Plumber Prequel (3 page)

"Well, you just don't look
like a plumber, that's all I wanted to say." She said, and walked
away, leaving me alone in the bathroom. I let her go, knowing full
well that the bait had been set and the fish would come back biting
soon enough.

A few minutes later, I was
proven right.

Jennifer circled back,
leaning her body into the door frame. “Your sister, where does she
work as a doctor?”

“
Cedars-Sinai.” I gave her
the name of the famous hospital where celebrities and rich folks
from Beverly Hills got medical treatment.

“
I always wanted to shadow
a doctor there, to see first-hand how it was working at a top
hospital.”

“
Want me to check with my
sis?”

“
Really? That’d be
amazing! I’d love the opportunity to shadow your
sister!”

“
I’ll ask her
tonight.”

“
Thank you!”

“
But I want something from
you,” I said, slowly standing up. My six foot two frame towered
over her. In the dimly-lit bathroom, the wall reflected my dark
shadow.

She suddenly looked
scared, as if her senses finally picked up on the impending
danger.

“
What... what do you
want?” Her body was shaking so violently that the belt of her
bathrobe was starting to loosen.

“
I want you to model the
lingerie you just bought.”

“
How do you know I just
bought them?” Her voice edged to an almost high-pitched
scream.

“
What do you think? I
followed you from Starbucks to Victoria’s Secret and to the nail
salon.” I picked up her freshly manicured fingers and licked them,
one by one.

All the blood drained from
her face. I slowly untied her bathrobe, which dropped silently to
the floor, revealing her perfect body with small, perky breasts,
and a toned, flat stomach.

I scooped her up in my
arms, and carried her to the bedroom. “And you’re right. There’s
nothing wrong with your bathroom.”

Jennifer was struggling,
kicking around in my arms, as I carried her into her bedroom. I
kicked the door closed.

“
Please don’t hurt me.
Take my wallet. Anything you want.” She looked at me with tears in
her eyes, and her lips trembling.

“
If I wanted money, I
wouldn’t rob a poor student.” I chuckled. “I want something else
from you.”

I threw her onto the bed,
and watched as she immediately retreated to the corner, her back
pressed against the wall, and her legs curled to her
chest.

I opened the Victoria’s
Secret bag. There were various panties in purple, red, blue, and
pink.

"Come here," I
ordered.

"Please don't hurt
me."

"I won't, as long as you
cooperate,” I took off my hooded sweatshirt, unzipped my pants, and
climbed onto the bed.

***

Half an hour later, I
heard the apartment door opening and closing, followed by footsteps
approaching Jennifer’s bedroom door.

"Jenn, are you there?" A
feminine voice asked.

Jennifer was lying on her
bed, with her hands tied to her metal bedpost.

I was thrusting inside
her, while pointing a knife at her throat.

I paused my hip movement.
"Who is it?"

"It's my roommate Megan."
Jennifer said, her voice husky, her lips swollen and
bloody.

"Do you want to invite her
in?" I asked.

"No, let her go, please."
Jennifer begged.

I smiled. The little
Jennifer wanted to sacrifice herself for her roommate.

"Ok, but I want you to
respond more enthusiastically, like you enjoy sex with me. Can you
do that?"

"Anything you want. Just
let Megan go." Jennifer said. Tears were rolling down her
cheeks.

"No tears. I want to know
you’re turned on by me. I want you to kiss me and moan, like you
want me to fuck you."

Jennifer tried her best,
while I continued my hip movement.

After knocking and no
response, Megan felt it was weird that Jennifer was hiding inside
and not responding to her.

"I'll keep my phone on. If
you need something, just call me." Megan said through the door and
walked away. A short time later we heard the apartment door close.
She must’ve left the apartment. As I reached my orgasm inside her,
I remembered thinking Gary Michaels was one smart guy, there was
really something special about a lunch date with an interesting
young lady.

Four-year old Tucker was
crying his little heart out in my arms, as I paced back and forth
in the living room.

The babysitter, a
responsible college student, was never late, but today, she didn’t
show up or call me to cancel.

Strange.

Since my wife died, I had
been relying on the babysitter to take care of the kids. She was
responsible, prompt, and most importantly, she loved the kids.
Skills could be taught, but love was something organic, natural,
and magic. She had that special connection with the
kids.

The living room had
cheerios, banana slices, and sticky liquids everywhere. I hoped to
clean up the room, as soon as Tucker stopped crying.

I wondered if Tucker could
sense that I was on edge today. After visiting the gruesome scene
of Lara and Gary, I’d had trouble to concentrate on anything else.
The young woman’s bloody and distorted face haunted me. I called
Lara’s parents in Chicago, telling them the unfortunate news. Her
mom had picked up the phone and her heartbreaking cries still
echoed in my ears: “NO! NOT MY LARA! NO!”

My Poppy was only two
years old, but as a father, I could only imagine the heartbreak
Lara’s parents felt. If anything ever happened to Poppy, I’d never
get over it.

Tucker’s cries got louder
and louder. Geez, where did this little guy get so much
volume?

I carried Tucker to the
desktop computer in the living room, and logged into it. The
password was “CaymanIsland,” the place Cassandra and I went to on
our honeymoon, ten years ago. The desktop had a white sand beach
background, Cassandra’s favorite place to relax. A few folders were
on the desktop, one of them labeled “Super dad.”

