Chapter 12
Light shines through my bedroom window. I sit up and my head immediately starts pounding. Shit! I drank too much; I thought I swore I was never doing that again. Damn it, Jessie! Every time we get together, I end up with a hangover from hell.
Looking over at my alarm clock, I notice the glass of water and bottle of pills. How did those get there and how did I get in my bed? I open the bottle of pills and take a couple, washing them down with the water. I think back to last night; I remember sitting at the bar, Jameson showed up, and then he offered to take me home. I guess I managed to get the directions out and give him my keys. It’s pretty much blank after walking out of the bar.
My phone starts to ring. “Hello,” I answer groggily.
“Hi, honey, did I wake you?” He sounds chipper this morning.
“No, I just woke up, Dad.” I get up from my bed and go into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.
“I checked into those names you gave me; I knew they sounded familiar.”
That perks me up. “What did you find?” I grab a coffee mug out of the cabinet and pour myself a cup of the hot, steaming goodness.
“I arrested them a few times back in the 80s, but they always wore these denim jeans jackets with red skulls on the back. Called themselves that too: Red Skulls. They were young kids, early twenties, trying to be some type of gang. There were a few of them, maybe six or so, but they eventually fizzled out. An incident happened that we always thought they were involved in, but could never pin it on them.”
I blow on my coffee and take a sip. “What incident?”
“I have to go; your mom is calling me. Go to the station and ask for the file on the cold case in 1987. There should be files on the Red Skulls. Love you.” He hangs up before I get a chance to reply.
My dad might just be a genius and he might have broken Jeffers and Smith’s case. I rush through my shower and head to the police station. I show the dispatcher my badge and she buzzes me in. I don’t really need to show it; everyone here knows who I am since both of my brothers work here, as well as my dad for the last thirty years.
I take the elevator to the basement of the police station. Hannah, the clerk, is sitting at her desk. “Hey, Hannah, can I get the cold case file from 1987 and the files on the Red Skulls?”
She smiles. “Sure, Kylie, right this way.” She stands from her desk and I follow behind. This is where they keep every file from every arrest, murder, or any criminal activity, so there are rows upon rows of boxes. It takes a long time, but finally we make it to the fifth aisle. “Here it is.” The name on the box reads Kincaid, Emily.
Kincaid? Is this the woman Jameson was talking about at the charity ball?
She hands me the box, then we go down more aisles until she finds the other box I was looking for, and then I follow her to a table. We set the boxes down and she leaves me to go through the files.
I open the cold case box first and pick up a picture of the crime scene. The woman is lying in a puddle of blood in an alleyway. It’s a gruesome scene. I lay the picture to the side and grab the police report. I skim through the details and the one thing that stands out is that her ten-year-old son Jameson was with her when it happened.
Oh my God! I cover my mouth with my hand. Emily Kincaid was his mom! She was violently raped and murdered right in front of him. He told the police that he never got a good look at the men, so they never had any suspects and there was never any evidence found.
The police always believed that the Red Skulls were involved, but they could never put it on them. I go through the rest of the box, looking for anything that stands out, but find nothing.
I put that box aside and open the Red Skull’s box—there’s multiple files. I open each one and the first five are our five victims from Jeffers and Smith’s case. I open the last file, and it’s of a man—George Barrett. He looks vaguely familiar to me, but I can’t place him; maybe when I was an officer I arrested him. It looks like he has a hefty record of drug possession and other minor arrests. I need to find out where George is at now.
I put all the files back in the correct boxes, take them back to their places on the shelves, then I go talk to the dispatcher. “Hi, I need you to tell me if you have a current address and phone number for a George Barrett?”
“Let me look for you.” I watch quietly while she types the info in on her computer. “No, I’m sorry; he has no known address or phone number. I do have a contact for a relative by the name of Diane Barrett.”
“Does she live in New York?” I tap on the counter anxiously, hoping that I can find him before he is killed too.
“Yes, she does. I’ll write down her number and address for you.”
“Great, thank you so much!” I wait a couple of minutes for her to write down the information, and then I walk out of the station, get back in my car, and drive to my parents’ house.
“Dad,” I yell through the house.
“What?” He comes rushing out of his office in a panic. “What’s wrong?”
I smile and hug him. “You are a genius!”
Laughing, he hugs me back. “Your mother would disagree with that. Did you go to the station?”
“Yes! Let’s go in your office.” I take quick steps to the room he just came out of. “Emily Kincaid was Jameson Kincaid’s mom. And...the police suspected the Red Skulls of her murder. Five of the six have been murdered and I need to find the last one. George Barrett.”
“You think someone is seeking revenge for her death?” His brows pull down. “But…why wait 20 years?”
