Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (10 page)

The sun was replaced with a blanket of velvety night by the time I checked my email. I avoided it deliberately. I hated to find that I hoped there was an email from
him
. Why would he email me? I told him to bugger off.

One new email.

From:
[email protected]

Date:
12 July 2012

Subject:
I will not 'bugger off'.

I believe I have found the right Ocean Breeze. Where are you? We need to talk. How did you do what you did at the sushi restaurant? I can't stop thinking about you.

Callan.

Officer, New South Wales Police.

My stomach fluttered. He couldn't stop thinking about me?
Stop that, Ocean.
The only reason he couldn't stop thinking about me was because of my gift/curse. He wanted to exploit me and treat me like a lab rat. Well, newsflash, not happening.

I knew I played with trouble, but my fingers ignored me.

From:
[email protected]

Date:
12 July 2012

Subject:
Don't think about me.

Leave me alone. I have forgotten all about you. Who are you again?

See? Not interested.

A loud rap on the door interrupted me; I pressed send. It was abrupt, but it got my message across.

In the corridor was a petite Asian woman. She was all black suit and sternness. She looked as if she worked for the CIA, not for traffickers. But she probably didn't know that. Or did she?

I scowled. “Yes?”

“You are to shower and change, and go here.” She shoved a business card into my hand, while motioning for a rack of clothes to be ferried inside my room. A dark-skinned man did as instructed, and a wardrobe pole the size of the kitchenette shuttled in, obstructing my room with tulle, silk, and velvet.

There was no point in arguing. This was how these operations were run. Women were puppets: told to primp, fawn, and ultimately be ruined.

“A car will wait for you downstairs in one hour. Please ensure you shave.” She looked at me pointedly.

She wasn't talking about shaving my legs. There was no chance anyone would see that part of my anatomy, so bushy or de-haired, made no difference.

“Fine.” I gave her a fake smile and slammed the door. I fingered the clothes. They really were divine. A black cocktail dress with a sash of lace across the top; a puffy tu-tu number with black tulle and diamantes; a high-waisted pencil skirt with a black and white gossamer shirt. Crap. How would I choose? They were all stunning. It pained me to admit, but these traffickers knew how to dress their women.

Biting my lip, I chose the last dress on the rack. It looked as if it were fabricated from smoke. Layers of different shades of grey hung like butterfly wings. The top half was secured by a corset, decorated with black piping across the bodice.

I spent a good forty minutes getting ready, luxuriating in expensive bath products and taking time to curl my bouncing hair. My hair was the only part of me I was vain about. I loved the fullness, the glimmer. The rest of me was broken.

I gulped, looking past the collected woman in the mirror to a little girl splattered in blood from that fateful day. Ghost-bruises from harsh fingers mottled every inch of me, and smudges of tears streaked my body as I stood exactly where Adrian Mathieu and the unknown molester told me to stay for two days.

Don’t torture yourself. It’s in the past. It’ll never happen again.

Shuddering, I wrenched myself from my cesspit of memories. Barricading the pain beneath my fake facade. Smiling at the mirror, I twirled and felt truly stunning. The dress hugged every curve. My breasts were pushed to half-moons above the corset, and the skirt brushed my knees with a tease of fabric.

I chose some vibrant green sandals, and made sure my peacock necklace was secure. My fingers lingered on the coolness of gold and gems. Maurice would kill me if he knew what I was about to do. Then Callan came to my thoughts. He’d most likely kill me, too. But only because he was a cop and wanted to protect people like me. 

The car—a new model BMW—was exactly where the lady said it would be. The chauffeur smiled and accepted the business card I gave him.

I sank into the leather seats and settled back to watch downtown pass by. Although the buildings were grand and modern, they couldn't hide the dirty pavements or the darkness lurking in alleyways. Children were as wild as the dogs roaming the streets, and countless men waited to pounce on a tourist to sell him a fake Rolex or drugs.

The car's air conditioner pumped Antarctica into the interior, causing my skin to prick with goose bumps. As the city blurred past my window, the email from Callan reminded me that he was a loose end. I didn't like loose ends. And it was my own freakin’ fault. I was the one who told him I killed and then teleported. I mean,
seriously.
I must have a death wish. It was such a stupid thing to do. But I couldn't deny the small spread of satisfaction that I’d enticed him enough to hunt me.

He'd never find me, and I'd never see him again, but it was nice to be wanted—especially by an upstanding citizen instead of a crook.

Chapter Nine: Callan

M
y nose wrinkled at the reek of the man I held captive. The drunk, drug-hazed idiot wobbled in place, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

I jerked him alive to answer Wade's question. “Answer the man,” I growled. My patience was on a short leash tonight. “How many substances did you pump into your system?”

My eyes flashed to the clock above reception in the police station. I'd been doing the beat shift with Wade since 11:00 p.m. It was now five, and I was angry as hell. My time was completely wasted by this lout. He passed out in the middle of a busy street after overdosing, covered in his own vomit.

Finally, a gurgle sounded from the man in the cuffs. “Eooorin. . . I had heroin.” His voice was slurred worse than an alcoholic’s on a binge. His entire body weight was held up by the grip I had on his shoulder and handcuffs.

“Anything else?” I shook him for good measure.

Wade rolled his eyes, and continued filling out the paper work.

“I popped Valium.”

On top of heroin? Idiot. “How many?”

“Sixty.”

