Sugar & Spice (12 page)

Keyth had begun to massage my hard nipples and I felt myself sliding down that slippery slope to ecstasy. His hands were the masters of my body's sensuality. They felt so good, so erotic, yet sensitive and strong. I couldn't help responding to them.

“Pertinent to what, detective?”

Keyth's hand had found its way to my moist crotch, touching my sensitive spot. I let my neck fall back as I gave into my body's beckoning.

“Pertinent to the three murders you're working on. A few days ago, we got a 911 call, but no one was on the other end. We sent a squad car to the residence and found a bloodbath. Three women had been beaten with a bullwhip and dismembered with a chain saw.”

When Detective Thompson said that, I felt like I had just been awakened with ice cold water. I removed Keyth's hand from my crotch and sat on the edge of the bed.

“What?” I said in horror.

“Three of them, Agent Perry. Now you've got three. What's interesting is, we found three men dead at the bottom of the bluff right behind the mansion. And get this: one of the three men, Jasper Hunter, had had sex with one of the murder victims. Her name was Paula Stevens. Apparently they were having a serious fuck festival.”

“Why do you say that, detective?”

“Because the coroner found traces of Sandra Rhodes' vaginal secretion on one of the victims' tongues. The trace evidence shows pool chalk and green felt material on Sandra Rhodes' clothing and on her ass. It looks
like Heather Connelly was performing cunnilingus on Sandra while her live-in boyfriend Jasper Hunter was bangin' Paula Stevens. Her vaginal liquid was on his penis. We found carpet fibers on both knees. The killer must have walked in unexpectedly and it was another Heiter Skelter. Blood was splattered on the walls from the body parts being thrown against it. Weird as hell, Agent Perry.”

“Yes, it is. Here in D.C., it's the same and it's different. It's like the killer is angry with some of the victims and not angry with others. Almost as if they're two different killers. Maybe one is a copycat,”

“Maybe. Another thing. The bullwhip that the perp used came from Australia. It's made of…”

“Kangaroo hide,” I finished his sentence.

“Yeah. Must be an Aussie.”

“Not necessarily, Detective. The killer purchased the bullwhips on the Internet and had them shipped to a PC) box at one of our local post offices. My partner and I are going to check it out in the morning.”

“What the hell is going on?” Thompson asked.

“I don't know, Detective. I just know that women are being beaten with a bullwhip and dismembered.”

“Yeah, But why aren't the men being whipped and dismembered?” Thompson asked.

“Only one man killed here so far. And he was beaten with the whip,” I told him.

“I've got three murdered men who weren't beaten.”

“This is getting more and more weird,” I said.

“I couldn't agree with you more.”

“Detective, I sure would like to get a look at that crime scene.”

“I can fax you photos and a copy of everything we have if you like.”

“I like.”

Before hanging up, I gave Thompson the fax number and my home phone number just in case he thought of something else. I also gave him my email address so I could see colored photos of the victims.

I found myself asking more questions. Why kill Louis and Kathy Perkins
in Washington, kill six more people in Malibu, then return to Washington, and kill again? Why didn't he kill all of the D.C. victims before going to Malibu?

I was ready to pick up where Keyth and I had left off. I turned around and he was fast asleep. I kind of laughed and shook my head. He'd gotten me all steamed up. There was a bit of a blaze between my legs and now he couldn't hose me down.

The fax machine was printing when I entered my office. Several sheets of the coroner's report were already in the printer carriage. I sat down in my black leather chair, and then began reading the pages as they came out.

The killer was extremely efficient. No trace evidence, no footprints in the Malibu sand, no sperm, not even a pubic hair was found on the scene. That was encouraging because that was exactly what we had. Victims and no idea who committed the crimes. Therefore, it was a foregone conclusion that the FBI, the Malibu and the D.C. police departments were all looking for the same man.

I hit the power button on my computer and continued reading the report while the computer warmed up. My desktop was a picture of Wesley Snipes in his outfit as the vampire hunter: Blade. Snipes was wearing dark shades, sporting a tight fade with circular tattoos on his head. Soon, small icons materialized on my desktop. I clicked on the America Online icon and continued reading while it loaded.

