Brenda Novak - The Perfect Murder

But those people were part of the very fabric of his life. He couldn’t seem to excise them without losing part of his own identity. And he’d discovered that his friends and acquaintances were just as hard to abandon. When he was planning to break away, he’d thought he’d mourn the loss of his career more than anything else. But hanging on to his badge and his gun had softened that blow. When he went out driving at night, he got to enjoy the perks of power without having to answer to anybody. It was the people he missed. That was why he’d reached out to Mary.

It’d been pure luck that he’d been able to find her so easily. Had he not run into Francine, the girlfriend she’d hung out with in high school, he would’ve had a much harder time of it. But, thanks to seeing Francine in New York City while he was vacationing there with Emily, he’d learned about Mary’s jewelry hobby and her Web site, even the city where she lived. That was all it took.

Locating her had given him such a sense of excitement. He’d felt alive again, hopeful that he’d be able to re-create a normal life.

But keeping his identity a secret was no longer satisfying. It was a hindrance. She missed him, wanted him, and he couldn’t go to her. She wouldn’t put up with this situation forever. Another man would come along and she’d fall in love with him instead.

So what could he do? She’d turn him in if he told her the truth. She wouldn’t understand how cornered, how trapped, he’d been, that the path he’d chosen had been the only way out with the debts he’d racked up and a pending divorce. Only something that extreme would allow him to start over.

Would a lie work any better?

He couldn’t see how. Maybe he could present a different version of the past and get her to buy it, but he couldn’t stop her from talking to her family and friends. She’d tell her mom or sister that she was back in a relationship with him, and word would spread until the news reached friends in San Antonio. Before long, someone would say, “I heard he was dead. I heard he killed his wife and stepson, then committed suicide in New Jersey.” And that was all it would take to unravel the perfect murder.

The sound of movement in the extra bedroom brought Malcolm’s head up, his ears tuned for trouble. What was that? He’d thought the sisters were asleep. He’d punished Marcie so severely, he couldn’t believe either of them would dare breathe, let alone move. But something was going on.

With a curse, he shoved away from the table and crossed the hall.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hollered as he turned on the light.

Marcie screamed and curled into a ball. Latisha scrambled into the corner, her ankle chain rattling as she drew her knees to her chest. The mattresses he’d thrown down for them when he first brought them home had been tossed into the backyard. He was making them sleep on the hard floor, punishing them both, even though it was Marcie who’d disobeyed.

“I asked you a question!” he bellowed.

“We’re not doing anything. Her-her mouth’s bleeding.” Squinting against the light, Latisha pointed at her sister. “I was just trying to stop the bleeding.”

“She’s bleeding because she didn’t obey. If you don’t lie down and quit shuffling around, you’re going to be bleeding, too. Your sister’s damn lucky I didn’t kill her!” Lord knows he’d been tempted. If he hadn’t had to concentrate on his driving he probably would have.

“You try to escape again and I’ll do it. You understand? It’s pointless to run. There’s nowhere to go out here. We don’t have any neighbors, no one close enough to help you.”

Tears trickled down Latisha’s face. “Please let us go,” she said, her voice falling to a whisper. “We won’t tell anyone about you. We swear it. We won’t talk to the police. We just want to go home.”

She sounded sincere. But Malcolm knew she’d change her mind once she was safe. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe he could ever set them free. He also wasn’t stupid enough to let them know it. They’d be a lot easier to control if they thought there was a chance.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You be on your best behavior and work hard like you should and in another week or so I’ll see what I can do. Okay?”

Latisha exchanged a glance with her sister, then nodded. “Yes, sir. We-we’ll do whatever you say. Won’t we, Marcie?”

Marcie seemed less willing to agree.

“Won’t we, Marcie!” Latisha prodded.

“Yes, sir.”

Malcolm ignored the sullenness of her reply. “I’m glad we finally understand each other.”

He managed a smile but let it fade as soon as he stomped out of the room. “Stupid bitches,” he muttered under his breath. Most women weren’t good for anything except…

The image that appeared caused a rush of testosterone so powerful it brought him to an abrupt halt. He’d always taken full advantage of the “badge bunnies” who threw themselves at any man wearing a uniform. But he hadn’t touched Latisha and Marcie. He’d told himself he wouldn’t stoop that low. The officers he used to work with held sex offenders in the highest contempt. He didn’t want to know they’d think of him in the same way.

But he’d never see his former coworkers again. So who would know? Besides, it was because of Latisha and Marcie that he couldn’t go to Franklin Boulevard to pick up a prostitute.

After all the teasing and flirting he’d done with Mary, he wanted a woman. Badly. And there were two right here. Two who had nothing better to do. Two who were ripe for the taking.

They were just black women. What would it hurt?

Come on. Go for it. Maybe if he relieved some of his sexual tension, he’d be able to concentrate, make a decision about Mary. Then he might not be so influenced by the desire to get in her pants…

Returning to the bedroom, Malcolm flipped on the light. Both girls shrank away from him, but his gaze lingered on Latisha. His father had taught him from the time he was just a boy that minorities weren’t worth his attention. But the younger of the two…she was quite pretty, if he let himself look at her that way. She had large tits, an itty-bitty waist and nice round hips. And she didn’t have the welts, freshly swollen lip and black eye he’d given Marcie when he’d dragged her into the house from the van.

“I know how you can guarantee your ticket home,” he said.

Latisha’s eyes widened and grew wary at the same time. She’d noticed the change in his voice and manner, but the promise of his words proved too difficult to resist. “H-how?”

“Spend half an hour with me in the bedroom, doing whatever I ask, and I’ll let you go. I promise.”

“In the bedroom?” she repeated, looking as if she was about to be sick.

“What’s thirty minutes?” he asked, trying to make it more appealing. “Thirty minutes for the sake of freedom.”

“Will you let my sister go, too?”

“Sure,” he said. “But that’ll cost the whole night.”

Marcie struggled to scoot closer to Latisha. “Don’t do it,” she warned. “He’s lyin’. He’ll drag you outta here and you won’t be comin’ back, and not ’cause he took you home. He’s gonna kill us both. That’s what he’s gonna do.”

Malcolm felt his hands curl into fists. Marcie was right. He had no choice. But it angered him that she wouldn’t at least hope for the best. “Shut up! I’m not talking to you, you crackhead bitch!”

“Please, don’ do this to her,” Marcie begged. “It’s me you’re mad at. She ain’t done nothin’.”

“But she’s the one I want. So stay out of it.” He nudged Latisha’s knee with his foot. “Take off your clothes.”

Latisha whimpered but didn’t act.