My eyebrow shot up. I adjusted my grip as the man slipped. He lied about the amount he'd taken. These lifers always did. They knew if we thought they were about to coma from drug use, it gave them a straight ticket to hospital instead of a cell.

The fool was idiotic to give such an unbelievable number. I wasn't buying.

“You done the paperwork, Wade?”

“Just about.” The man who was as cuddly and useless as a Panda, scrawled his John Hancock, and tossed the clipboard at Rosie. “Done. Which cell?”

Rosie checked the admittance board. “Take him to lock down twelve. He can stew for a few hours. I'll send word to his brother to come collect him later in the morning.”

Wade and I trudged down the neon-lit corridor, ready to do the part every cop despised. It was a nightmare. I pulled on my rubber gloves and we helped the semi-conscious man out of his clothes and ordered him to drop and spread 'em.

It was always a surprise what people stuffed up their orifices. One woman had a small gun up there. That was the day I lost a bet—I guessed the most she could fit was a stash of drugs. Boy was I wrong. It was also the day my belief in the decency of the human race died.

 I found it really hard to keep my temper these days. All I saw was louts and losers. Not necessarily bad people, just people making bad decisions. I wished there was compulsory boot camp for morons.

Once the man was dressed in prison scrubs and I'd washed my hands four times, I threw myself in my chair and slammed my office door shut with my foot. I guess I was lucky to have my stink-ass shoebox. Most of the foot-cops had cubicles and no privacy. But I won the draw on the first day of duty, winning the last closet space as my office and a bunch of fake flowers that looked as though death had regurgitated them.

Such a long day. A slog of a horrid day made worse because I hadn't heard back from Ocean. A tired smile graced my lips. She was a firecracker. Telling me she
forgot
about me? Well, that obviously wasn't true. If I wasn't careful, I’d become infatuated with the woman. No—too late. I was
already
infatuated with the woman.

Needing to give my brain something to do, I opened my caseloads and browsed a couple of files requiring my signature. My inbox blinked.

Ocean?

Disappointment crushed me as I opened the mail. It was an update from my ghost program—set up to email me when it found more information with regards to the seventy-seven men it pigeon-holed as possibly committing the crimes against Ocean’s family.

I clicked on it and promptly sat up, scooting closer.

I was getting warmer. The total had decreased to thirty-nine after siphoning out suspects who didn't fit my profiling criteria based on: age, location, appearance, childhood history, arrest warrants, and employment records. It was sick to think that in the small suburb of Western Sydney where Ocean's family was slaughtered, a possible thirty-nine men could be responsible. What fucked-up world did we live in?

Frowning, I scrolled through the faces. I was missing the ‘why’.

Why
was the Breeze family butchered? What was the motive?

To go any further, I needed to research Ocean's parents. To track down their enemies—to find any link to the thirty-nine men on my computer screen.

Swallowing hard, I opened Ocean's file. Skimming the gory photos and the haunted little girl with eyes as bright as a summer’s sky, I focused on her parents. Susannah and Tristan Breeze. Her brother was named Grant. Why was Ocean the only one with an unconventional name? 

They seemed like average people, her dad was a farmer, her mum a housewife and part-time teacher. They’d lived overseas, thanks to Mrs. Breeze’s teaching degree, before moving to the Australian countryside. Her brother had started primary school earlier that year. It didn't make sense why they were targeted.

I spent an hour working on a length of code before releasing it into the police database. If there was any information about a darker life of Mr. and Mrs. Breeze, my code would find it.

“What are you doing?” Wade mumbled, looking over my shoulder.

Shit
. I didn't hear him come in.

I quickly minimized the screens. The New South Wales police logo blazed on my screensaver. “Nothing. You?”

“Our shift is over. I wondered if you wanted to grab a bevy.” He chuckled. “I think it's deserved after dealing with that overdosing asshole.”

I stretched. I really wanted to keep working on Ocean's file, but the glint in Wade's eyes told me he wanted to talk. “Sure. Let's grab a cold one.”

Joe Banana’s
was a bar not far from the station that mainly catered for police. Yes, it sounded like a gay hangout, which was ironic as it was mainly full of men, but most of them were straight. Not too many professions clocked off at seven in the morning and went for a beer.

After paying for a pint, I followed Wade into a cracked brown booth, trying to ignore the sticky floors and the newly risen sun illuminating the dankness of the walls.

I took a swig, eyeing Wade. “Spill. What's on your mind, mate?”

Wade found the froth on his beer incredibly fascinating; it was a few moments before he met my eyes. “What are you up to?”

I played dumb. “What cha mean? Having a beer. What's it look like?” I snorted and took another chug.

Wade rolled his eyes, but smiled. “You know what I mean. Ever since I arrested that Ocean Breeze woman, you've been jumpy. When was the last time you slept?”

“Why? My face getting haggard?” I snickered. “Seriously, since when do you care if I'm getting my eight hours of rest?” I tried to keep calm, but forewarning nerves bolted down my back. Where was this heading?

Wade took a deep breath, placing his palms on the table.

Oh shit.

“You're up to something. I saw her file on your desk, the research on her parents on your computer.” He pinned me with brown eyes. “Are you trying to find the assholes who committed the murder, or the woman you took out for dinner?” His eyebrow quirked. “Which is completely against the rules by the way. Taking a woman we just arrested out for a meal! Crikey, Callan.”

I did not like Mark Wade in that moment. “Back off, alright. It's none of your business.”

“It
is
my business. You're my partner. What you do reflects on me, too. The captain—” Wade stopped.