I clicked on the folder
and watched the video I’d seen hundreds of times
already.

The video showed
Cassandra, who looked like an angel, with deep-set blue eyes, and
soft brunette hair. She was wearing a blue cardigan from J. Crew
and a pearl necklace, a present from me.

"Honey, here is what I
normally do to get the kids ready for bed." Her soft voice narrated
from the video.

Watching her video brought
tears to my eyes. Cassandra died from cancer last year. Rather than
spending her last few months traveling the world, she’d spent the
time at home, making videos to help me take care of our
kids.

Tucker stopped crying, his
sky blue eyes watching his mommy's video.

"Mommy," Tucker said. His
little fingers reached out to the screen and touched his mother's
face.

I miss her so
much.

"Daddy, I'm scared." Poppy
stood at the entrance of the living room, holding a big stuffed
bunny in her hands.

"Come here." I waved her
to come toward me and she walked to the computer desk and climbed
on my lap.

We were watching the video
together.

In the video, Cassandra
was showing me the bedtime routine. How she helped the boys and
Poppy got ready for bed. She was full of praise when the kids
stayed in bed, but was firm when the kids asked for another bedtime
story.

"What are you doing?" Max
walked in.

"Come join us," I said,
and pat the seat next to mine.

These video were
therapeutic for all of us. Her soothing voice calmed us, gave us
warmth in this otherwise cold, lonely night.

I held back tears in my
eyes and held Poppy closer to my chest. Max was holding Tucker,
making sure he didn't fall off the desk. He was already taking the
role of the older brother and I was proud of him.

"Daddy, will mom come
back?" Max asked.

I looked down at my son.
My heart ached for them. "She never left us. Her spirit is looking
over you. And she will always love you."

The next day, I arrived at
work early and buried my head in the files about the gas poison
case, completely forgetting the time.

"Hey old man, want to grab
lunch." Patrick, a hot shot detective, in his mid-20s, tapped on my
shoulder. He was arrogant and cocky as hell, but the ladies seemed
to like him.

Patrick and I had a
rivalry going on. He was competitive and fought to take on harder,
and more complicated cases. I took his competitiveness all in good
humor. When I’d first started, I was eager to break cases, take
down criminals, and show off to the old guards.

He was doing the same.
He’d mature in a few years. Seeing death day after day, year after
year, did that to a man.

I pointed to the pile of
files. "Thanks, but I think I’ll stay and get these out of the
way."

He eyed the thick files
and said, "That partner of yours, Paula, she’s not very helpful, is
she?"

"What do you mean?" I
asked, not happy with his condescending tone.

"She must be a big
handful. I don't mean her breasts. Detective work is for men, not
for women. You know, you and I should partner up and take down
those dirt bags together, we’d make the best team."

My face tensed. He was
more immature than I thought.

Patrick continued to dig a
hole for himself. "I wouldn’t mind dating Paula. Those tits. That
butt. But she is a joke as a detective."

I slammed the file on my
desk.

He stopped talking,
looking confused.

"That’s my partner you’re
talking about," I said. "If you ever talk about her that way again,
I’ll break your jaw."

Rage flashed across his
eyes, as he stiffened. "Suit yourself old man. Don't say I didn't
warn you. That partner of yours will get you killed one
day."

At 2 pm, that afternoon,
Paula and I arrived at the leasing office of the condo building,
where Lara and Gary were killed.

The leasing office looked
even more luxurious than their condo unit. Espresso-colored Italian
furniture, glass to ceiling doors, and curved TVs on every wall.
Its design appealed to a rich clientele, where aesthetic and
prestige were more important than functionality and
cost.

Steve Jones, the 40-year
old building manager was sitting next to Carlos Martinez, the
maintenance manager, responsible for the west tower, where Lara’s
unit was.

Steve started the
conversation, “During my years as a building manager, we’d never
had a murder or even a theft. I hope the police will respect the
privacy of our other residents. Of course, we'll cooperate fully.
It's disturbing that the killer is still out there."

"We'll do our best to keep
it discreet," Paula said.

"Can I have a list of the
people who had access to the unit?"

"Sure," Carlos said. “Lara
Gibbs was the only tenant who had the key. The office had another
copy of her keys, but based on our record, no one accessed the copy
during the last month.”

“
Gary Michaels had been
paying for Lara Gibbs’ bill, right?”

“
Correct.”

“
How long had she been
living here?”

“
About 18
months.”

“
Was Gary the only person
who had been paying her rent?”

“
No, we had a few more
names.”

“
We’ll need that list. We
have a warrant for the information,” Paula said.

“
If you think of
something, please call us,” I handed them our cards.

On our way out, Paula
studied the list of people who’d paid Lara Gibbs’ rent during the
past 18 months.

She whistled, “Lara had at
least 6 other lovers, based on the list. Do you think one of them
killed her?”

“
It’s possible, but I
doubt it,” I said. “Rich married men tend not to be that invested
in their mistresses. I’d trouble thinking one of her benefactors
could have killed her. Not to mention, they knew there would be a
paper trail.”

“
I think we should still
check them out,” Paula said.

“
I agree.” I
nodded.

At 7:30 pm, Paula was home
hitting a boxing bag in her living room, while a lean cuisine meal
was heating up in the microwave. Five minutes ago, she had finished
a long conversation with her mom on the phone, who once again,
reminded her that she was single and “no longer a spring
chicken.”