The coroner believed that a woman named Heather Connelly was the first to die the night of July 29. I frowned. That was the night before we came home from Universal City. I shook that coincidence off and signed on to America Online. A few seconds letter, I heard the software say, “You've got mail!”

I clicked on the mail icon and saw the e-mail from Detective Thompson.
I double-clicked on the mail he'd sent and it opened. Then I began downloading the photos onto my desktop so I could look at them without having to load the America Online software. As the photos downloaded, I continued reading.

I was thinking, blah, blah, blah, blah, as I read. I had already known everything the coroner had written. We had fresh stiffs of our own. But I continued reading anyway. Then I found myself smiling. The Malibu coroner concluded that either the killer was ambidextrous, or there were two killers at the Connelly mansion that night. One left-handed. The other right-handed. This was huge. I could hardly contain myself. We finally had something.

I had read the coroner's report of the Perkins murders but the Lawford and Hoffman autopsies hadn't been available. I hadn't pushed for it since we knew they had been cut to pieces while they were still alive. Now I wanted to know if there was more than one killer in Washington. I was almost sure there was. But what was the motive?

The Malibu coroner found massive amounts of cocaine in Heather Connelly's system. None in Paula Stevens. None in Sandra Rhodes. None in the men found at the bottom of the bluffs. Maybe it was about drugs. Maybe Heather Connelly was the ringleader in Malibu. Why not? Somebody had to be supplying the Hollywood crowd. Why not Heather Connelly? As far as I'm concerned, anything goes in Malibu, Beverly Hills, and Hollywood. It's like Babylon out there.

“Files done!” the America Online software announced.

I put the report on my desk and opened the photos. Under the icon of the first picture were the words Connelly Mansion. I opened it. The grounds leading up to the mansion were pristine—the lawn manicured. I could see red, white, and yellow roses just outside the front door. The next icon read: garage. I opened it and saw a photo of a thirteen-car garage. All the doors were open and I saw expensive luxury cars. Small drops of oil were visible in a couple of empty spaces where cars must have been.

The next series of icons read autopsy photos, back, arms, legs, torso, head, breasts, and vagina, in that order. I took a deep breath and exhaled.
For a second or two, I wasn't going to open any of the pictures. What was the point? I asked myself. I had seen the bodies of Sarah Lawford and Taylor Hoffman. Why torture myself? Incentive. Coco Nimburu had said that to me. It worked then and it would work now. I double-clicked on the torso and closed my eyes slowly. Heather Connelly had been lashed viciously.

I heard my husband walking down the hallway. It sounded like he was headed for the kitchen. He was probably going to get some Dole pineapples out of the refrigerator. It was his habit to eat fruit, especially pineapples, when he woke up. I shut the computer down. Since he had arisen from the dead, I saw no reason not to take advantage of his sculptured physique. In other words, I was going to get some.

I was naked and spread eagle when Keyth returned. The lights were on and he focused on my crotch. Using a fork, he ate a few pineapple chunks, then took a sip of the juice as he chewed. I could hear him smacking, He walked over to the bed and looked down at me. I smiled.

I said, “Be creative with the juice since you like it so much.”

He grinned and sat beside me. Then he put the bowl directly over my erect nipples and let the sweet juice drip on them. I sucked air between my teeth when I felt the cold beverage run from my breasts to my stomach.

“Cold, huh?” Keyth said.

“Uh-huh.”

With his moist warm tongue, he lapped at my breasts. The sensation made me shiver. I felt my desire for sex increase significantly. I wanted a quickie. I wanted to do the nasty badly. I wanted to do some reckless, old-fashioned thrusting with my husband. Keyth liked to build on the foreplay. Don't get me wrong, I love foreplay, but at that moment, I didn't need it. I needed immediate penetration.

