Phobia KDP (15 page)

After that he stopped trying to fuck girls. Instead, he just fucked with their heads. He plied them with alcohol and drugs until their memory of the night was nothing more than a hazy blur. And then the next morning, when they asked what happened the night before, he’d make up stories so they thought he was a champion lover.

And sometimes, every once in a while, he’d hire a girl to play out his fantasy. The whore would struggle and scream and say “no,” and Lochhead would fuck her.

It was the only way he could do it. The only way he could get hard enough.

But he wore the mask of an experienced womanizer for the rest of the world. It was a mask he carefully donned every day. A mask that protected him.

And he feared Artemis Herne was going to tear the mask from his face.

The woman who sat across from Morales reminded him of his third grade teacher, Miss Heberling. She’d been his most frightening teacher, her moods unpredictable. On good days she’d been vivacious, her red hair almost a halo of energy as she pushed the class into activities and games. But on the bad days her mouth snarled at every student who asked a question, and she’d scream with demonic viciousness. Every morning when Morales arrived at school, he checked Miss Herberling’s clothing. If it was pressed and clean, it would be a good day. But gravy stains and rumpled shirts meant bad days. Very bad days.

The woman in his office was having a very bad day.

“That bastard is using drugs,” she said. “I know he’s snorting cocaine up his big, fat nose.” She clasped her hands in her ample lap, and Morales noticed a mustard stain on her skirt. He could smell the grease on her breath, a scent that told tales of potato chips and nachos and fried doughnuts. Yes, this woman was having a very bad day.

“What would you like me to do?” Morales asked.

“Find out if he’s using drugs,” she said. “I need solid evidence, like photographs or video. I’m going to divorce that son of a bitch. And if I can prove he’s using drugs, I’ll take him to the cleaners. He’ll be paying me so much alimony, he won’t even be able to afford crack.”

Morales wanted to hurry her through the paperwork. She had to sign the standard agreement and provide him with a retainer. She hesitated when he told her his hourly rates. And he sat silently, appearing calm and collected, as she slowly read through the contract.

But once the agreement was signed and the check was in his hand, he almost pushed her out the door.

He had other business that needed his attention—
personal
business—and he was impatient to get started on it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Herne sat in the driver’s seat, the windows of his truck closed tightly as the air-conditioner blew cold against his face. He’d been stuck in stopped traffic for just ten minutes, but it felt like ten days.

On the radio, Johnny Cash sang about shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die.

Herne thought about the deaths he had seen. The deaths he had caused.

He’d drawn his weapon a dozen times during his first year with the Philadelphia PD. By his second year on the force, he had shot and killed two criminals. One of them, a teenage kid with a bad drug habit, died at Herne’s feet.

He saw the realization of death in the boy’s brown eyes. He saw the mixture of dread and fear.

Herne faced death many times during his career. Druggies who died from overdoses, gang members who died from gunshot wounds, drunks who died in car accidents. They all wore the same expression when death beckoned. Their eyes revealed their emotions of panic and excitement and terror.

He wondered what they saw when they crossed over. A bright light? Pearly gates?

Or just darkness. Nothingness. Emptiness.

The ring of his cell phone broke into his thoughts. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead, and he turned up the air-conditioner until it felt frigid.

“I’ve got the news on your SUV,” Saxon said.

“Give it to me,” Herne said.

“It belongs to a Robert Morales. He’s forty-one, Hispanic, divorced, and the father of a seven year old girl. He’s self-employed as a private investigator.”

“A private dick? That’s interesting.”

“Most of his clients are husbands or wives trying to catch a cheating spouse. He apparently spends a lot of time doing surveillance.”

Traffic began to creep forward. Herne lifted his foot from the brake and let his truck inch along the highway. He glanced at the car next to him and saw the impatient scowl of a businessman. The man had a Blackberry in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He drove with his knee on the steering wheel and rarely looked up through his windshield.

Just another rodent in the rat race,
Herne thought.

“Anything else?” Herne asked.

“Yes. Morales’ office is just down the hall from Lochhead’s practice.”

“Great work, Lieutenant.” As soon as he said the words, Herne bit his tongue.
She’s going to think you’re patronizing her,
he thought.

He was surprised to hear her amiable response. “Thank you. Do you need anything else?”

“Not right now.”

After he hung up the phone, Herne realized that Saxon never called him by his name. In fact, she never called him anything at all. Not Artemis. Not Art. Not Mr. Herne.

At least she doesn’t call you “Asshole,”
he thought.

The mellow voice of George Jones filtered through the radio, singing about a man who loved a woman until the day he died. Herne gripped the steering wheel and stared at the bumper of the car that crept ahead of him, focusing his eyes on the vehicle’s red brake lights until his entire field of vision appeared tinted crimson.

