Wrong Chance (36 page)

“You look…wow, you're gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” Her voice sounded like a chorus of angels. “You look good yourself. But then again, you look good to me every day. Hakeem, you know you're this kitten's meow.”

“What happened to your friend, Phoenix?”

She gave him a look. Translation:
Say the right thing, dammit.
“You sound disappointed.”

His eyes flashed. “Try the opposite.” A smile slid from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“I'm a Gemini, Hakeem. But you already know that. Phoenix Lovelace is my alter ego. So do I fit your requirements? Not too old, and I weighed in at a hundred twenty-five pounds this morning.”

“You've always been perfect, Aspen.” He took in her beauty again. “Let's dance.”

“Hakeem, dancing is just a cheap trick so you can hold me and imagine screwing me without actually fucking me and cooling down this feminine moisture gathering between my legs. I say we get out of here and skip the imagination part.”

A shot of adrenaline boiled his loins. He took her hand. “Where will our jobs end and our personal lives begin?”

“I don't think we can split it down the middle, but tonight our personal lives start in your bedroom. And in the morning, together, we'll decide what labeling you and me
we
will cost us.”

With those words, their sexual tension became a tangible living thing. A goofy smile spread across his face.

•  •  •

The short hairs on their bodies coiled under the coitus sweat. Each time Hakeem pushed into Aspen's never-ending heat, she bit her bottom lip.

“Feels good,” she whispered.

He nibbled her earlobe. “You like that, huh?”

“Yes, baby,” she whispered. Her hands on his behind, pulling him in deeper. “Yes.”

“Promise I won't stop until you feel how much I love you, how long I've been needing you.”

“I feel it, Hakeem. I feel it. I feel all of it.” She rolled him over
and straddled him shamelessly. “I've been loving you a long time too.” She cried and rode him. Rode him and moaned. Came and screamed his name like a spiritual mantra. “Hakeem, Hakeem, Hakeem. My God, Hakeem.”

They slept in each other's arms with Keebler sleeping at the threshold of the room. Hakeem finally got a good night's sleep.

O
asis pushed an ottoman over to Jazz and put her feet on it, then slipped her heels off. “Just relax,” he said. “Tonight is all about you.”

“That smells really good. What are we eating?” Jazz had gotten used to this. In the last five months she'd experienced what it was like to be treated like a queen, to be the object of someone's affection.

Handing her a glass of lemon tea, he said, “How about you let me surprise you.” He gave her a look that she'd told him made her feel ultra girly. “God, I love your eyes. I swear they drive me crazy, girl.” He leaned in and kissed each of her eyelids, then slid down to her awaiting lips.

And their mouths made love while he gently stroked her face with the back of his fingers.

“I love you, Jazz. Thank you for showing up in my life.”

She blushed. “You really mean that, don't you?”

“From the bottom of my heart.”

“I love you too.”

“Food will be done in, uh, give me twenty minutes.”

“I'll wait for you as long as it takes.”

The corner of his lips turned in to a smile. He put Monica's “Love All Over Me” on the sound system and went into the kitchen.

Jazz's cell phone rang. She fumbled through her purse for it. “Hello.”

“Dudette.”

The smile fell off her face. “Chance?”

“Winner winner chicken dinner.”

“What?” Jazz said with venom. “What do you want?”

“How does it feel to be the lone survivor of a serial killer? Enjoy the feeling until we meet again. I got a bad habit of keeping my word.”

The line went dead.

•  •  •

The weather along the shore of Port Elizabeth, South Africa, was upward of a hundred degrees. This was the type of heat that made people hate the greenhouse effect. Chance stood in his sandy backyard enjoying every bit of it.

Bridgette waddled up as Chance hung up the phone. “Who was that?”

“Just a loose end that needs tying up.” He kissed her. “How are you this morning, Mrs. Fox?”

“Hungry.”

Chance didn't have to imagine fucking the clerk of courts anymore. He rubbed her swollen belly. “Little Chance is hungry, huh?”

“So is his mother.” Then: “And I'm ready to hear the raw truth.”

