EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder (15 page)

"I sense a first class trip to Hawaii or
Jamaica," Lisa Hamilton said enviously.

"Close. Try the Cayman Islands."

"They all sound pretty damn good to me,"
said McDonald.

"I'll bet they do," quipped Penchant. "Maybe
your day to win will come soon."

"One can only hope," McDonald said.

"That's why we're all here, isn't it?"
Valdez asked. "We're all hoping to make our dreams come true with a
little extra on the side."

"Absolutely," said Judge Armstrong.
"Speaking of which, I think it's time to focus on our next case.
Why don't you get us started, Detective?"

All eyes shifted to McDonald. He opened his
briefcase.

* * *

"Our suspects are Frank and Gwendolyn
Hawthorne," detective McDonald said, passing copies of their mug
shots around the table. "They were arrested three weeks ago after a
traffic violation revealed both were persons of interest in a
string of rape/murders across the state. Nancy Majors,
twenty-eight, left her job as a dental hygienist and never made it
home. Her nude, battered body was found in a creek three weeks
later. She'd been shot twice in the head." McDonald paused and
studied his notes.

"Alexandria Dandridge, twenty-four, was
abducted from a shopping mall," he continued. "Her remains were
found near the side of the road that night; killed the same way. So
was Connie Childress, a thirty-year-old mother of two last seen
alive at a hair salon. Her body was discovered the following week
in a vacant lot by runners two miles from her home. They were the
first ones killed by the so-called Death Corridor Killers, but
certainly not the last," he said. "We think we have the killers in
custody."

"Our firm was retained by the Hawthornes,"
attorney Hamilton said, glancing at her partner, Scott Valdez. "We
believe they're innocent, other than blowing through a stop sign.
And even that will be challenged."

"The traffic violation is the least of your
clients' problems," said Penchant. "As you've learned through
discovery, Frank and Gwendolyn Hawthorne are in big trouble. The
evidence links them to the brutal murders of at least seven local
women that we know of. And I hesitate to think how many victims
might be out there. At least we've saved future women from being
raped and murdered by this modern day Gerald and Charlene Gallego,
thanks to a head's up officer who was at the right place at the
right time."

"That's pure speculation, Counselor," Valdez
said tersely. "At best, you only have circumstantial evidence
against our clients and no murder weapon. When you find it, you'll
find the real killer or killers."

"We've already got them," insisted ADA
Knight, "missing murder weapon notwithstanding. It's only a matter
of going through the motions to prove it."

"And you'll get that opportunity in my
courtroom," Judge Armstrong said. "Unless, of course, both sides
work out a plea bargain."

"No way," Knight said. "We owe the victims'
family members the full weight of the law being thrown at these
two. That doesn't include being handed a soft sentence for
cold-blooded serial murderers."

"We're definitely on the same page,"
Penchant concurred. "The DA's office isn't in the habit of tossing
the defense a gift-wrapped plea to make their lives easier.
Especially when it's a case we feel we can win hands down!"

"We'll see about that," said Hamilton. "And
don't flatter yourself. We have no intention of depriving our
clients their day in court. There will be no sacrificing Frank and
Gwendolyn Hawthorne to spare the DA's office the embarrassment of
trying to railroad an innocent couple."

"Then it looks like we understand each
other," the judge said over his drink. "So be it. Now let's put our
money where our mouths are. Unless anyone objects, the twenty
thousand dollar ante stands. How long will it take the jury to
reach a verdict? The person who guesses closest to the actual time
wins. Ties are split. May the best man or woman walk away with the
cash!"

There were no objections.

* * *

Judge Walter Armstrong showed his guests
out, promising they would get together again soon.

He went back to the dining room, finished
off his bourbon, and refilled the glass. He took it with him to his
bedroom on the second floor.

Walter opened the closet door in his bedroom
and grabbed a box off the top shelf. He lifted the lid and removed
a plastic bag containing a pair of bloody shoes, gloves, and wooden
bookend. Walter stared dolefully at the items, thinking back to
that fateful day eleven months ago...

