Killing Streak Read online

  Killing Streak

  by Merit Clark

  A Jack Fariel novel

  Smashwords edition. Copyright © 2013 Merit Clark. All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Dedication

  For Byron Clary, wherever you are, for leading me on the journey.

  Chapter 1

  Evan Markham’s wife called three times while he was busy with Vangie. He always looked, in case the calls were important, and then dropped the phone back onto the rumpled bed next to them. Corie could wait. The girl beneath him could not. She lay face up, blindfolded and gagged. Her knees were spread wide and he’d tied her ankles high on the bedposts so her ass was in the air. Her arms were behind her back with the wrists handcuffed together. It looked very uncomfortable, not that she seemed to care. Instead, her focus was on the vibrator he used to touch her instead of his hands. The toy made soft humming sounds and she made high-pitched whimpers each time he took it away.

  Every time his phone rang, she shook her head violently from side to side as he broke contact to check it. Her frustration amused Evan. He considered calling Corie back, having a long conversation while he touched the bitch just enough to keep her hanging, one stroke short of release. But it was eleven thirty and he only had another half hour to play before he had to clean her up for lunch with new clients at one.

  Vangie had asked for this in the emails she wrote, very explicit pornographic messages in which she detailed in fractured prose exactly what she wanted Evan to do to her. For two years she stalked him like a corporate groupie, squeezed into cheap animal prints at conferences and sending provocative pictures of herself in black leather thongs straddling a Harley. She promised to be a willing slave if he gave her a chance, and at least she hadn’t lied about that last part.

  But Vangie Perez was a business contact and Evan was scrupulous about keeping the different areas of his life separate. His wife, Corie, was beautiful, intelligent, loyal, and sexually curious. He had no need for Vangie. Until recently.

  He took what he wanted silently and then Evan was struck with an inspiration. Ignoring Vangie’s frantic head shaking and groans, he left the bed, walked into the small kitchen, and got an ice cube. That was something Corie used to like, being touched with cold ice at precisely the right moment.

  It was hard to believe now that he used to do these things to Corie. He’d maneuvered his wife past her comfort zone gradually, over the course of years, but in the end he’d pushed her too far. It was exciting, taking someone classy and innocent like Corie to so many dark places. Although it came at a cost.

  When he untied Vangie’s ankles her legs flopped awkwardly onto the mattress. He released the handcuffs but she still didn’t move. Evan was overcome by a rush of memories and felt the old, familiar tingling anxiety in his gut at the sight of a lifeless woman. Other than the fact that there was no blood . . . Evan felt dizzy. His breathing grew harsh and then he was angry with her. “Get up. You need to take a shower. I’ll pick out something for you to wear.” He slapped her thigh to get her moving, nothing soft in his voice or his touch.

  Where Corie was fashionable, Vangie had trailer park written all over her. Her hair had been bleached too much and looked cheap so he sent her to his stylist who dyed it dark brown and changed the style to a straight, sleek pageboy. She hadn’t minded the makeover, just as she didn’t mind anything he did. He was already bored.

  From the closet he selected one of the expensive designer suits he’d bought her, hung it on the doorknob, and set out a pair of peep-toe high heels. She’d probably complain about wearing the pale blue wool because it was too scratchy and hot. Tough. He pulled out a suit for himself, too, from the clothes he kept in the grimy duplex he’d rented quickly for Vangie when she’d left the husband she wasn’t supposed to have and showed up in Denver. Instead of bondage and discipline they were supposed to be preparing for an important lunch meeting, but Evan didn’t really need any preparation. He knew forward and backward what he was going to say. What he didn’t know was what he was going to do about Vangie.

  When he heard the shower running he called his wife back. Instead of Corie a man answered. “Who is this?” Evan asked.

  “Mr. Markham?”

  Evan considered for a moment before he answered. “Yes. Who is this? Where’s Corie?”

  “Mr. Markham, this is Detective Jack Fariel with South Metro. There’s been an incident at your house and we need you to come home immediately.”

  Evan’s grip tightened on the phone. “An incident? What happened? Where’s my wife? Is she all right?”

  “We need you to come home,” Jack repeated. “How far away are you?”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Within the hour.” Evan ended the call. Why was a detective answering his wife’s phone? He glanced around the room, saw the ties he’d used to restrain his girlfriend now hanging limply from the bedposts and the various implements of pain—or pleasure, depending on your point of view—on the nightstand. What kind of incident?

  He joined Vangie in the shower. “Move. I’m in a hurry.”

  “We have plenty of time,” Vangie said.