Chance saw her anticipation. He recognized the unquenchable thirst of a predator lingering deep in her eyes. “Well, let's go inside and see what Daddy can do about that.” He knew the time was right to invite his new wife into the dark side of his world.

They turned toward their bungalow. When they got to their patio, Chance called over his shoulder, “Come on, Champ. Come on, boy.”

And their puppy Presa Canario came running.

M
arysville State Penitentiary for women. Cashmaire Fox was one of sixteen women on death row. She was led into an interview room in shackles and cuffs where Brenda McGinnis, the FBI profiler she'd worked with as a prosecutor, waited. Brenda nodded at Cash, then she turned a portable camcorder on.

“How are you holding up?” Brenda adjusted the camera's view, then took her place at the table in front of Cash.

“I'm thankful I'm not dead yet.”

“Can I get you something before we start the interview?”

Cash laughed, then stopped. “You can't get me what I want.”

“As you know, I'm Brenda McGinnis. I work for the FBI's Investigation Support Unit. Today's date is May twenty-third, two thousand fourteen. I'm here to conduct a voluntary interview with you for research purposes and scientific studies into the mind of a female serial killer.”

Cash nodded.

“Would you state your name for me?”

“Cashmaire Fox. I still use Fox even though I'm divorced. Habit. But my maiden name is Jones.”

“What I'm going to do is tell you what we know about the events and evidence that led you to death row and you can freely talk along the way.”

Cash nodded.

“You double majored in college. Graduated Summa Cum Laude. In combination with your law degree, you majored in Egyptology in which you learned the hieroglyphic language. Your term paper and dissertation was on ancient Egypt and the Nile Valley contribution to civilization.”

“Chance majored in Egyptology. His term paper was similar to mine. We studied together.”

“Three of your four Ohio victims, you went to school with and were friends with. The other was your boss.”

“Chance went to school with them too. They were his friends.”

“You hid the fact that you knew them from homicide investigators.”

“I was trying to leave my old life behind. And I didn't kill Marcus.”

“The gun that killed Marcus was found in your apartment with your fingerprints on it. Your fingerprints were also on hundreds of other personal items in the apartment.”

“I'd planned on committing suicide, so I bought the gun off the streets because we didn't own one. That's how my prints are on it. I left that gun in Denver along with all my belongings that were found in that apartment that I never stepped foot in a day of my life. Chance murdered Marcus, and he transferred all that stuff from Denver to Cleveland.”

“You were the last person seen with Yancee Taylor and Leon Page while they were alive.”

“Chance disguised as me was last to see Yancee. Unfortunately, I was the last person to see Leon alive. But the woman on tape entering my office wasn't me. That was Chance in disguise.”

“Yancee's urine and fecal matter was found in the trunk of your Infiniti.”

“A car that I hadn't seen or thought twice about since October
sixteenth twenty-ten when I walked away from Denver. I started my life over in Cleveland after the accident as Scenario Davenport. With that came a new everything, including a car.”

“The killings in Denver stopped when you showed up in Cleveland.”

“Chance followed me here.”

“You assaulted Janice Carter for abusing a cat when you were thirteen. Each of your Denver victims was animal abusers.”

“Chance hates people who harm animals. He protests against it. He became a veterinarian because of it.”

“Your DNA was found at two of the Cleveland crime scenes. Leon's blood was found on an outfit in your closet.”

“You mean planted by my husband. And I told you that wasn't my apartment.”

“Coins with your fingerprints on them were found in the pay phone you used to call the police tip line.”

“Ms. McGinnis, you mean coins that my husband took from my piggy bank in Denver and used when he called the hot line.”

“You falsified documents with the Cleveland Metropolitan Bar Association to practice law in Ohio. Then you engaged in misprision of a felony and prosecutorial misconduct when you attempted to try your husband for the murders you committed.”

“I. Did. Not. Kill. Anyone, Agent McGinnis. But, yes, I was trying to get my husband acquitted.”

“Cashmaire, you volunteered for this interview under the pretense you were going to tell the truth. If you're going to combat everything I say with a justification, then why am I here?”

