Brenda Novak - The Perfect Murder

When her legs went around his waist, drawing him deeper, he wanted to thrust. But he’d promised her she could call the shots, so he rolled over and let her straddle him instead. “You okay?” he whispered.

“I’m okay,” she said and began to rock against him.

Sebastian hung on for as long as he could, but it wasn’t long enough. When it was over, he was pretty sure she hadn’t experienced the same completion.

She lay beside him until she recovered her breath, then started to slide away. “That was nice,” she said. “Thanks.”

“You’re leaving?” he asked in surprise. “It’s barely eleven-thirty.”

“I’ve got work in the morning.”

He didn’t want her to go, not like this. She was being polite about it, but he knew she had to be disappointed. “Stay. Next time will be better. I was afraid of scaring you. I was trying to be too gentle. Now that you know you don’t have to worry about me, I can have more confidence in-”

“It’s not you, it’s me,” she interrupted.

“Jane-”

“Good night.” She gathered her things in the dark and he heard the door click as she went out.

Tears streamed down Jane’s face as she sat in the parking lot of the motel. She started the car so she could turn on the heat, but she didn’t leave. She couldn’t stop shaking and wasn’t sure she could drive.

What the hell was wrong with her? How could she have thought sex with a total stranger would help anything?

She rested her forehead on the steering wheel. “Because I’m an idiot. I can never get anything right that has to do with men.”

Sebastian had been the perfect gentleman. She had no complaints. But their session hadn’t carried her away as she’d hoped. Not even for a moment. She hadn’t been able to let go, to enjoy their lovemaking the way she’d imagined. Oliver had made that impossible. Just when she thought she’d be able to escape the past, he seemed to reach out from the grave…

“You bastard,” she said. “You cruel, selfish bastard.”

If only she’d never met Oliver. If only she’d been able to have Kate with someone else. But-her fingers sought the tattoo on her breast-Oliver wasn’t all that was holding her back.

A knock on the window startled her. She grabbed her throat as if fending off Oliver’s knife before she realized there was no threat.

“It’s just me.” Sebastian stepped back and held up something. “You left your wallet.”

She looked more closely at the object he’d brought. It definitely was her wallet. How had she lost it?

Then she remembered. They’d made a mess of the bedding and knocked her purse to the floor. It must’ve fallen out.

Shit! If she’d dropped anything else, she would’ve told him to keep it. She didn’t want to speak to him right now, didn’t want to let him know she’d been crying. But her wallet contained all her money and credit cards, as well as her driver’s license. She had to get it back, and the sooner the better.

Great way to top off the evening, Jane.

Lowering the window, she kept her face averted while he handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said, but she knew her voice sounded far too polite. She added a “Sorry” that only made it worse as she began to roll the window back up. She wanted to get out of the lot before he noticed her tears. But a quick glance showed his stricken expression: it was already too late.

She wondered if she should try to explain. She would’ve tried, but she wasn’t sure she could. He hadn’t done anything wrong. These were her issues, issues she’d been dealing with for years. He couldn’t take the blame for that. Anyway, she had no business crying. At least she was alive. At least she had Kate. That was enough. Plenty of other victims weren’t so lucky. She should be grateful, not wallowing in self-pity because she didn’t know how to act like a normal human being anymore.

Determined to put this behind her, to forge ahead as she’d done since Oliver’s death, she shifted into reverse. Forget and move on. That was the name of the game. Don’t look back. Those who did never escaped.

“Jane, wait a minute! I’m sorry,” he called after her, but she didn’t stop. She backed out of the parking space and drove away.

Malcolm had given Marcie and Latisha some sleeping pills so he wouldn’t have to hear from them tonight. It was a relief to know they’d be out for a good twelve hours, that they wouldn’t wake and start scheming against him. Maybe kidnapping had taken the thrill of wielding his badge to greater heights-they’d done most everything he told them to with a “Yes, sir”-but he should’ve let them go after scaring them senseless. That was what he usually did. Playing cop made for an enjoyable evening. He could order people around, act like the Big Man, and no one ever questioned him. The prostitutes on Franklin Boulevard were especially impressed when he told them he was undercover, so impressed they often gave him whatever he wanted for free. Officer Boss. Hearing people call him that cracked Malcolm up, which was why he’d chosen the name.

But he’d taken things too far with Marcie and Latisha. Now that he’d have to kill them, it was no longer a game.

After lowering the volume on the TV, Malcolm dialed the cell phone number he’d kept in his wallet. It rang once before he got a recording: “Please enjoy the music while your party is reached.”

A country song came on.

Trying to quell his impatience, Malcolm tapped the arm of the couch. He’d have some answers soon, he told himself. It was the middle of the night. Pam Wartle had to be home.

But Pam didn’t pick up. From “You Look Good in My Shirt” he was transferred to voice mail.

With a curse, he hung up and dialed again. Not only was it late, it was during the work week and she had a family as well as a regular nine-to-five job. Where the hell was she?

Finally he heard a sleepy voice. “Hello?”

He tried to gauge whether he had the right person. It was definitely a female-but was it Pam or her daughter?

“Hello?”

Malcolm let his breath go. It was Pam. “Hey.”

He could sense the tension in her breathing, even though she spoke only two words. “Hang on.”

“Pam?”

Silence.

“Pam!”

At last she responded, but this time her voice was soft and low and he assumed she was hiding in a closet or a bathroom-somewhere her husband wouldn’t be able to hear her. “This had better not be who I think it is,” she hissed.

“If you’re having an illicit affair, it’s not your lover. Does that help?”

“No! What the hell are you doing calling me? You swore you’d never contact me again!”

He straightened his uniform. He rarely wore it out of the house-regular clothes and a Kojak light worked better since he no longer had a cop car-but he’d wanted to wear it tonight. It gave him a chance to relive the good times he’d had in the past, reminded him of the power he’d once legitimately held. “Calm down. I blocked my number.”

“That’s not enough!” she snapped. “I have a husband, kids. I don’t want to be forced to explain to them why Mommy’s getting phone calls in the middle of the night!”

“Tell them it’s job-related. They’ll believe you.”

“Forensic technicians don’t have job-related calls after midnight. That only happens in the movies.”

Even on low, the noise from the television was irritating. Malcolm muted it. “Take it easy. I’ll make this quick. I have a question.”

“What could you possibly want from me? We concluded our business over a year ago.”

“I need to know what’s been going on since I left.”

“What do you think? Nothing! It went down just the way we planned it. If something had gone wrong, you wouldn’t be walking around a free man.”