Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Electronic Release: September 2014

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

When up-and-coming fashion designer, Allie Nash, becomes the target of a serial killer responsible for a string of West Coast murders, Detective Ben Sutter and his partner are charged with protecting her. Evidence confirms the killer, accompanied by one of Allie’s former neighbors, is heading her way. But Allie, a semi-finalist in a prestigious fashion contest, stubbornly refuses to vacate her San Francisco home as she needs access to all her equipment if she hopes to have her designs ready in time for the competition.

Ben and his partner reluctantly agree to take shifts staying with Allie, as long as she plays her part and continues the telephone conversations she’s inadvertently been drawn into with the killer, a man she knows only as Dave. However, the danger escalates when Dave claims another victim on his way to San Francisco, leaving his trademark heart imprinted with
FOREVER MINE
on the woman’s body.

Terrified of encountering the psychopath, Allie turns increasingly toward Ben Sutter for strength and assurance. For his part, Ben has sworn off women in the wake of a toxic breakup. Still, he finds himself drawn to the attractive young woman he’s tasked to protect. On the night of the competition, the detectives have all the angles covered.

Or so they think.

To Frank and Julie

Prologue

Once the urge struck, nothing could dissuade him. Maybe a woman’s dark glossy hair triggered the impulse. Or perhaps her long, shapely legs tormented his brain until he found a way to get close. Of course, not every sighting demanded action. He was, after all, a specialist, fussy, you might say. No scattershot approach for him. His interest only peaked when the instinctual pull in his gut was so strong he could no longer ignore the rage it triggered.

He hadn’t killed a woman in almost two months. Thanks to Little Miss Nobody, he’d missed his best opportunity. Who’d have guessed she’d carried pepper spray in her purse and had the clear head and stealth to pump the trigger? Didn’t that describe women today, ramping up their defenses by practicing killer karate moves or taking aim with debilitating aerosol sprays? With the other subjects he’d chosen, once they’d realized they’d never wake to another dawn, their eyes had filled with terror, and they’d pleaded for their lives. Some struggled, which always heightened his exhilaration.

Miss Nobody’s eyes had also grown wide with a terrible knowledge. But instead of using her hands in a futile effort to fend him off, she’d dug into her handbag and pulled out the big surprise. The spray had stung like hell and nearly blinded him in one eye. It would have inflicted more serious damage if her aim hadn’t been somewhat shaky. That had given him a heads-up. Still, what was he supposed to do from then on, check every woman’s purse before he got down to business?

Business. He’d take care of it today after weeks of feeling like a mangy dog chained to a pole on a short lead. Oftentimes, he chose a part of the city thick with bars. Many drew the young, hip crowd, decompressing after a day yoked to the corporate beast. Amazing, in this day and age, how many attractive women were still trolling for a good-looking, well-dressed stranger offering to spring for a drink, thinking perhaps their future Mr. Right occupied the next bar stool. Instead, with him, Mr. Wrong caught their attention. By the time they figured it out, it was much too late.

As per his usual method, he headed for a section of Seattle where he had yet to score. The well-worn jogging path he’d chosen meandered high above an arm of Puget Sound and was bordered on either side by thigh-high shrubs and pockets of pine and leaf-bearing trees. He’d once had an apartment nearby and remembered the six mile stretch attracted the stay-in-shape-at-any-cost crowd, the kind who’d let neither wind nor rain keep them from punishing their bodies.

As so rarely happened, winter had taken a much-welcomed detour, allowing three consecutive days of pale sunlight to poke through the high, wispy clouds. Gray skies had given way to pale blue. Lately, he’d considered relocating south to warmer climes where sunshine was the norm and not an aberration. He supposed today would be the last chance to score before the weather closed in and forced him to accept defeat. However, his work here was not yet finished. He had some catching up to do.

Taking advantage of the day’s fine weather, he’d used the balmy air to guide his latest selection. To ensure success, he’d arrived in the early afternoon in order to scope out the jogging run. A fair amount of foot traffic had pounded by. Mostly jocks, but, occasionally, his eyes feasted on an attractive female. So far, none had either the hair or body type he demanded. Two or three smiled at him. One even tossed off a breathless greeting. Some women were so friendly, so trusting. Didn’t they read the newspapers or watch the tube? Oh, well, their turning a blind eye to the evils of the world worked to his advantage.

