Catch & Neutralize (6 page)
Read Catch & Neutralize Online
Authors: Chris Grams
“We can get rid of both if we work together.” The handsome young man ran a hand down his tie, straightening it. He wore an engraved nametag:
Scott
.
Sucking in an ice cube from her otherwise empty glass, Dr. Tiffany Bell considered the idea. She had never disliked—
hated—
anyone so much in her 28 years of life. Had never been treated so badly by anyone. Plus there was the other thing, the worst thing a grown man could ever do.
But get rid of someone? Murder someone with her own hands? Or in this case, two someones? Was she even capable?
Dr. Bell crunched on ice. It disintegrated as she pondered Scott’s offer.
The sun sank below the mountains, casting an orange glow over the horizon. She drew her jacket tighter, arms wrapping around to keep the chilly breeze from penetrating her core.
Scott sighed and switched feet. Pulling a phone from his pocket, he checked the time. “I’ve got to get back to work. People aren’t going to seat themselves. I’ll send over another drink while you think it over. No charge. Come see me before you leave.”
As Scott started away, Dr. Bell stood grabbing her handbag. “Wait,” she called over sounds of the noisy restaurant patio.
He stopped and turned, eyes inquiring. “Yes?”
“I’ll do it,” she said pushing her glasses up. “Let’s start tomorrow. Angie first and then Stockton. They deserve this.”
Un-freaking-believable!
Phalanges “Angie” Carter grabbed her handbag and stormed down the Hollite Coffee skyscraper hallway. Her spiked heels clacked against polished marble.
She jabbed the elevator down arrow. Crossing arms, Angie let out a noisy sigh.
Garry Steinberg, what an obnoxious asshole!
She was sick of this assignment. She was sick of
him
.
With a ding, the doors slid open and Angie stepped inside. As the outside world blocked from view, she stepped out of her five-inch heels, and grabbing one with each hand began hitting the pitted metal walls.
Grunting and screaming, each swing caused more damage than the next. The elevator finished its decent. Angie slipped back into her shoes, and as the doors whished open, she straightened her skirt. Entering the parking garage, she wiped the glistening sweat pearls collecting above her lips.
Angie started towards her spot on the parking structure’s furthest side. She paused at Garry Steinberg’s new
Vice President
parking space. His name stenciled, the yellow paint still wet. Teeth clenched, Angie rummaged through her handbag finding a bottle of nail polish appropriately named
Piping Hot
. Raising it above her head, she slammed it down over the cheery painting of Garry’s name. Nothing happened. Angie picked up the tiny bottle with glass thicker than it appeared and checked it for damage. A blood-red hairline fracture smiled at her. Angie flung the cracked nail polish container again but with more force this time.
The bottle shattered, making a bizarre pattern of red-on-yellow. It looked like an artistic blood-spattered painting of Ronald McDonald. A laugh more like a cackle burst from Angie’s open mouth. The sound, abrupt and loud, made her jump in the garage’s silence. She retrieved a clear plastic box of metal thumbtacks she’d taken from the supply room. Walking around the paint splatters, Angie sprinkled the tacks for good measure.
“Fuck you, Garry, you perverted fuck face,” she spat emphasizing each f-sound. Her lips, the color of smoldering firewood, were still sore from yesterday’s plumping injections… that and the impromptu attack.
Angie Carter, a woman well trained in self-defense. Her instincts urged her to beat the shit out of Garry Steinberg. She’d kept herself under control for as long as she could, longer than she’d thought possible. As Garry’s assigned secretary, Angie put up with a lot of BS. She’d complained about him several times, but no formal investigation had been ordered. As the founder’s son, he apparently wasn’t capable of anything as crude and unacceptable as sexual harassment.
Yesterday, Garry called her into his office and asked her to close the door. Angie figured he was going to bitch about something. Something little and stupid, such as not rearranging his pens at the end of the day. Seriously little, seriously stupid. Garry liked having all his company pens stacked with the Hollite Coffee logo facing outwards. His explanation: “So clients will see it as soon as they enter my office. It’s important to keep the fine Hollite Coffee brand in their minds.”
She’d fought an eye roll with a smile and nod. Angie doubted anyone looked at his ridiculous pen setup when they entered his office. Well, maybe if they needed a pen.