  “I’ve decided you should take the meeting on your own.”

  “What? Why?”

  He showered quickly, got out, looked in the mirror, and rubbed his face. He could get by without shaving. “I’ve set out your clothes.”

  “What happened? It’s your wife isn’t it? What does she want this time?” Vangie stepped out of the shower and started drying off.

  He regarded her naked body critically. Full, perfect breasts he’d paid for, brownish nipples, round belly, striping from the punishment he’d inflicted on her
back and fat ass that wouldn’t show once she was dressed, long, wet hair framing a pudgy face. “Make sure you do your hair and makeup the way I showed you,” he said. “You need to look professional.”

  “Evan, I don’t want to take the meeting on my own. Why can’t you stay?”

  “Something else has come up. You’ll be fine.” He combed his hair and applied some cologne.

  “I’m not fine. Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” Vangie’s whining tone grated on his nerves.

  “Look.” He turned away from the mirror and faced her. “I wouldn’t leave you on your own if it wasn’t important. That’s all you need to know right now.” He left the bathroom and started dressing in a dark blue pinstriped suit, white shirt, and carefully knotted, red silk tie.

  Evan wasn’t a lawyer himself but he made a lot of money off of them. His consulting business specialized in helping resorts defend against lawsuits. Ski resorts in particular benefited from his services and Evan had recently helped one in Utah avoid a hefty settlement. In this particular case a ski instructor had crashed into a guest while performing an aerial trick at high speed. The guest suffered broken bones and the force of the collision sent her skidding into a tree. With Evan’s help, the resort had managed to dodge any financial responsibility. He was skilled at reconstructing these kinds of accidents and testifying about them in court. He also knew how to present himself as a very likeable guy juries could relate to.

  Now representatives from another big resort had flown to Denver to meet with him and Evan was going to have to miss lunch and send Vangie on her own. It would have to do. He’d laid all the groundwork. All she had to do was show up and be pleasant. He would circle back with them later that afternoon.

  Vangie followed him into the bedroom and watched him as he dressed. “Is there anything in particular I should say or do?”

  Evan thought that the less she said the better, but he didn’t need her all pissed off. “You know what to do. You’ve been in dozens of these meetings with me.” It was true. To explain her presence he’d passed Vangie off as his assistant and had been including her in business functions when Corie wasn’t around.

  “You’re ready.” He walked over and put his hand under her chin. “Don’t you trust me?” He looked down at her—he was six foot and she was maybe five-three—and forced himself to smile.

  It worked. She beamed back up at him. “You really think I can handle it on my own?”

  “I do.” He kissed her quickly on the forehead—never on the mouth—and then critically examined himself in the full-length mirror. A detective would notice everything. Evan’s blond hair was still damp, but it was short and would dry quickly on the drive home. There wasn’t a mark on him—no scratches, bite marks, or other incriminating signs. He looked like a successful businessman in his Brioni suit, well-shined Allen Edmonds shoes, and custom-made dress shirt. And that’s exactly what he was. Among other things. He wore a gold wedding band on his left hand and a Cartier watch on his wrist. Other than that, no adornment. Evan loathed jewelry on men. His hands were neatly manicured. With his blue eyes and smooth skin he looked safe and conservative. A man you could trust. His looks had always served him well.

  At his house he found chaos—several police cruisers, an unmarked sedan, and a crime scene van. This was major. The police had secured a perimeter and set up a command post where an officer stopped him and asked for identification. Evan kept asking about Corie but no one gave him any information.

  “Mr. Markham?”

  A tall man, well over six feet, in a charcoal gray suit approached Evan. He was in his mid-thirties and moved with the loose, easy grace of an athlete. He wore his dark brown hair a little longer than most of the other cops, who seemed to favor buzz cuts, and he was clean-shaven. None of those goatees or soul patches or other facial hair configurations Evan found so silly.

  The detective flashed his badge and introduced himself. Jack Fariel. The man who answered Corie’s phone.

  “Where’s my wife?” Evan asked, for what felt like the twentieth time. “I want to see her.”

  “Your wife is fine. I need to ask you a few questions before I let you see her.” Jack indicated the unmarked sedan. “We can talk in my car.”

  Evan didn’t know where they had sequestered Corie. Perhaps in the big police RV parked at the top of the curving drive. He knew they wouldn’t let him see her until after he’d given his statement. The cops wouldn’t want the two of them collaborating on a story. But sitting in a police car was as good as being in custody. In the backseat of a cruiser you were essentially a prisoner, locked in with no door handles. Evan wasn’t sure about unmarked cars but he balked all the same. “Is there some other place we could talk?” he asked.