I pulled Keyth onto the bed and almost yanked down his drawers. His erection stood tall and proud. Normally I would have had to ease down so as not to hurt myself. But not then. I just plopped down on his pole, taking all of him. The fit was snug, like it was made specifically for me. I felt Keyth starting to move with me, but I didn't want that. It was messing up my rhythm.

I said, “Don't move. Just relax. Let me do this.”

Keyth put his hands behind his head and watched me pleasure myself. I'm not going to lie. I wasn't thinking about him at all. This was for me. This was what I wanted. This was what I needed. I felt my orgasm building like a campfire, which was threatening to become a four-alarm fire. I moaned and squeezed my nipples, completely oblivious to everything in the room, including my husband. It was just me, his hardness, and my sensitive nipples.

I felt my orgasm release, but it was just a small one, nothing like the one I was going to have. This one was only the prelude to the eruption that was to come. After the initial orgasm, my furious gallop increased in speed and ferocity. I could hear my moans growing in magnitude, in volume, in intensity.

“Savannah gon' wake up, baby,” Keyth warned.

I didn't care if I woke up the dead. I was about to explode and that's all that mattered at that point. If we got caught making love by our daughter, we would just have to explain that this was what married adults did and that there was absolutely nothing wrong with it.

I shuddered a little when my orgasm began. Then, as it released itself fully and completely, I screamed like a woman in an Alfred Hitchcock film. My legs felt so weak that it was all I could do to roll off my husband. I was through, but Keyth wasn't. He needed to be taken care of now, but I wasn't in any condition to help him out. He would have to get it on his own. I was done. Finished. Through.

Keyth climbed on top of me, put my limber legs on his shoulders and thrust himself inside me as if he were drilling for oil. Soon, I felt my orgasm building again, which I knew wouldn't take nearly as long as the first. I began moving with my husband. We were one, pulling back, and then thrusting at the exact same time. He was moaning. I was moaning. It was absolutely incredible. I could feel sweat pouring off Keyth's back. It was that intense. And then I came again—powerfully—so did my husband. After we caught our collective breaths, we laughed loudly.

As I walked Savannah to school, I asked her how she felt about Sarah Lawford's passing. She assured me that she was doing okay. I was skeptical, however. I wondered if that had something to do with her fighting. I had told her she could fight to defend herself and others, but I wondered if it was a reaction to the violent death of a teacher she'd loved who lived right across the street from us.

I had asked both Savannah and the babysitter if they'd seen anything. Neither did. The window of Savannah's bedroom faced Sarah Lawford's house. For all I knew, she could have been looking across the street every night at bedtime, letting frustration and anger fester. And if she was anything like her mother, she had a quick temper, though I'd never seen it. But like they say, “The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.”

I met with Anthony George, principal of Henson Academy. He informed me that he had already gotten one of the female teachers to paddle the two girls and Savannah. Mr. George went on to explain that since the girls understood what they had done, a light whack on the rear was all that was necessary. That was because Henson had a strong fast rule that if there's a fight, all the principals get a lick or two. Savannah didn't complain about the paddling and Mr. George had handled the matter, so I left the academy feeling good about the situation.

I walked back home and got into my Mustang. It was my turn to pick Kelly up. We had a rendezvous with the post office on Pennsylvania Avenue, which was only a few blocks from Sterling's hotel.

I called Kelly's cell. I could hear her and what sounded like Sterling laughing. I hoped she was ready. She had been with him since about six-thirty the night before. That should have been enough time to take care of all her needs.

“Hello,' Kelly said.

“I'm about a mile away. You ready?” I asked pleasantly.

“Somebody got a little last night, I see.” Kelly said.

“I get mine on the regular, Kelly,” I said. “And it's still good.”

“Normally I would want all the details. But I have details of my own.” Kelly laughed.

“Just be downstairs when I pull up. I have some interesting information from a Detective Thompson out in Malibu.”

Kelly McPherson was standing in front of the Willard when I pulled up to the entrance. She opened the door, picked up the faxed copies I had gotten from Detective Thompson, and hopped in. I whipped right back into traffic and proceeded to the post office.

“Any photos?” Kelly asked.