The Bedroom Killer (12 page)

CHAPTER 25

He called.

John Randall called.

He wanted to meet.

Megan
changed clothes five times before she settled on a short black skirt, not too short—four inches above the knee—a cream-colored blouse and a red button up sweater. She debated going braless. She checked herself in the mirror. Too much nipple. So she went for no panties. She wanted to feel sexy. Who was she kidding? She wanted sex but knew it probably wouldn't happen.

But one could hope
.

A
nd if it happened, it would be with John, whom she wanted to know.

Stop it Megan, y
ou're acting like a little school girl. Just stop it. He only wants to ask a few questions about the case.
Now that she thought about it, why would he care, she wondered. It hadn't registered with her when she was talking to him on the phone.
What could he want to know?
She grabbed her purse and flew out the door.

John sat at the table located in the center of
Room F and gazed out the window watching the older people in the ancestry section of the library. Each one searching their past, wanting to know more about who they were and where they came from. John figured young people didn't have as much interest in where they came from as people who are closer to dying…or maybe they were just retired and had nothing else to occupy their time. As he considered it, he thought maybe after this serial murder thing passes, he might just come back and look up his own ancestry.

He sensed someone looking at him and his gaze
traveled from one end of the window to the end next to the door. He saw Detective Ash standing there, smiling in at him, and he was immediately struck by how different she looked from the night of his arrest. He noticed her shapely legs and thought she looked like she was ready to go out to a nightclub. He found himself staring at her beauty, so long in fact that she opened the door without an invitation because John was taking too long to wave her in. In an instant, he recalled her hand against his thigh in the hallway and the way she stared into his eyes in his front yard. He watched her step in and shut the door behind her, then stood and extended his hand.

"Thank you for coming
, Detective."

"Please, call me Megan," she said.

Megan took his hand in hers and kept hold of it, looking into his blue eyes for a moment before asking, "How are you holding up?"

"Fine,"
John said, pulling his hand free.

Megan
set her purse down on the table.

"Here,"
John said, pulling out a chair for her.

"Thank you."

***

John's chair was at the
farthest end of the rectangular table and Megan sat in the chair closest to the end, her back to the window. In any other situation, she would prefer to be able to see anything and anyone in her surroundings. All cops learn to keep their backs to the wall. But this was a library, and Megan wasn't a cop right now. As far as she was concerned, this was a date. She placed her right elbow on the table, rested her chin in her hand and with a bright smile asked, "How are you?"

"I think you asked that question already."

"Oh, I guess I did," she said, a flush of red rising in her cheeks. After an awkward moment of adjusting her seat, Megan asked the real question that had been stuck in her head since John's phone call.

"So
…why exactly are we meeting? You said you wanted to talk about the case, but you must know I can't really discuss anything beyond what's already in the news."

"I want to be able to help somehow
," he said.

Megan watched his lips as he spoke
. They were full and masculine and she wanted to kiss them. She wanted to hold John, protect him, cook for him, and watch movies on the couch with him. How she could feel all of this in such a short period of time? She didn't know. The feelings were there, powerful and intoxicating.

"How can you help
?" she asked.

"I'm not sure
. I can do research. I'm good at that. This room was my home away from home for a long time and I have all the time in the world. I can follow people and call you to tell you where they are," John said excitedly.

Megan smiled at the thought of seeing John walking behind a suspect, his face bandaged, his eye blackened, trying to blend in.

"You think it's funny?" he asked.

"No, it's just
, you're not really going to fade into the background with that bandage on your face and the fact that you've been on every local news station for the past few days."

John's shoulders sagged.

"You're right. Are you going to get into trouble for meeting with me?"

Megan had considered
this on her way over. It hadn't occurred to her when she first received the phone call. All she could think about was that John wanted to see her. But on the way over it hit her—people might see them together.

Oh well
.
She could say she was following up because John said he'd remembered something else. She'd have to remember to ask him what that something else could be when she explained her concern to him. For now, she was here with him and she really didn't care otherwise.

"I'll just say that you thought of something else about that night and you wanted to let me know," she said.