“Yes, and I don’t know.” He sits at his desk and I sit on the opposite side.
“Do you think it could be Jameson?”
Shaking my head, I reply, “No, I recently met him; I don’t get the feel of serial killer from him. But...if I can find George, then maybe I can keep him alive and get him to admit what they did.”
My dad stares at me. “Good luck with that, honey. He has been in and out of jail most of his life. He’s an addict, homeless, and moves around constantly.” He sits back in his chair. “Plus, we interrogated him—and the rest of those lowlifes—years ago, and not one of those men would say a word.”
“But… It’s different now—all the others have been murdered. Maybe he will want to save himself. I have a number for his next of kin.” I pull the paper out of my pocket, along with my phone, and dial the number.
An older woman answers. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Diane Barrett?” I bite my lip anxiously.
“Yes, who is this?”
“This is Detective Kylie Sanders with the New York police department. I’m calling about George Barrett.”
“What has he done now, or did something happen to him? Is he dead? I watch the news and read the paper. I’ve seen those men my brother used to run with all getting murdered.” Her voice grows frantic with every word.
“Ma’am, please calm down. He hasn’t done anything that I know of, but I am trying to locate his whereabouts—I wanted to ask him some questions about his former associates.”
“I don’t know where he is. I can’t allow him back in my house. He stole from me to get those drugs he’s hooked on. The last I knew, he was squatting at an abandoned house.”
“Do you know where?” Finally, after talking with her for several more minutes, she gave me a potential location. I hang up with her and turn my attention to Dad. “I have a possible location. I’ll check it out Monday and have Jones go with me.” I tell him that so he won’t worry, but I’m not really supposed to be working this case and I don’t want Jeffers or Smith to take credit if I can solve it.
I stay for dinner and spend some extra time with my parents before heading home. By the time I leave, it’s late and I’m ready for bed. It was a long day, but productive, and I’m happy with the new information I received.
I get home, park my car, and ride the elevator up to my floor. Something isn’t right when I get to my front door. It’s unlocked, but I always lock my door when I leave. Pulling my gun from the holster, I push my door open. It’s dark inside—I can’t see anything, so I flip the switch.
“Ahh!” I scream.
Jameson sits in the chair across my living room. “Hello, Rayven—or should I call you Kylie?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, pointing my gun at him. “I could arrest you right now for breaking and entering. How did you get in here?” My hands shake with fear.
He sits cool, calm, and collected with his hands laced together. “When you fell asleep last night your purse fell; I found your badge and driver’s license.” His brows furrow. “How did you think you made it home? You fell asleep before telling my driver where you lived.”
“I couldn’t remember.” What the hell is he doing? Is he a stalker? Oh, God, what if he really is the killer?
“As an officer of the law, Kylie, maybe you shouldn’t drink so much.”
“Detective. You haven’t answered my question—what are you doing here?”
“Well, after I took your spare key home, I thought about you and what it means that you are a...detective.”
“You took my spare key?” My eyes widen on him. “Why are you a stalker?” I shake my head and wonder if he is psychotic. He stands from the chair and moves a few steps closer. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” I yell.
He chuckles. “You won’t shoot me.” He keeps coming closer.
“Yes, I will!”
“Didn’t you think it was strange when I showed up at the bar, or how about when you were eating lunch?” I turn as he walks past me and shuts my front door. “How about at the ball when I disappeared, then what happened?”
“Why would I think it was strange? You had reasons why you were in those places, and the ball…I thought you needed fresh air, you were upset.” I think back to those days. I was texting with Mr. Freedman right before he showed up. At the ball, he disappeared and then I got a text. “No!” I gasp.
“Is it clicking now?” His black eyes connect with my greys.
“You’re Mr. Freedman?” I ask in disbelief.
“I am,” he says simply. “You are the only one besides Magdalene who knows my identity.”
“Why tell me?” I drop the gun to my side.
“There’s something real between us, Kylie. I feel it and I know you do too.” He invades my space, standing tall and stern. “Put the gun down now.”
“I don’t want to.” I try staying confident, but he’s making my resolve evaporate.
He leans in so his mouth lightly touches my ear. “You have nothing to fear from me. Put the gun down.” I lower it to the ground and set it beside our feet. He kicks it away.
“Are you the killer?” Bringing my eyes up to meet his, I wait for his answer.
“No,” he deadpans.
I’m so confused right now. I don’t know if I should believe him or not, yet my body isn’t confused at all—it wants him. I never suspected Jameson and Mr. Freedman of being the same person; what kind of detective does that make me? I can’t even see clues when they’re right in front of my face.
“I see your fear, Kylie, but at the same time your greedy cunt wants my cock right now. You finally know who I am, and you want me to take you.” My breath hitches. “Tell me, are your panties soaked for me? Is your pussy throbbing for me to fuck it?”