But yesterday, Garry didn’t complain about anything. After closing the door, he asked her to check a document on his desk. He stood by the window. After reading the error free memo, Angie turned and was face to face with Garry. He’d snuck up on her, attempted to kiss her.
She tried wriggling free, but he wouldn’t let go. He just kept getting closer and closer, arms gripping, hands everywhere. Angie’s instincts took over, and she head-butted him. Hard.
During the exchange, Garry moved just enough so Angie’s mouth connected with his chin. Today her lips were bruised, swollen, and appeared to have undergone a failed cosmetic procedure.
You’re going down, Garry Steinberg. All the way back to hell where you belong. You’re not going to keep doing this to me. I can only take so much, and I’ve reached my limit.
The corners of Angie’s mouth slid upward. She liked giving herself pep talks under two conditions: the first being failure, the second being inadequacy. Angie strived for perfection in all areas: physically, mentally, emotionally, and intellectually. Anything less, she considered a personal attack on her character and abilities.
She should’ve known what Garry was up to.
Should. Have. Known.
Into her prized Sepang Blue Audi R8 Spyder , Angie revved the V10 engine before squealing out of the garage and into the near blinding sunlight. Snatching tortoiseshell sunglasses from the console, she shielded her eyes from the harsh beams. She missed Mark and hated when he had to go out of town. He kept her grounded, kept her feeling sane. It soothed her knowing he’d be back in a few days.
Heading west towards Macaroons, an overpriced restaurant-bar in Tumbleweed Forest, Angie snuck a peek at her reflection. She pushed her sunglasses up higher and made a mental note to schedule a brow waxing appointment.
Why so much useless hair?
Angie sighed, beaten again.
On the drive, her thoughts circled around Garry Steinberg. He was nothing, a peon in the grand scheme of things. An obnoxious moron and sleaze machine. But still, her task required her to get close and find out details of a bank robbery. Garry wasn’t clever enough to pull off something like that, in her opinion, but the job required information. In order to get that information, she had to be nauseatingly engaging. Playing his air-brained secretary wasn’t the worst part. Having to sweet talk him, having to pretend to like him, having to smile while he eye-molested her body… collectively the worst part. Then there was Pilfer, but he was something else, a different mission entirely.
Perhaps Steinberg thought Angie tried making moves on him (
Pffft. Yeah, right.
). She supposed that’s why he’d taken the nonexistent invitation by trying to kiss her. She’d felt his pointy little tongue trying to poke its way into her mouth. And his breath, Oh God, his breath – it was like a mint scented turd. It took all Angie had to not dropkick the arrogant little prick. He’d been lucky to escape with just a bruise on his revolting, dipshitted face.
Too difficult for Angie to admit she’d made such a terrible mistake. Who knew one little head-butt would cause such a ruckus? Angie. Angie should’ve known better. Knowing people, how to deal with them was her job. A job that paid well. Very well.
“I hate you, Garry,” Angie now said in the privacy of her car. “You don’t deserve to be Vice President of Marketing for Hollite Coffee. You deserve a giant foot in the ass.”
She felt the heat of a scowl, but it didn’t show. The expensive injections in her cheeks and forehead defied expression.
On this shitty mission for three months and still nothing, not a single word about a bank robbery. Something has to happen. And soon. I can’t take this shit anymore.
Angie sighed and wiped her lips as if Garry’s saliva still coated them.
“I’m going to make you talk if I have to beat it out of you!” Angie yelled. Her right eye danced with spasms. Her revulsion for Garry, like most annoyances, had morphed into anger the moment he’d opened his mouth. He enjoyed spewing sexist remarks as though he didn’t live in an age where a woman could knock him down and keep him there. He’d never get used to women like Angie.
She arrived at Macaroons and parked her Audi facing the mountains. Sunshine illuminated the landscape’s natural beauty in an assortment of rusts, pinks, and corals. A soft breeze blew Angie’s golden strands like fluttering streamers. Aromas, delicious and almost visible, permeated her nostrils. Her tongue moistened as she entered the three-story building.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Carter. Will you be dining with us today?” The question came from a young man behind a podium. A tag of engraved script pinned to his suit coat cast a shadow against muted silver. It announced the name Scott.
Angie flashed a smile, pausing to verify his name. “No thank you, Scott. I’m going out to the patio.” She moved past him, a gentle squeeze of his arm as she went.