"Hidden away in a library study room? Couldn't I just tell you over the phone?"

Megan reached
across the table and touched John's hand, "Don't worry about it." 

John looked down at her hand on his. Megan quickly pulled it away with a smile.

"Can you think of another way I might help besides following someone around?" John said.

You could make love to me.

Megan's mind raced trying to think of something quickly. "I could call you and get your opinions on things." How could she keep him involved where he thought he was contributing, but where it would never be known and she wouldn't reveal key evidence in the process? She so desperately wanted to have these meetings continue, a desire that had nothing to do with the case.

"Opinions?" asked John.

"Yes. I tell you something we're looking at and get your opinion."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. It's not like this is a typical request, and I don't usually have a reason to bring someone new into an investigation."

John's eyes tightened.

"I didn't mean to hurt you by saying that." Megan added, noticing his crestfallen look.

"No,
it's okay. You're right. I just want to contribute somehow, if possible."

"I know
. I'll find something. We'll make it happen."

They stared across the table at each other, their eyes locked, the slightest of smiles on their faces. Then John said,
"Oh, I almost forgot." He leaned down below the table, and Megan immediately shifted in her seat and opened her legs just slightly. Her heart raced with the thought that he might look up her skirt and find she was not wearing panties. But as soon as he was down, he was back up again with a thermos in his hand.

"I promised you coffee."

Megan smiled and John set a Styrofoam cup in front of her.

"I hope you don't mind Styrofoam."

"Are you kidding," Megan replied, “that's all we have at the station."

"Then this should feel just like home."

Far from it
.

He finished pouring two cups and spun the top back onto the thermos
. Megan watched him, hoping he might lean over again to put the thermos back. She reached down with her left hand and pulled back her skirt, just a bit, then brought her hand back up over the table. John dipped below the table, and she could see his back undulating up and down as his arms shifted, apparently moving things in his backpack. The sound of a zipper opening. His back stopped moving. She slowly turned her body and closed her legs as if she was just shifting her position, trying to get comfortable. She saw his back move again and when John raised his head, Megan was looking out the window, her cup of coffee to her lips.

She turned back around and said, "
Good coffee. What brand is it?"

John's mouth opened, but said nothing for a moment.

He looked
.

"It's French
roast, from Seattle," he said.

"I like it
. You'll have to tell me where to get some."

John adjusted his seat and said, "Sure
. No problem."

Megan noticed three paperback books lying on the table, the top one had the word "Murder" in the title, but it was upside down so Megan couldn't read it completely.

Damn, he must have brought them up from his backpack
. Maybe he didn't see.

"I want to ask you about serial
killers in general. How do they decide to kill?" John said with an anxious, anticipatory voice.

Megan smiled, sipped her coffee, then set it on the table, and f
or the next hour all they talked about was serial killers. John discussed the serial killers that he'd read about, the books he'd bought online, asking Megan if she'd heard of them. She had. She knew about most serial killer cases across the country. If you're a homicide detective and you learn you have a serial killer in town, the first thing you do is run the known evidence through the FBI's national database to see if anything sticks. If you have a case in Florida, you check to see if Georgia or South Carolina have a similar case. Sometimes the killer travels, figuring they've worn out their welcome at home. So they move, lay low for a while in their new town getting to know the terrain, and then they get to killing again.

"How long have you been a detective?"
he asked.

"What?"
Megan said, the question surprising her. As simple a question as it was, she couldn't remember the last time anyone asked her that.

"Um, well, let me think
. About nine years. Yes, nine years."

"All of them here?"

"Yes."

"And before that?"

"Patrol cop."

John nodded his head.

"Do you like it?"

Megan was about to finish her coffee,
but lowered the cup to the table. She opened her mouth to answer and couldn't find the right words. She knew she had an answer, but exactly what it was, she couldn't say. If she'd asked herself the same question while staring in the mirror, she'd have no reservations.
She hated it.
But how do you convey that without actually saying the words? And how do you tell the man who wants access into your world, and whom you want access to, that you hate the whole process? How do you do that without somehow disqualifying yourself in every way?