  Jack’s eyes, under heavy dark brows, were flat and expressionless. “You can come down to the station if you prefer and we can talk there.”

  That would only delay things further. Evan wanted to see his wife. He didn’t want to waste the rest of the day waiting in an interview room until the detective got around to him. “Car I guess.” Evan slid into the front passenger seat and Jack didn’t object. Probably figured he had plenty of backup nearby if Evan tried anything hinky.

  “When was the last time you saw Brice Shaughnessy?” Jack asked.

  “Brice?” Evan blinked at him. So that’s what this was about. “Last night.”

  “What time?”

  “Nine thirty,” he said after a short pause. It was best to be as specific as possible. Cops got suspicious when you were vague.

  “You didn’t see him this morning?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone else other than your wife on the property this morning?”

  “No.” It wasn’t technically a lie.

  “Where were you early this morning?”

  “What time exactly?”

  “Why don’t you explain your whereabouts from nine thirty last night until now?”

  Well, it was a nice try. Evan took a steadying breath and spoke carefully. Corie didn’t know about Vangie and it wasn’t like he could count on a cop to be discreet. “I normally go for a run very early, before it even gets light. But today I had an important meeting so I skipped the run and was working with a colleague to prepare.”

  “We’ll need his name.” Jack pushed his notebook towards Evan along with a pen.

  “Her name.”

  Jack didn’t say anything but there was the slightest narrowing of those flat, dark eyes. He watched Evan write on the pad. “What time were you with your colleague?” To his credit he spoke without a trace of irony.

  “From midnight until an hour ago. I left right after I talked to you on the phone.” Evan watched the detective for a moment to let that sink in. The other man didn’t react. “Except for a couple of hours when I left to play golf with a client.”

  “What time did you play golf?”

  “We had a six-thirty tee time.” He told the detective where they played and wrote down all of the pertinent information. He didn’t want to involve Roger D’Ambrose but it couldn’t be helped. “My clients are very important people. I consult with them on lawsuits.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The reason I mention it is that we discuss confidential information. Sensitive information.”

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  “No.” Therefore attorney–client privilege didn’t apply. Evan was more worried about the revelation of Vangie than he was about trade secrets, but there was no reasonable way to ask the detective to keep that quiet. His wife was going to find out. He was going to have to deal with it. Humiliating that it was Vangie.

  Jack looked at the information Evan had written, and if the cop recognized D’Ambrose’s name, he didn’t give any indication. His gaze returned to Evan. “So when I go to the club and view their security footage from this morning, you’ll be on there?”

  Evan met his eyes. “Of course.”

  “Do you have any plans to go out of town?” J
ack asked.

  “No. May I ask what happened?”

  “How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Shaughnessy?”

  Right. Only one person got to ask questions. “What do you mean?”

  “It seems to me that’s a pretty straightforward question, Mr. Markham.”

  “He’s a friend of my wife’s. We’re letting him rent our guesthouse month-to-month while he looks for a permanent place to live.”

  “Do the three of you spend a lot of time socializing?”

  “Not really.”

  “But you saw him last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “My wife suggested I join them in the guesthouse for a drink and I did, to appear friendly.” The moment it was out of his mouth Evan regretted it.

  Jack watched him. “Mr. Markham, I’m sorry to have to inform you that Brice Shaughnessy is dead.”

  “Dead?” Since he’d let it slip that he only “appeared” friendly there was no reason for a phony display of grief. “How did it happen? Is Corie all right? She’s much closer to Brice than I am.”

  “We’re trying to figure out exactly what happened. Your wife wasn’t harmed.”

  “Can I see her now?”

  The detective took a moment before he answered. And it wasn’t an answer, it was a request. “We’d like to take a DNA sample and fingerprints from you. For elimination. Your wife already gave us hers.”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  For the first time Jack’s face shifted out of neutral. He smiled. “As a matter of fact I do.”

  Chapter 2

  Jack yanked at the metal latch securing the RV door and simultaneously let out a disgusted sigh. The door was jammed. As usual. “Great.” He yanked harder and took an abrupt step backward when the door suddenly gave. He almost knocked his new partner, Serena Owen, down.

  “Jeez Jack, I’m sure she’ll keep.”

  He grunted in response and took the two short steps up in one long-legged stride. Serena followed him inside where there were too many people for Jack’s taste, including his lieutenant, Danielle “Dani” Hayes, a stubby woman closing in on fifty. Jack’s eyes slid past everyone seeking Corie Markham, but Dani insisted on a word.