The thrill he felt brought his cock to attention and caused his mind to start planning how to coerce her to do his bidding.
As he sat in his office, his eyes trained on the television screen, he imagined her in front of him. On her knees. Naked. Maybe a dog collar around her neck, but that was just sexual need and insignificant.
No, rather than watch her submission, he would lay her in her bath and pour the frigid water over her, preserving her perfection while destroying her spirit.
Oh, yes ...
The door was closed, and his wife, all atwitter about next weekend’s church Christmas bazaar, was out. He was alone, thankfully, the melody of “Angels We Have Heard on High,” running through his brain. Transfixed, watching the news as he tried to put the pieces that he’d been missing together. According to the news, the person who had broken into Selena Alvarez’s home was a teenager now in custody. That boy had “personal ties to the victim,” though, of course, the newscaster didn’t state the exact nature of the connection, only that an “anonymous source” had given the reporter her information, meaning there was a leak in the sheriff’s department.
Nia Del Ray might be playing coy.
But he knew.
He’d done his research.
With a click, he opened his private files and found the one dedicated to Alvarez. He’d realized there was a hole in her upbringing, the year she’d been gone, but he hadn’t realized until this moment that the detective had borne a son who was now ... what? Fifteen, no, sixteen, still young enough to be underage to protect his identity.
Well, that had been blown. All he had to do was reach for his keyboard, and while music played softly and the television continued to run the story, search through the recent reports of crimes on the Internet, check news stories and local blogs and ... Bingo! The name Gabriel Reeve came to light. A few more searches of “protected” high school databases and unprotected social network sites, and several pictures appeared on his screen.
“How about that?” he whispered under his breath. One of the suspects who was allegedly involved in an attempted robbery at the home of Judge Victor Ramsey was Detective Alvarez’s son? How had he not known this?
He turned his attention back to the television, rewound the newscast and listened again. What had that idiot Nia said, something about “transferring the suspect.”
He listened to that airhead Nia Del Ray, who was all puffed up as if she’d personally broken the story.
He watched, transfixed, then backed up the newscast and watched it again. Then again.
Quickly, on his computer, he began searching for more stories, more information and it seemed that the reporter for KMJC in Helena had her facts straight and this kid, who’d been adopted out at birth, had come snooping around Alvarez—good old Mommie Dearest—when he landed himself in some legal hot water.
This was good news.
Very good news.
Another way to get at that bitch of a detective who thought she was better than he. The song in the speakers changed to “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town” and he grinned to himself as he thought about smart, sassy and oh-so-sexy Selena Alvarez.
“You better watch out, you’d better not cry, you’d better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why ...” he sang softly, then chuckled to himself. Oh, yes, Detective Alvarez, you surely better watch out, he thought, as the final, most important part of his plan, was coming together.
Compliments of Gabriel Reeve.
Johnna was freezing.
>
Stripped naked, locked in some kind of underground cell, she watched the sicko as he sluiced the dead woman with water, then, as the ice froze over her body, spent hours with an ice pick, brushes and chisels, even an electric saw.
It was creepy as hell and she was freaked out, but he’d given her something to calm her, so that she wouldn’t scream and curse at him as she had when he’d first brought her here.
She’d pled with him, begged for her life, promised to do anything he wanted, swore she’d never tell a soul, but it was all for naught. He’d gone about his twisted business and seemed only irritated by the dog, a puppy of some sort, locked in a cell like the one she was in, poor thing. He yapped and cried incessantly, giving Johnna a headache that the drugs slipped into her veins couldn’t quite relieve.
She had no idea of what time of day it was—morning, noon or night—nor did she know how long he’d held her captive, or how long he planned to keep her alive. She held no illusions that she would escape with her life; not after what she’d seen.
Now, she heard his footsteps on the stairs, the creak of his heavy tread, and she was wary. She’d looked for a weapon, something to use against him, and hadn’t found anything.
At first she’d argued and screamed, but now she became silent, waiting, hoping to lull him into believing that she was scared out of her mind to the point of being petrified and unable to defend herself. That part wasn’t true.
She thought about the baby growing inside her and wondered what the effects of this abject cold, the electric shock from the stun gun and the drugs he’d given her had on her unborn child.
Mentally kicking herself a dozen times over, she wondered how she could have trusted him, how she could have missed the obvious signs that he was a maniac ... no, wait a minute, make that a homicidal maniac.