"It's all I know," she
finally said, then picked up her cup and finished her coffee.

Megan dropped her purse onto the edge of the tiny sink of the library bathroom and pulled out her pill bottle, shaking two pills into her palm. The more time she spent talking to John the more she became distracted. She excused herself just to get away—but now she was staring ahead at her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at her, the Bad Girl, gave her a,
What are you looking at?
stare. Megan, the Good Girl, knew better than to argue. The girl looking back always got her way. Once her mind began to wander, the Bad Girl would push until it was
a fait accompli
. No going back.

"
Take 'em
," the Bad Girl said.

Megan grabbed her hair in one hand, tossed the pills into the back of her throat, dropped down to the faucet
, and drank. She rose back up and caught the Bad Girl staring back at her again. She reached up to her blouse and popped open another button.

CHAPTER 26

"You a wine drinker, John?" Megan called from her bedroom.

"Not really
," John said.

"If we
're going to keep talking about murder I need a little wine, and I hate drinking alone."

"Whatever you say."

After their evening meeting at the library, Megan asked him to come to her place where they could formalize their new partnership. It seemed like a strange request, but John had begun to understand that she was not your typical lady. Whatever would help seal the deal to get him on the inside of the investigation—at least enough to learn as much as he could so he'd have some sort of understanding of serial killers and how these cases are actually investigated. All he knew at the time was what anyone knew from watching hour-long detective dramas on TV. There was another part of him that was very suspicious of the detective's intentions, but he told himself to go along with anything as long as she agreed to keep talking to him. That was key. Keep her talking.

John took a seat at her kitchen table
, part of what appeared to an IKEA remodel, white pine with glass cabinet doors revealing the dishes inside. The rest of the place, however, was sparsely decorated. It didn't look lived in, as opposed to John's place which always looked like a Boy Scout camp after a three-day jamboree. He liked it.

A moment later
, she entered the kitchen and John knew he was in trouble. She was no longer Detective Ash, maybe not even Megan. She had changed into a red dress. No bra.
What the hell was she doing?
He suddenly realized it was a big mistake to agree to come here, but at the same time, he couldn't deny his attraction. He was never what he would call a ladies' man, but John had learned to read the signs and the hardened nipples pushing against her dress were announcing that she was making a move. He looked into her eyes—gone was the serious homicide detective, replaced by a vibrant, sensual woman.
She's a chameleon.Think John, what do you want to do?

It had been a year since he'd been held, since he'd made love
. He had a very good relationship with Paulette. Lovemaking came easy for both of them.

Would this be cheating
?

He knew it was a dumb question
—but still. Megan walked to John, smiled at him, then slinked by heading for the silver double-door refrigerator. John watched her as she moved past, noticing her hips once again. The dress
really
swayed. She opened the right door, bent over keeping her knees locked, and removed a wine bottle. Then she pulled two wine glasses down from the cabinet, filling each half way. Megan approached him, holding the glasses, and nodded toward the living room as she walked past.

"It's much more comfortable on the couch
," Megan said.

Even
with the alarm bells ringing in his head, John stood and followed.

"How long have you lived here
?" he asked.

"Twelve
years," Megan said, turning at the end of the vinyl, taupe couch and holding out a glass for John. He took it and they both sat down—Megan at one end, John at the other. They sipped their wine and stared at each other over the top of their glasses. John could feel his heart thumping. Something about this woman was driving him crazy, and it wasn't just the way she looked or the way she dressed.

Was it her flirting?

Or was it just your basic, reptilian-brained lust?

He had to keep his head about him
. He was here to learn about the case. There was no room for…what? Sex? Could he really be thinking about that? With a four-inch bandage on his face and one black eye? Talk about Beauty and the Beast. Don't be stupid, Randall. Your track record isn't too good right now. Just ask her some questions. See how much more you can learn. Then get out.

They set
down their glasses on the coffee table at the same time, and John saw Megan's dress strap fall off her right shoulder, revealing more of her right breast. She made no attempt to fix it when she sat up. John pretended to look around the room.

