Jill. I didn’t mean—” Peter’s warbling voice was barely a whisper.

“You didn’t mean what? Please!”

Jill glared down at him with a look filled with pure loathing as he shrank back. Pity was the furthest thing from her mind. She thumbed off the safety.

“You’re the worst kind of coward. Give me one good reason why I should let you get away with what you did to me.”

Peter sniffed. Tears formed in his eyes. Jill grimaced in disgust.

“Please, Jill. Please, forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” she cooed in a soft, sweet, mocking voice. “Sorry, Baby, I’m just not that kind of girl.”

A soft, whimpering sound escaped Peter’s lips. Without hesitation, without time for a second thought, she pressed the gun to Peter’s temple and pulled the trigger. The tight seal of his skin to the muzzle of the gun muffled the sound of the single shot.

Staring down into Peter’s lifeless eyes, Jill felt a dizzying surge of heat shimmer through her, followed by a high far more powerful, more complete than anything she had experienced before. She felt alive, every nerve ending on fire, every sense heightened.

Whatever Peter had stolen from her, Jill had taken back. And she felt justified in the knowledge he would never hurt anyone again.

Leaning forward, she grasped Peter’s limp arm and placed the gun in his hand, Gently she coiled his fingers around the grip, making sure to position his index finger on the trigger, hoping the powder from her gloves would transfer over onto Peter’s skin.

With one last look around the room, Jill stripped off her gloves, shoved them in her pocket, and left the room. She paused by the sofa, staring down at Peter’s open laptop. All she wanted to do was put as much distance between her and the dead body cooling in the next room as possible, but she couldn’t. Not yet.

After changing into a fresh pair of latex gloves, she switched the system clock on Peter’s computer turning back the time so it didn’t coincide with the time of death. Finding the notes from the interview, the video, and the still shots from the Nikon was easy. Getting rid of them, really getting rid of them, would be much harder. Instead, she modified the document, deleting most of its contents, and used the search-and-replace feature to change her name. Jill Shannon became Anne Willis. She renamed the image files. The last thing she did was reset the system clock. If the computer forensics guys went looking for evidence, a modified file was less suspicious than a deleted file.

Then Jill had another thought. What was a suicide without a goodbye note? Squatting down by the keyboard, she opened the word processor and typed a few lines. Some drivel about not being good enough, not being able to take the pressure anymore, needing to find a way out. Whatever. Even if the police didn’t buy the suicide angle, she had covered her tracks well.

With the memory card from the Nikon tucked safely in her pocket, Jill let herself out of the suite. She expected to feel panic. She expected the aftermath of the adrenaline rush to leave her jittery. Instead she was filled with a calm, steady sense of relief. The bastard had gotten exactly what he deserved.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

A
lex slammed the door to Captain Lewis’s office on his way down the hallway. Still steaming from the reprimand, he looked up in time to see the stunned expressions on the upturned faces as he passed. Most recovered quickly, averting their eyes as they tried to look busy.

“Get back to work,” he muttered to himself. “The floor show’s over.” He was sure that, as soon as he ducked back into his own cramped office, the whispering would begin as they rehashed the whole stormy scene.

This time Alex did resist the urge to slam his door as he dropped into his chair and spun to look out the window. He’d barely had time to release a muted stream of obscenities when a timid knock sounded at the door.

“What?” he yelled, his eyes shooting death rays as he turned.

Kris Thompson hovered in the doorway, her face white as she peeked in. Everything about her, from the wary look in her eye to the tentative hand on the knob, told him that if she had any other choice, she wouldn’t be here.

“Never mind, it can wait.” She spun on her heel and was about to leave when he stopped her.

“It’s fine. What do you need?”

“I need you to sign off on a request for a warrant.”

“What case?”

“The Gillespie case.” Kris pointed at the mound of unread files on his desk. The blank look on his face conveyed his total and complete ignorance. Reluctantly, Kris stepped through the doorway and flipped through the neatly piled stack of plain manila folders on his desk. Selecting one from the pile, she opened it and handed it to him, exposing the relevant information. Chagrined, he admired her ruthless organization.

Alex quickly reviewed the paperwork. Everything looked in order, and he signed the request. Handing it back to her, she met his eyes, and he managed a tight smile. Conflict management was not exactly her forte, and he could see that she was anxious to escape as she muttered her thanks.

“Thompson,” he said as she skittered toward the door. His voice stopped her cold in her tracks, and she faced him.

“Yes?”

Alex pushed back in his chair and eyed her, rubbing his fingers against the grain of stubble on his chin. There was something different about her, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something about her face …

“Did you change your hair?”

It was shorter, swinging above her shoulders. Free of all that weight, the layers curled around her face. Kris’s cheeks flushed pink, and she hugged the file tight against her chest. Her lips parted, as if suspended between surprise and pleasure.

“Last week.”

“It looks … nice.”

“Thanks,” she stammered, and she spun and scurried back toward her desk.

Alex stared after her for a long moment. It wasn’t just her hair. Jill taught him to notice women’s fashions. Today she wore a fitted white blouse instead of one of the oversized sweaters she usually draped
herself in. Skinny jeans were tucked into a pair of high leather boots. It was as if she’d been kidnapped by one of those television makeover shows. She looked … great.

He swung his chair around to face his computer screen. Jackson didn’t wait to be invited inside. Closing the door behind him, he wedged himself into the narrow guest chair. Normally Alex would have offered him the more comfortable leather chair, but he didn’t feel like being courteous. If Jackson was here to smooth things over, that was his choice. He could suffer.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jackson’s big voice boomed.

Clenching his teeth, Alex bristled at the question. He hadn’t expected Jackson to soft-pedal his approach. That just wasn’t his style. But still, who the hell did he think he was?

“Working. What about you?”

Jackson folded his arms across his chest. Alex could feel the weight of his glare but refused to look up. As if that would be enough to discourage his partner.
Yeah. Right
. It would take more than that for the big man to butt out.

“I’m trying to stop you from committing career suicide, you dumb shit. You’re one stupid son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” The ironic inflection was not lost on Jackson.

“Guess so, since we both know the answer.”

“Then why don’t you get on with it? Say what you need to say. I’ve got work to do.”

If the venomous edge to Alex’s voice caught Jackson by surprise, it didn’t show on his face. The wide lips were firm, and he looked like a lecturing principal.

“Me? Oh, I don’t need to do anything to beat you down. You’re doing a damn fine job of that all by yourself.”