Angie located her usual seat. At a high-backed bar stool facing the mountains, she tossed her handbag onto wooden planks lining the guardrails. The careless motion caused a few items to spill out. Swiping at the contents, she vowed to never buy another handbag without some type of closure. Angie’s lipstick, compact, and cell phone slid back into the small leather pouch.
Crossing legs, the silky skirt climbed a couple of inches. She didn’t mind. The crisp, high-altitude air caressed and soothed her legs. Other customers could either enjoy the free show or look elsewhere.
Taking in her surroundings and other patrons, her mind drifted from one mission to another. Just one tiny assignment tonight, and then off to wait for her sweet love, Mark. At least, one tiny assignment so far.
“Hello, Mrs. Carter. It’s so good to see you. Would you like the usual?”
Pretending to be irritated by the reference, Angie turned to see an older man with the name tag, Richard, smiling at her. She recognized Richard as the customary bartender of Macaroons Patio Bar. His gray hair fluttered in the breeze and the clean scent of aftershave hovered around him.
“I would like an Appletini, please. Thank you, Richard.”
“Yes, ma’am, coming right up.” Richard bowed his head before heading back to the bar.
Scott Dovy’s twenty-two-year-old eyes followed. He loved watching Mrs. Carter walk, legs shapely as a gymnast’s. Another rich bitch he’d like to seduce, but so far it was a no go. Phalanges Carter, otherwise known as Angie, barely spoke to Scott and always looked at his name tag first. It was as if she didn’t speak to him every time she came to the restaurant, which was
at leas
t three times per week and
never
for the food.
What a pretentious cunt. I bet she thinks her shit don’t stink, probably had her asshole surgically modified so she doesn’t have to shit.
Looking down at the podium, at the glossy sheet of available tables, Scott chuckled at the mental image of Mrs. Carter sitting naked on the toilet struggling to take an anus-free dump.
His mind traveled to what she might look like wearing nothing but lacy panties before shifting to the arches of her feet. Anyone reading his mind at that moment would know Scott was thinking about Mrs. Carter’s toes, about how they’d most likely feel like velvety flower petals against his tongue. He’d bet they tasted sweet and nutty like honey roasted almonds. Imagining sucking on her toes, a soft moan rumbled up his windpipe.
Tiffany L. Bell, Ph.D. escorted her tearful patient, Shirley Graves, to the restroom. Mrs. Graves insisted upon washing her face, as always, before leaving. It was one of her many rituals.
“You’re making definite progress, Shirley. Keep your chin up,” Dr. Bell assured. “We’ll find a solution for you, one that fits perfectly. I’ll see you next week, but please call me if you need to talk before then.”
Shirley Graves flashed a weak return smile, gray curls bouncing with a nod. “I’m not going home right away, Dr. Bell. Think I’ll go out for some
me
time. Maybe do a little shopping or get a pedicure or a haircut, then maybe a late lunch.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Maybe I’ll do all of those things. Leave the Old Fart to fend for himself awhile.”
Shirley’s husband could be described as a horrible man, an evil tornado of brutality. Although she’d never admit it to anyone, Dr. Bell believed he was getting what he deserved from the person he’d treated the worst.
Tiffany hugged her patient, telling her: “I think that’s a wonderful idea. You deserve some time for yourself.”
Shirley seemed to recharge from Tiffany’s agreement. She stood up straighter clutching her purse tighter. A grin played the corners of her mouth as she closed the restroom door.
Checking her watch, Tiffany decided she’d leave after dictating Shirley Graves’s clinical note. When she heard the door leading outside close, Tiffany hurried into the waiting room and locked it. At her desk, she adjusted the headset connected to her computer. Sliding dark framed glasses up, Dr. Bell began dictating.
“Clinic note for Mrs. Shirley Graves, colon, November twelfth, comma, twenty sixteen, period. Mrs. Graves presents today for ongoing treatment, period. Her sixty-eighth birthday was yesterday, comma, and her five living children have planned a surprise party, period. Mrs. Graves states they think she doesn’t know about it, comma, but she is looking forward to visiting with them, period.