It was a quarter past ten on a Monday night
when he arrived at the house. Her BMW was in the driveway. He
walked past it to the back of the house, recognizing discretion was
of utmost importance.

Wearing gloves, he knocked twice, but there
was no answer. He twisted the knob and the door opened, inviting
him to come in.

In the kitchen, there was a kettle heating
on the stove. A cup and saucer sat on the table. He waited for a
moment, expecting her to come in.

She did not.

He turned off the burner and made his way
through the house to the sunken living room. She was sitting there
watching television. He admired her beauty, something he had come
to appreciate from the moment he first saw her.

It was then that Walter knew he had to have
Cassandra Baker.

She must have heard his shoes on the wooden
floor, as her head turned in his direction.

"How did you get in here?" she asked.

"Back door. I knocked, but there was no
answer, so—"

"So you decided to invite yourself in?"

"Something like that."

She stood. Barefoot, she was nearly as tall
as he was. She pulled her robe around her and tied it.

"I think you should leave," she said.

He stepped closer, expecting her to back
away, but she did not. "I need to see you, Cass."

"Why?"

"I miss you."

She wet her lips. "We've already been over
this. What happened between us shouldn't have."

"Don't say that." He would never forget the
touch of her soft skin, the taste of her lips, and making love for
hours on end.

"It was a mistake," she maintained. "I was
trying to get back at Thomas and you just happened to be there.
Let's just leave it at that."

"No, let's not!" He tried to keep his cool,
but was failing. "Dammit, I love you, Cassandra! What we
experienced was so beautiful. Don't turn it into something
ugly."

"I don't mean to," she said. "But this can't
go on. I'm involved with another man."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't!"

She stiffened. "Look, I'm sorry I don't feel
the same way you do. You need to get over it and forget about
me."

His face darkened. "I can't do that."

"You don't have much choice. Either stop
harassing me or..."

"Or what?"

Her eyes widened. "Or I'll get a restraining
order against you. How will you explain that to your colleagues,
Judge
Armstrong?"

His nostrils flared. "You wouldn't?"

"Do you want to put that to the test?" She
paused. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Do us both a favor and find some
other lonely wife to seduce. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to
have some tea—alone. Close the door on your way out."

He regarded her beneath knitted brows. "You
bitch
!"

"Well, I guess that makes you a bastard."
She laughed. "And a pathetic one at that. Now get the hell out of
my house and don't come back!"

The thought of never being with her again
was more than he could bear in that moment. In a fit of rage, he
grabbed a golf club leaning against the wall, raised it, and struck
her across the head before she could react.

Blood immediately spurted from the wound.
She looked at him with contempt and he struck her again and again
as she crumpled to the floor in agony.

He wasn't sure how many times he swung the
club. Only that by the time he was through, she was nothing but a
bloody unrecognizable mass. He released the club, still embedded in
his lover's head.

Now what did he do? Should he dispose of the
body?

His entire life flashed before him, even as
he felt satisfaction knowing that Cassandra would never humiliate
him again. Or be with another lover who would never appreciate her
as much as he could.

He heard a key in the front door. Looking at
the bludgeoned remains beneath him, he panicked. If someone should
find him there, his world would come crashing down around him. A
sitting criminal court judge convicted of murder and sent to prison
for the rest of his life, or worse, was something he could not
imagine.

They would eat him up inside.

He leaned against the bookshelf, hidden from
view as heavy steps came toward the living room.

Thomas Baker entered and saw his wife on the
floor. "Cassandra!" he screeched, and immediately went to her
aid.

Walter saw this as the answer to his
predicament. Why not frame the man who had caused Cassandra so much
misery? Given Thomas Baker's jealousy and quick temper, who
wouldn't believe he'd done away with his wife?

Grabbing a thick, wooden bookend off the
shelf, Walter crept up behind Thomas. By the time he heard a sound,
it was too late.

