Urban Renewal (Urban Elite Book 1) (9 page)

His Rage

My fist crashes down on the desk as I stare at my computer screen. My face heats and my skin tingles from head to toe like I’m going to burst into flames. How dare she ignore me? I fully expected the bitch to respond to me overnight, I’ve been wasting precious time waiting. For what?! She’s done nothing to contact me. That bitch. Here I am, going out of my way to introduce myself to that little whore and she ignores me? I will not be ignored. Who the hell does she think she is? It’s time to send Max a message. Up close and personal, this time.

Now I’m glad I waited. I’d gone to my freezer before -- excited about introducing myself to her, showing her how smart and talented I am -- but something made me wait. I’m glad I did. It gives me more time to think it through. What’s that old saying, you only get one chance to make a first impression? Prepare to be impressed, Max.

This time when I open the freezer I have every intention of following through. I rummage around body parts as I run through different scenarios in my mind, deciding exactly how I want things to play out. She may think she’s in control, but this is
my
game and I make the rules.

After rooting around in the stack of body parts, I see just what I need. I make my selection and heft the plastic wrapped upper limb in my hands, testing its weight. It feels good to know I surgically removed that limb from that whore’s body. She was just like everyone else, didn’t think I was capable of such an achievement. Well, fuck her. I’m holding a piece of her that proves otherwise.

I’m done being underestimated. If Max can’t be bothered to send me an email, then I guess I’ll have to be more…direct.

Max

It’s already been one of those mornings where I’m rushing around like a maniac and I’m still running late. When I finally get my shit together and see that Valerie’s car is still parked outside, I roll my eyes and decide I’ll fill Jack in later. I’m on a schedule and there’s no telling how long those two will be at it.

I jump into my bright blue Kia and pull out of the parking lot. I stop at the gate and punch in my code.
Only you would have a gate that requires a code to get in and a code to get out, Jack.
You have to have two different codes and he said he’s going to change them periodically.
Jack, Jack, Jack… Seriously, you’re either paranoid or a control freak, probably both.

I drive from West Jefferson over to Fourth and then it’s a straight shot to the university. It never ceases to amaze me how the neighborhoods change as they go from the downtown area by the Ohio River to the area I’m visiting today. As I drive along, I see a little bit of everything -- high end hotels with their spas and boutiques, and then the strip clubs and peep shows. As the neighborhoods change from block to block, the ambiance changes right along with it. I know every nook and cranny of these streets because I grew up here. I know the streets, I know the people, and now I’m going to get to know a killer.

The ride goes quickly, with light early morning traffic and most of the traffic lights cooperating. I pull into the university parking lot and park, then walk at a fast clip over to the Communications building. I slip inside and stand in the back of the auditorium as Professor Spike Ostrom lectures on ‘off the record’ protocol.

As he finishes up, I think about bygone days of college, how it was so difficult and yet so much fun. Spike was always the professor I could count on when I needed guidance. He has a way of shedding new light on subjects, always providing a fresh and often unconventional perspective. That’s why I’m here today.

He waits until the students are gone before he speaks into the headpiece he’s wearing and calls me out of hiding. How he saw me I don’t know, the man has always been able to read his classroom and the people in it. “Hey, you,” he says warmly. “My Max-A-Million, get down here, girl.”

I lope down the sloping aisle and rush over to him, giving him a bear hug.

“My one-in-a-million Max, how are you?” He rests his hands on my shoulders as he pulls away and studies me with eyes of wisdom.

“Well, to be honest, I have a situation I need to talk to someone about.”

“Let’s go get a cup of coffee, then.” We stroll over to the campus coffee shop, making small talk the whole way.  

“Grab a seat and I’ll get our coffee,” he says as he points me over to a corner booth that’s just become available.

I sit down and take in my surroundings. The shop draws what I refer to as ‘different genres of people’. I believe just like books fall under different genres and hold their own distinct stories within, so do people. I have a game I like play when I’m people watching where I try to guess what people do for a living. The students are easy enough, but the suits are a different story.

As I scan the room, my gaze encounters a man in a dark blue suit. Though he’s dressed impeccably, his tousled jet black hair gives him a roguish, sexy look. I study his face as he thumbs through a Psychology Today magazine.
Hmm, a counselor maybe.
I feel my face flush red when he looks up at me with a knowing smirk.
Oh, God, I’m such a dork.
His gaze travels along my curves, his eyes gleaming with blatant male appreciation before he nods at me in an almost courtly fashion and returns to his magazine.
Whoa.

Spike stops and speaks to the stranger briefly, and I feel the hair on the back of my neck prickle when the man’s gaze returns to me, followed swiftly by the professor’s.
They’re talking about me. Well, shit.
I quickly look down until Spike comes to the table, setting my coffee and a double chocolate muffin in front of me, a slip of paper held between two fingers as slides onto the booth seat across from me.