Meanwhile, he sat and observed from a wood-slatted bench, the dark churning water of the Sound to his back. He still had a couple hours to…kill. He thought then chuckled, deep in his throat, at his pun.

The sun warmed his legs and arms, seeped through his running shorts and T-shirt. A visored cap, pulled low, and sunglasses fostered anonymity. Shrieking birds glided high overhead on the air currents. The muted bellow of a ship’s horn intruded upon the serenity. Usually, he welcomed the familiar sounds but, today, like on those other special occasions, he found them annoying.

A time check warned of evening’s approach; he had less than an hour to make a connection. While he waited, he took advantage of the waning sun, tipping his face upward while his eyes remained vigilant beneath partially lowered lids.

A breeze kicked up, and he grew restless as another male jock jogged past. Then just when he was about to abort the operation, she entered his field of vision. In no time, she flashed by, iPod buds nestled in her ears. Her arms bent at her sides, her long, nicely shaped legs pumping, her dark ponytail swinging like a pendulum beneath her shoulders. A twofer.

A shock of excitement whipped through his body. He checked for foot traffic, saw none nearby. He uncrossed his legs and leapt to his feet. As he set off, he patted his back pocket, checking first the short length of nylon cord then the small heart-shape he’d cut from white tag board. Would this woman be his Forever Mine? He expected to find out soon.

The jogging trail wove through an area where wild shrubs grew in abundance. Well-canopied trees threw amoeba-shaped puddles of shade onto the path. At least a hundred paces separated the woman from the jock who’d conveniently just rounded a curve up ahead.

A burst of speed shot him forward. When he was almost neck to neck with her, he made his move. He clamped his hand over her mouth then dragged her off the path and into the bushes. Her arms flailed. One ear bud popped from its nesting place, and the dim strains of “You’re a Loser” escaped from the tiny mechanism. He’d never liked that tune.

Until now.

Chapter One

Contact with the police never landed anywhere near the top fifty of Allie Nash’s to-do list. Not even the time she’d spotted a naked guy across the street from her house, perched atop one of the sand dunes. Long hair whipping about his shoulders in the brisk Pacific Ocean wind, he’d strummed an air guitar and tapped his foot to the beat. Since he’d never bothered anyone, a meeting of her neighborhood safety patrol had led to the conclusion he probably posed no danger. At least he hadn’t carried a concealed weapon.

This time was different. The man was fully clothed, in a dust-streaked black sedan approximately sixty feet from her front door. He’d parked on her street twice in the past three days. On those other occasions, another man had occupied the car’s passenger seat. Too busy to give those sightings more than her fleeting attention, Allie figured them for a couple guys goofing off from work. Since she lived across from Ocean Beach, with the bulk of the city behind and to the east, her street was usually quiet, with little foot traffic. Still, a persistent doubt poked at the back of her mind. Not suspicious by nature, she was, however, aware no San Francisco neighborhood was immune to crime.

Two years before, her neighbors had been robbed in broad daylight. A bogus moving van had pulled up to their front door, and the thieves removed TVs, computers and even some of the furnishings. The break-in had prompted several people on Allie’s block to form a neighborhood safety patrol. Since then, the only disturbances came from the usual hum of traffic on the Great Highway—the four-lane thoroughfare parallel to and separated from Allie’s street by a shrubby median—or a few rowdies who occasionally hung out at night at the beach. However, according to the
San Francisco Chronicle
robberies recently had taken an unhealthy upward swing, and the police strongly advised citizens to renew their vigilance.

Allie debated calling a safety patrol meeting for the coming evening. Or maybe she shouldn’t wait too long and should notify the police right away. She worked out of her home, one almost dead center in a string of fifteen, two-story attached houses where, until recently, she’d created custom bridal gowns. Besides her, only three of her neighbors, two elderly women and a young male musician of sorts were ever around during the day. The remaining buildings made them a target, depending on what the man parked at the curb had in mind. He and his erstwhile companion had had plenty of opportunities to case the block.

She ended her internal debate about notifying the police and picked up the phone. First, though, just in case they blew her off, she left the safety patrol chairman a voicemail concerning her suspicions. Then she checked the duplicate copy of emergency numbers she kept downstairs in the reception office she’d carved from the former front room of her house. Finding the one she needed, she plugged in the number for the police station that served her area.

Two rings and the lines connected.

“Taraval Station, Sgt. Malloy speaking. How may I help you?”

BOOK: Forever Mine

2.17Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads