All the Pretty Girls: A sexy FBI suspense thriller romance (The Next Generation Book 1) Read online

  “Toxicology?” Mike asked.

  Kristy looked up from her tablet to answer, “Ketamine.”

  “Offical cause of death?” I asked.

  “Exsanguination. I’ve emailed you all the report,” Kristy said.

  “No sexual assault,” Ben noted as he scanned the information on his tablet.

  “Stab wounds to the abdomen and face,” Mandy added.

  Stab wounds was barely scratching the surface; Lauren’s face was demolished. She was unrecognizable.

  “Only one stab wound to the lower abdomen. No sexual assult. Face annihalated. Ketamine. Exsanguination.” I listed some of the facts of the case.

  “I know where you’re going with that. You think he’s back,” Mike said.

  “Copycat?” Ben asked.

  “The ketamine was never released to the public,” Mandy piped up.

  “Four years between kills,” Kilby added.

  “After body eleven and the seventh of the following month past we’d assumed he’d been locked up on other charges,” I reminded him of our initial profile. “The Butcher is back.”

  The Butcher was my first case with the BAU, and four years later it was unsolved. The offender had up and vanished. Eleven kills, all on the seventh day of the month, all dumped in a public location, all had ketamine in their system; all had a single stab wound in their lower abdomens, their faces disfigured, nothing taken, nothing left. The new homicide fit the victimology. Pretty woman mid-twenties, low-risk lifestyle. The common factor was they were all what society would consider beautiful.

  Today was the twentieth of the month.

  The wait had begun.

  Chapter 2

  Pretty Face

  “Good morning, Meadow.” Beth stopped at my desk, her eyes went wide, and I braced for what would come next. “Oh, I’m happy you finally decided to stop trying to cover up the awful scar. By the end of the day, your make-up just wears off and you can see it anyway. It’s such a shame; you were such a beautiful girl. I mean you still are, even with the scar on your face.” Beth smiled a bright smile as she continued by my desk as if she wasn’t just a royal bitch.

  Who says that?

  Beth does, that’s who. And most everyone else. At least she makes comments to my face instead of whispering them behind my back. I should’ve been used to it by now. From the moment I’d woken up in the hospital with this hideous scar marring my face, people have been making comments.

  Oh, you poor thing.

  Does it hurt?

  So sad to mark such a pretty face.

  I’ve heard it all, and mostly I ignored the stares and running commentary about how my scar came to be. People comment as if I don’t know I have a six-inch scar running from my ear to my chin. I knew it was there; I saw it every day. A stark reminder that I was lucky to be alive. My flesh had been flayed open with such force two of my teeth were dislodged, and I have dental implants. Unfortunately, even after plastic surgery, the scar was still prevalent.

  These days I chose to view the mark as a symbol of what I lived through. I’ve not always felt that way. There were many dark days after the attack happened. I was too afraid to leave my house, horrified I looked like a monster, and there was a time I’d contemplated ending it all. I might’ve if it wasn’t for a very special woman, who’d I clung to like a lifeline. VeronicaVenus21 was my savior even though I’d never met her in real life. She was a member of a message board I joined after I was released from the hospital. The group was for victims of violent crimes. We’d spent hours in the online chatroom. She’d survived a horrific ordeal, much worse than mine, and she’d made it through. She gave me hope.

  “Good morning to you, too, Beth. I put your new sales reports on your desk.” I flashed what I hoped was a normal-looking smile. Because in my mind I had jumped on her back like a spider monkey and knocked her to the ground, banging her pinchy face into the cheap Berber office carpet.

  Bitch.

  By the time lunch rolled around, I was ready to go home. Monday mornings always sucked, but this one was especially craptastic. My normally mild-mannered, sweetheart of a boss, was tired and crabby. She had only been back from maternity leave for a month, and her new baby had colic, which in non-parent layman’s terms meant I am miserable, so you will be too.