“Café mochaccino and a double chocolate muffin, right? That’s a lot of chocolate.”

“You remembered,” I smile, shamelessly digging into the treats.

“You made quite an impression on my friend.”

“Oh, really?” I answer, feigning surprise. “Who is he?”

“He’s an orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Liam Sheldon Chambers.”

“An orthopedist? Oh, that’s perfect. I would love to interview him for some research I’m doing.” The fact that our killer is cutting off body parts with surgical precision even though he’s using a circular saw makes this doctor a great candidate for an interview—not to mention, he’s hot.

“Well, that’s great, you should call him,” he says smugly, eyes twinkling as he slides the slip of paper across the table toward me.

I steal a glance at the doctor to find that he’s eyeing me with that crooked smile again, and I can’t help but smile back.
No doctor should look that damn good.

“I have his office number if you ever want it, but he asked me to give you this instead. It’s his personal cell number.”

I feel my cheeks heat as I read the words the handsome stranger wrote above his cell number. His handwriting is bold, the letters formed with strong, masculine strokes.

You’re lovely. Please let me treat you

to some real coffee sometime soon?

(And unlimited muffins, of course)

– Liam Chambers

“Oh, um, thanks,” I mumble as I tuck the piece of paper in my pocket, beyond embarrassed that my professor seems to be trying to help me make a ‘love connection’.

“Now, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“You know the cop I kept trying to get a job with—Jack Heitman?” I don’t give him time to answer because I know he remembers. His mind is like an elephant’s, the man doesn’t forget anything—ever. “Well, he hired me, and there’s this case, I can’t say a whole lot about it. I think the killer contacted me through my blog. I haven’t responded to him yet because I honestly don’t know what to do. Even though I invited anyone with information to contact me in my first post, I wasn’t prepared to hear from
him
. I just hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

He pulls a pen from his pocket and says, “Give me the name of your blog, I’d like to check it out.”

“It’s Urban Elite Guardian.”

He takes a moment to tuck the pen back in his shirt pocket and leans back against the booth, eyeing me intently. “So tell me, what is the single most important thing I taught you?”

“That a reporter does anything to get the story.”

“Yes, exactly. Short of doing something against your personal boundaries, it’s necessary to connect with not only your readers but those you interview. As an investigative journalist, you’ll need to take your skills to the next level.

“You have some things going for you that most journalists don’t: you have a cop backing you up and you have a possible killer seeking you out. The fact that he sought you out tells me he needs you, and
that
, my dear, gives you the upper hand. I say go for it. Remember one thing, though: once you engage with a killer, there’s no turning back. You’re not the only person bonding, but you can gauge it to ensure your safety. The killer will bond with you in one way or another, no holds barred.

“Most people with the kind of delusions and psychological maladies it takes to be a killer aren’t going to respect boundaries, even their own. If this guy becomes obsessed with you and you don’t respond the way he wants, your life could very well be in danger. I have to question – and you should too -- why he specifically sought you out. Is it just because you’re following the story, or is it something more personal?”

I look up to see the hot doctor headed in our direction so I wait to continue talking. He smiles at me when he reaches our table.

“It was good seeing you, Professor,” he says without taking his eyes off me. Then in a softer tone, “Max, I do hope you’ll call me.” I can feel myself blushing again and I hate my body for betraying me like this. I gather what dignity I can as I answer.
You’re a professional, Max. This kind of opportunity is why you do what you do.

“Actually, I’d love to interview you, Dr. Chambers.”

“Please, I insist you call me Liam,” he replies, smiling down at me indulgently.

“Okay...Liam it is. Again, I’d love to ask you a few questions about some research I’m doing that’s rather urgent. I’ll call you and fill you in.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.” With one last smile in my direction and a brief nod at Spike, he turns and strides toward the door. His gait is strong and confident. In his line of work, I’m sure he has to be self-assured, although, really, it can’t be that hard to be confident with his good looks.

I breathe in, gathering my thoughts to get back into the flow of the conversation we were having before Mr. GQ threw me off kilter. “Anyway, that’s what Jack said, too—you know, about connecting with the killer so he’ll relax and eventually slip up.”

“Those are the Psych 101 classes we all take and, make no mistake, it’s the truth. You can’t be a killer and not have some significant mental health problems. Interacting with this guy online is one thing, Max, but don’t even think about meeting him face to face.”

Spike leans in toward me, frown lines appearing between his brows as his lips press into a flat line. “And one more thing: the same way you’re stalking him? Trust me, he’s done his homework and he’s stalking you too. Your life is out in the open, but his isn’t. That gives him an advantage in this sick game you’re getting ready to play.”