Raising the bookend, Walter brought it down
hard on the back of Thomas's head. He went out cold, falling flat
on his face beside Cassandra's bloody remains.

Walter had to get the authorities there
before Thomas came to. Spotting a cell phone on the coffee table,
he grabbed it and dialed 911. When the operator answered, he said
nothing; simply setting the phone on the floor near Cassandra's
head.

Taking the bookend with him, Walter walked
out of the room, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. He made
sure the front door was unlocked and then exited out the back door,
vacating the premises as if never there.

* * *

Judge Walter Armstrong looked at the bloody
shoes, gloves, and bookend—pieces of evidence implicating him in
the murder of Cassandra Baker. He hadn't been able to dispose of
them since they were all he had left to remind him of Cass, albeit
it in a hideous manner. If he couldn't have her, no one could. He
had seen to that.

He put the box back on the closet shelf and
closed the door. Finishing off his drink, he wondered who would win
the next jackpot between him and his colleagues. Maybe it was his
turn to play judge and jury. Again.

He salivated at the thought, his mind
focused on the woman who was once his lover before all hell broke
loose and the relationship was brought to an abrupt and bloody
end.

# # #

Following is a bonus excerpt of the
bestselling thriller eBook by R. Barri Flowers. Available in
Kindle, Nook, iTunes, and Audio.

KILLER IN THE WOODS

ONE

He hadn't planned to kill this one. But then
she caught his eye. Or more like his ear. A man would have to be
deaf not to have overheard the pretty, young Latina yapping away on
her cell phone in the booth across from his like she owned the
place.

"Can you believe I have to work tonight?"
She batted obvious fake eyelashes, as if dumbstruck at the notion.
"I'm gonna be there all by my lonesome just staring at the four
walls, girl. What a drag! Oh well, if I get too bored, I'll just
call Andres and he can keep me company...or at least his sexy voice
will."

He pretended to be oblivious to her
conversation while eating. Out of his periphery, he watched as she
headed for the cashier.

He waited a bit before following.

After paying for his meal in cash, he
stepped outside and breathed in the distinct smell of late summer
in the Pacific Northwest. It was just past seven-thirty and the sun
was beginning to set for the day, but it wouldn't get dark for a
while.

He spotted the object of his attention just
as she was about to get into her car. Without drawing attention to
himself, he moseyed over to his vehicle and followed her from a
safe distance.

The press had dubbed him "The Woods
Strangler." He would've preferred "The Man With A Serious Axe To
Grind," or better yet, "A Cold, Calculating Killer!"

Grinning, he looked in the rearview mirror
at his dark eyes staring back, before seeing the woman pull into an
office building's parking lot. For a moment, he considered it might
be too dangerous to go after this one. He hated the thought of
allowing his inner demons to rise above common sense and survival
instincts. But the adrenalin rush, dark impulses, temptation, and
opportunistic nature of the prey attracting the predator got the
better of him.

He caught the door to the building just
before it closed, but too late to catch the elevator—and her. He
glanced about inconspicuously, seeing no one and trying not to be
seen. Looking up at the numbers, he saw that the elevator had
stopped on the third floor. Scanning the small entryway, he spotted
the stairwell and headed toward it.

* * *

Sophia Pesquera opened up the Blossom Dating
Service and prepared for her routine of answering the phone,
working the computer, and greeting those who showed up at their
door for assistance in the competitive dating arena. She and a
girlfriend had started the business a year ago, eager to cater to
the upscale lonely, desperate, and just plain unlucky men and women
in Bluffs Bay where it concerned matters of the heart. It had
turned out to be a smart move as single, attractive, and highly
motivated people were only too happy to use their agency to try to
find love.

This included Andres Hernandez, an
advertising executive, who was incredibly good looking though
lacking somewhat in his social skills. Sophia had tried to set him
up with someone else, but his attention was solely on her. So what
could a woman do who had struck out herself in the love department
on more than one occasion?