“You're here so that for once in my life, I can tell the truth and have that truth studied in order to save my life.”

“And what is your truth, Ms. Fox?”

“That I have Complete Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome. I'm a female outwardly, but I have the chromosome pattern of a male. I don't have ovaries like you. I've never had a period. I have undescended testicles. Because of that, Agent McGinnis, I became a liar. A selfish habitual liar to conceal my freakishness. Those lies are the real reason I'm sitting here on death row.” She paused. “So if you want to study something, study AIS. Study low self-esteem. Study what it feels like not knowing if people will see you as a woman or the mutation of a man if they discover your secret. Then maybe you, as a
complete
woman, can understand why I became a liar. So I'm guilty of being a liar, but that's no more. I'm guilty of deception. I'm through with that too.” Cash turned to the camera and gave it a no-nonsense stare. “But I'm not guilty of murder. My husband, Chance Fox, set me up.”

The End

Everything that deceives may be said to enchant.

—P
LATO

Writers know that some stories should wait to be born.
Wrong Chance
gestated within the deepest part of my mind for five years, a safe distance from a premature birth. But now it is time, my creative water has broken. Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome captured my attention during an episode of
House.
An accidental viewing, I must admit. Researching the subject further fascinated my creativity. Research (a headache word) revealed that 14 percent of the world's women live with this rare condition and the challenges it presents in their day-to-day journeys. AIS + “What if this were to happen?”
= Wrong Chance.

It is not my intention to propagate any medical or terminology misrepresentations associated with AIS. Also it is not my intention to offend any person(s), any organizations, or any advocacy groups for women or couples living with AIS. It is my belief that all people are created exactly how they are supposed to be—perfect. So-called flaws are relative. My sole intent herein is to create compelling
fiction
with a fresh premise for my audience's enjoyment. Everyone, the key word here is “fiction.” I'm clueless about half the
real
stuff I write about. So if something rings true and correct, trust me, I did it by mistake. And I take full responsibility and blame for whatever is incorrect and whatever police procedures, law practices, and medical situational rules I bent to make the plot work. It is not an oversight of any authority named below.

On that note (DRUM ROLL HERE!), the following individuals have been instrumental with their contribution to
Wrong Chance.
It is my honor to give my infinite thanks to the following:

My wife, Javenna, who has learned that dealing with the everyday life of a career writer is a difficult and sometime stressful undertaking. But she straps her pom-poms on and cheerleads for me through it all.

Brenda Hampton, my agent, the ride continues. No one else can ever roll shotgun with me but you.

My team, the entire staff at Strebor Books/Atria/Simon & Schuster for your encouragement and support.

My editorial guru, Docuversion. You're an integral part of the writing process. I'd be a hack without you.

I'm indebted to Alice Smith for all that you do for my projects. You're the world's unsung wonder.

Other important contributors: Charles Allen, K. Jones Bey, and Troy Cleveland, my no-nonsense test readers. Fernard Strowbridge, my human informational vault. My source inside Cleveland's law enforcement who wishes to remain anonymous. Officer A. Maresca, who schooled me on police procedures while I was locked in the hole of Fort Dix Correctional Institution. Antoinette A. Lakey, my infallible legal eagle. Thank you all for lending me your knowledge in order to make
Wrong Chance
a plausible tale.

I am deeply humbled by the family I'm surrounded by. Eric Jr., Rashaad, Rasheed, Braxton, Brooks, Brendyn, Brandyn, Linda, Alice, Mary, Billy Sr., Autum, Billy Jr., Walter Sr. (RIP), Bertha, Charlene, Marie, Jakhai, Terrance Sr., Ashley, Jamillah, Mokey, Jeanette, Betty Jean, Zabree, Jordan, Jessica, Jasmine, Austin, Renee, Mikey, Terrance Jr., Mellisa, Carmallita, Lisa, Freedie, Lil' Ronny, Silence, C-Mack, Eric Downs, and the most precious of them all: my adorable granddaughters, Khloei and Kaliyah.