“Yes,” I whimper.
“Assume the position, Detective Sanders.” His rough hands spin me around and he pushes me against the wall, then spreads my arms and legs wide for him.
“How bad do you want me, Kylie?” His erection presses against my back. His hands move under the hem of my shirt, move up my back, and his fingers expertly unclasp my bra. He pulls the shirt over my head and let’s it fall to the floor; my bra joins it next as his lips kiss my bare flesh.
“Jameson,” I mewl and claw at the wall I’m pressed against.
“You know how long I’ve waited to hear you call out my real name?” he questions before his tongue runs down my spine.
My breaths come out heavy. “No,” I respond.
“Since the first time we met. I knew you didn’t belong working for Magdalene; that’s why I bought you. I didn’t want anyone else having a chance with you. I wanted you for myself.” Jameson reaches around my waist, unzips my jeans, and removes them along with my wet panties. “You never answered my question, Detective Sanders. How bad do you want me?” he asks as a finger runs through my slit.
I moan. “Bad.”
“Bad, what?”
“Bad, sir. I want you so bad.” I close my eyes and press my forehead against the wall.
“Good girl.” He pushes two digits inside of me. He pumps achingly slow. I push my ass back some, silently begging for more. The smack lands perfectly on my ass cheek and I cry out at the stinging burn. He rubs the tender flesh, trying to soothe it away. “Stay still.”
He continues the slow torture, moving his fingers in and out, but adds a third, stretching me. My orgasm builds, and he moves faster. “Come for me, Kylie,” he whispers into my ear. His words send me over the edge and I scream his name, trying to stay standing on my shaky legs.
Jameson turns me around, takes me into his arms bridal style, and carries me to my room. He turns the light on and lays me on top of my comforter, his eyes never straying from mine. I watch, mesmerized, as he undresses, revealing all his tattoos.
They tell a beautifully tragic story. A boy, happy, holding a woman’s hand; a boy crying with blood at his feet; Roman numerals; and many more throughout the design.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me as he climbs up my body.
“So are you.” I lay my palms against his cheeks and stare into his eyes. Our lips crash together, tongues dance to an unknown rhythm, and Jameson lines up to my opening and slowly begins pushing his way inside.
Our mouths stay connected as his body rocks against mine. It feels different than the others, more intimate, passionate, and loving. His rhythm is calculated and deliberate with each stroke he delivers. A heat deep in my core starts to build higher and higher. I pull back from the kiss, my lips swollen. “Jameson!” I cry out. My nails dig into his back.
His glazed eyes stare into my hooded ones. Bringing one hand up, I lay it against his cheek once again. He closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them up I see right into his soul. I’m falling in love with this man. He drives us both into an earth-shattering release that leaves us both breathless and sated.
He rolls off me, breaking our connection. I turn to my side so I can face him. “I’m happy it was you.”
His gaze moves from the ceiling to me. “I’ve always been afraid to turn out like my father, and in some ways—like business—I’m exactly like him. He was never around much because he was working all the time; he left my mom when I was eight. I watched what it did to her and I never wanted to hurt another person the way he hurt her.”
“That’s why you started going through Magdalene?” I question.
“Magdalene and my mom were friends. I think for a short time my mom had started working for her because we had no money. She would have done whatever she needed to, to provide for me. She never even tried to get a dime from my father, even though he had millions. He never offered to give any of it, either. After my mom died, I lived with my aunt and uncle and when I was twenty-one, they gave me a loan so I could buy out my father’s company. I ran him out and left him with nothing, and within a year I paid the loan back. As I got older, I stopped letting people get close. I don’t trust easily, but it makes it hard to have a relationship when you are so closed off. I still had needs, as any young man, and I knew what kind of business Magdalene ran, so I went to her and became a client.”
“You trust me?” My brow arches.
His hand comes up, palming my cheek. “Yes; I remember the look on your face, that smile you had when I texted you at the ball.” His thumb skims across my bottom lip. “I said you looked beautiful. I knew then that it wasn’t for money, it was real and genuine. I want you in my life, Kylie. I can’t promise we won’t ever have problems, but I can promise I’ll always be there.” He’s being so open and honest; this rough man is being so gentle.
How could I not start falling for him, even if I wasn’t supposed to?
“Jameson.” Tears pool in my eyes. “I want you too. I’ve wanted you from the start, and you can have all the money back that you gave me.”
He chuckles, “Keep the money.” He leans over, giving me a chaste kiss.
“Stay with me,” I practically beg him.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep.” He pulls me close. I lay my head on his chest, and he runs his hands up and down my back. Soon, I’m falling into a peaceful sleep.