"Twelve years, huh," he said.

"I'm not here that often. Doesn't make much sense to fix it all up. Maybe someday. I'd like to have more time to really do something with it. Make it a home."

John nodded.

"Tell me more about the killer."

Megan let out a slow sigh as if this were the last thing on her mind
.

"Ok
ay," she said, and leaned forward to adjust her dress. She leaned back, keeping her eyes on John the entire time, and pulled her right leg up, followed quickly by her left, and she scooted her legs up under her on the couch. This was an innocent enough move, John thought, if
you're wearing panties
. She wasn't. As she had lifted her legs, she allowed them to open just enough for John to see.

She did that on purpose
. Didn't she?
He cleared his throat as Megan reached for her glass again.

"Tell me about
the killer," he repeated.

She took a sip
, pulled the glass back with her, and held it on her lap.

"He's large."

"I know that already."

"He uses rope to kill them."

"Why rope?"

She
reached to set her glass down and her shoulder strap dropped again, then she sat back up. She left it there, hanging limp off her shoulder. She kept her eyes on John.

"Why
?" John asked again, quickly shooting his eyes to her nipples, more prominent than ever, if that was even possible.

"Why don't I ask a few questions
? We'll take turns," she added, not waiting for his response. But John didn't respond. Megan looked John in the eyes and asked, "Have you had any dates?"

"Dates
?

Megan nodded
. "In the past year."

"No,"
John said. "Why rope?"

"It's common
. Cotton thread. Not easily traced. He might be someone who works with his hands. He chooses a tool to assist in his killing."

At that moment her face froze. He
r eyes fixed. She sat there like that, unmoving. Somewhere else.

"Detective?"
John said.

"What?"
Megan said, snapping back. She looked across the couch at John and smiled. Detective Ash was gone now. John sensed he was in the room with someone else entirely.

"John
…" she said, as she reached over and lifted the spaghetti strap on her right arm back up to where it belonged, as if she were taking that away from him.

"Do you miss sex?"

"Why are you asking—"

"Because I want to know,"
Megan said.

John looked away
. There was no denying now where this was going. The question was, would he break off as soon as it got started? He hadn't had sex in a year. And she was going to make all that go away.

Right here.

Right now.

"Sometimes,"
John said as he reached for his wine. He took a long sip and set the glass back down on the table. He gathered himself up and asked, "Do you have a profile?"

"White male
. Mid-thirties. Blue collar. Construction worker or warehouse maybe. Married or has a girlfriend."

Megan lowered her left leg flat out in front of John, keeping the other one bent
. Her red dress slipped down her legs and scrunched up around her thighs, exposing…

Everything.

"Your colleagues speak very highly of you."

John heard Megan speak
, but the words didn't register. He felt himself grow stiff as he peered between her legs.

My God, she's really doing this.

But then John heard her voice and looked away.

"Is that a question?"
he asked.

"Please
…look again."

John didn't look, but kept his eyes on hers.

"Please…" she said.

John looked down, slightly.

"Lower."

His
gaze dropped lower, Megan lifted her left leg up onto the couch, and swung both legs wide, like butterfly wings.

"Why
…why does he kill them?" John asked, holding his stare between her legs. Megan lowered her legs over the end of the couch and stood. She walked the two steps it took to stand in front of John and lifted her dress up. She reached her hand out and laid it upon the top of his head, gently pulling him forward.

"He feels inadequate around women
. That's not you, is it John?"

Megan leaned forward and John kiss
ed her lower abdomen. She moaned softly. She dropped and straddled John, gently bringing her lips to his mouth, taking care with his cheek. He brought his arms around her, cupping her firm ass. His tongue touched hers, and they moved as one, allowing each other to explore. Slowly. Softly. They held their breath, touching and tasting each other until Megan pulled away and looked into his eyes, her lips parted, her chest heaving. John reached his hand below and touched her and she squeezed his shoulder, arched her back, and moaned again. 

T
hey kept going…long into the next morning.