Bethany hated blind dates. They presented a whole range of possibilities for assault, attack, and rape.

But Janice, her co-worker, had insisted. Janice was the only woman in the whole tax office who was nice to her. She was the only one who invited Bethany to lunch or chatted with her in the break room. Janice didn’t know about her fears. And Bethany wanted to make sure it stayed that way.

So she agreed to go on a blind date.
If I take enough precautions,
Bethany thought,
I should be safe.

And she had taken precautions. Plenty of them.

She and her date, Patrick, had spoken on the phone. Bethany used a public pay phone for the call because she didn’t want Patrick to know her home phone number. They had agreed to meet at Woo’s Garden, the Chinese restaurant in Hurricane. It was a busy location. There would be plenty of people around. Parking was available on the street, so she could safely walk to her car after the evening was over. She planned to park it at least a few blocks away so her date would not be able to identify her vehicle. If he knew what type of car she owned, he could find her and attack her in the future. And just in case he followed her, she had smeared some mud over the license plate to obscure the letters and numbers.

Bethany was prepared with her standard accoutrements. A canister of pepper spray hung from her keychain. She wore a gaudy ring on her right hand; its purpose twofold. Its thick metal and big stone would act as makeshift brass knuckles if she needed to defend herself. Moreover, the ring hid a tiny pepper spray canister that she could operate with the tip of her thumb.

She hadn’t told him her phone number or address, and she had no intention of revealing them tonight. But Bethany was determined to act as normal as possible. Janice was her only friend at the office, and Patrick was Janice’s cousin. If Bethany made a mistake during the date—if Patrick caught a hint of her fears—she might lose her only friend at work.

She chose her outfit carefully, wanting to look as if she were prepared for a date while still wearing clothes that made her feel safe. She opted for casual sneakers in case she needed to flee from an attacker. Her khaki pants and short-sleeved shirt were both plain and comfortable. Nothing was too loose or flowing, which could trip her if she had to run. Nothing was too tight, either, since snug clothes would restrict her movements if she needed to defend herself.

She tied her long hair in a ponytail and, satisfied with her appearance, prepared to meet her date.

Daniel Gray reminded Herne of the typical college jock, though the crinkles around his blue eyes and the extra weight around his midsection indicated that his school days had faded as surely as his hairline. He invited Herne into his home, which was tastefully decorated with dark wood and even darker fabrics, giving the home a masculine atmosphere. The faint odor of cigar smoke hung in the air.
Expensive cigars
, Herne thought.

“My ex-wife had the place done in frilly shit, like ruffles and pink feathers,” Gray said as he led Herne into the den. “After she left, I had an interior designer redo the entire thing. The designer was gay, of course, but everything turned out pretty cool. Nothing homo about it.”

Herne looked at a statue that sat in the corner of the room. At first it appeared to be nothing more than an abstract swirl of metal. Then, like an optical illusion, it almost seemed to be two men in an embrace. Herne blinked, and the statue became a twist of metal again. He smiled to himself.

“So you came all the way from Hurricane? I’ve only been there once, back in college. I went home with Peter during Thanksgiving. Cute little town,” Gray said.

“I just need to ask you a few questions about Dr. Lochhead and the weekend of the wedding,” Herne said.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?” Gray asked, his bushy brows knitted together.

“What makes you ask that? Is he the kind of guy who
would
do something wrong?”

Gray’s hearty laugh bespoke confidence, but Herne detected an underlying emotion. Nervousness.

“No, of course not. But we all have our failings. Our appetites…” Gray trailed off.

Herne waited for him to continue, wondering if Gray might reveal a secret insight into Lochhead. He felt himself growing impatient, and his teeth clenched with his desire to urge the man to speak. Herne tightened his hands into fists to prevent himself from reaching down Gray’s throat and pulling out the words the man had censored. But then he saw Gray shake his head, and Herne knew the gate had been closed.

“I mean, Peter’s not the kind of man who would kill someone or anything,” Gray said. “But he might, you know, make a pass at some underage girl or something.”

“Does he have a taste for young ladies?” Herne asked.

Gray was silent. Again, Herne had to resist the impulse to shake the words out of the man. Instead he waited patiently, hoping for an answer. But a mask fell over Gray’s face, and he asked, “So what do you want to know about Peter?”

“I’m curious about the weekend he was here for your daughter’s wedding,” Herne said.

A smile crossed Gray’s face, showing even, white teeth. As far as Herne could tell, the teeth were real.
Probably cost a fortune in orthodontics
, he thought. He touched his own incisor with his tongue, crooked since high school when he got kicked in the mouth during football practice.

“Cordelia’s wedding,” Gray said. “It was great. My little girl had the perfect day.”