“Mrs. Graves is still afraid of her husband although he is no longer capable of physically abusing her due to unsuccessful back surgeries, period. Mr. Lionel Graves is currently in a wheelchair without hope of being able to walk again, period. Mrs. Graves states her husband fell from a building seventeen years ago while working in the roofing industry, period. She describes suffering from verbal and physical abuse by her husband for the past thirty-nine years, period. She hates seeing him suffer, comma, but is glad he can no longer hurt her physically, period. The verbal abuse, comma, however, comma, continues, period.
“I suspect there is something else going on in this relationship, comma, something having to do with their firstborn, period. Mrs. Graves states their first child, comma, Courtney, comma, disappeared when she was five-years-old, period. She states there was a police investigation, comma, but nothing ever came of it, period. No arrests, comma, and a weak investigation in her opinion, period. I believe, comma, Mrs. Graves knows more than she’s telling, period. I plan to explore this further in our upcoming sessions, period.
“Mrs. Graves has become goal oriented with ritualistic routines, period. Some of these routines are meant as punishment for her husband, comma, such as spitting in his food during preparation, comma, flicking his head in the middle of the night, comma, and sticking out her tongue whenever he asks for help, period. She also states, comma, quote: I sometimes fart on his pillow when making his bed, and I make sure he sees me do it, period, end quote. Additionally, comma, Mr. Graves needs assistance getting on and off of the commode, period. Mrs. Graves confessed she will sometimes leave her husband sitting on the toilet for hours after he’s finished, period. Mrs. Graves will turn up the volume of the television so she won’t have to hear him calling out, period. Often times, comma, she states, comma, quote: I ignore Lionel for a while, period. When I finally go help him, comma, he is sometimes asleep and sometimes the old coot is crying, period. Sometimes I wish he’d just die, end quote. She seems remorseful about this behavior and way of thinking, comma, but doesn’t believe she can stop, period.
“I reassured her wanting to perform these actions seems quite normal under the circumstances, comma, but she should definitely stop, period. I also warned Mrs. Graves that such behavior can escalate into radical behavior, comma, the worst being murder, period. She expressed surprise at this, comma, and guaranteed she could never do such a thing, period. At this point, I agree with her, period.
“Mrs. Graves’s other routines are quite normal, comma, such as brushing teeth and bathing, period. I have recommended Mrs. Graves see a psychiatrist for possible addition of medication to help through emotional recovery, period. She has agreed, comma, and I have provided a referral to Pascal Junis, comma, M, period, D, period. Mrs. Graves is to continue therapy sessions with me as well, period. She has a standing appointment every Friday, comma, which she has reliably kept for the past two months, period.
“End of note, period.”
Removing the headset, Dr. Tiffany Bell quickly proofread the words glowing on her laptop. No errors.
A cocktail is what I need, a cocktail and a plan.
With Shirley Graves’s issues twirling around her mind, Tiffany vowed:
I can’t control other people’s lives, but I can certainly help them. I will never let anyone treat me like that. Never.
Unplugging her cell phone from the charger, she noticed a gray stain on the carpet by the bookcase. Sliding the phone inside her purse with wrinkled brow, she bent down and ran a finger over the discoloration. The remnants felt sticky and warm.
“Disgusting,” she mumbled bringing the gooey residue towards her face for a sniff test. Gagging and eyes watering, she collected herself and ran into the bathroom. Her urgency wasn’t to vomit, but to wash the gray substance from her index finger. It felt hot and tingly and was starting to hurt.
Tiffany found a small blister forming where the gray matter had been. The delicate skin, red and itchy, throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
“What the hell is this? How did it get in my office?” Tiffany demanded in the yellow glow of the mirror, more confused than angry. She rubbed her eyebrow with a middle finger, taking care not to let anything touch the blister.
At the bookcase, she checked the gray stain again, this time without touching it. There were no clues about what it was or where it had come from. Nothing dripped from the ceiling. Nothing stuck to the bottom of her shoes. No windows were open.
Dr. Tiffany Bell grabbed her purse and headed out the door, deciding to contact a professional cleaner about the stain. She had important stops to make before heading to Macaroons, both a pickup and a drop-off.
Outside, a cool breeze rustled leaves, pulling some to the pavement below and pushing them against the building. Dry leaves rattled along the walkway, a crinkly crisp taste of freedom.
Tiffany tightened her jacket against the chill. Her Mazda CX-5 SUV waited submissively with its gray paint shimmering in the late afternoon sun.