  I’d normally work through lunch, snacking at my desk, but today I had to get some fresh air. The entire office seemed to be off. I grabbed a turkey sandwich from the sub shop next door and sat on one of the benches out front and just as the deliciousness that was a turkey on rye with extra swiss and extra mustard was at my lips, Rory plopped down beside me.

  I jumped, squeezed, and mustard shot out of the bottom of my yummy sandwich at the speed of light, and now I was wearing it, a huge yellow spot on the front of my teal blouse.

  “Shit. Sorry, Meadow,” she stammered and proceeded to molest my breasts with a napkin, further smearing the offending condiment into the material.

  I will admit for a moment I did contemplate the fact that in the past five years, my co-worker had been the only person to touch my breasts; and how sad that detail was. I was twenty-six years old and hadn’t had a single sexual experience with anyone in years – until Rory and her exploring hands.

  “It’s fine.” I stilled her hands and took over, but it was too late. The stain was huge now, spreading nipple to nipple instead of smack dab in the middle of my chest.

  “Today sucks,” Rory huffed.

  “You’re telling me.”

  I was going to smell like a hoagie all day.

  “It’s like a case of the body snatchers on my floor today. Everyone is acting like assholes,” she complained.

  Rory worked on the floor above mine in the accounting department. She was nice enough, but our paths rarely crossed.

  “Oh good, it’s not just the sales team then. I thought they’d all been infected with douche canoe virus.”

  “You know, me and some of the girls from HR are going to happy hour tonight. You should join us.”

  Memories of the last time I went to happy hour flooded and the panic that accompanies those thoughts rose to the surface with such force I physically jerked, dropping my sandwich on the ground.

  “Fudgesicle.”

  “Shit girl, are you okay?” Rory asked.

  “Yeah. I just remembered I didn’t finish Beth’s weekly sales forecast. She’ll be pissed. I gotta get back to the office.” I tried to cover up my freakish reaction to her mentioning getting drinks.

  Then I did what I always did when the memories of that night became too much. I sent a message to Veronica Venus.

  Chapter 3

  The 20th

  “Kylie Peters, twenty-two, five feet one, one hundred ten pounds.” Mike looked up from the girl’s license and shook his head. “Poor thing didn’t have a chance.”

  The young woman looked smaller than her five-feet-one lying crumpled on the cement behind Lucky’s Bar. It was the twentieth, and the local PD had called the team to the scene before they’d moved the body. Rot and decay from the nearby dumpster masked the coppery smell of the pool of blood around the victim’s head. Thirty puncture wounds in the face and one knife wound to the lower abdomen.

  The area was a mess. Bystanders looked on; some tried to take cell phone pictures and video. What the fuck was wrong with people? A woman was dead, and all some someone could think of was to post the image on their twitter feed. The alley was too small to pull the ambulance in, not that it was needed, but protocol dictated EMS still answer the call. It sat at the curb next to the medical examiner’s van. Blue and red lit up the area like a beacon for all to see. So much for keeping these latest murders from the media. They’d be here next, no doubt.

  “Christ,” I muttered. “Looks like she took an ice pick to the face.” Not having the stomach to look at what was left of her face, I moved to look around the area that had been marked off with yellow crime scene tape. No murder weapon, no trace blood leading away from the body, noth
ing. Two new bodies and we were no closer to catching the offender.

  “You ready to head back?” Mike asked. “The rest of the team is loading up.”

  “More than.”

  The drive back to the office was filled with Mike lamenting how his ex-wife was now dating. Their divorce had only been finalized recently, and he’d been holding out hope for reconciliation, even after the judge stamped the final decree. They’d been married eighteen years and had three girls, and now Mike found himself alone in an apartment he hated while his ex and the kids remained in the family home.

  Mike parked the SUV and turned to me. “I never thought I’d be forty-two years old and starting over. I haven’t been on a date in twenty years. You know what she said when she left? She needed a fresh start. I’ve been with the BAU for almost ten years. I have a master’s in psychology. Years’ worth of training in behavioral science and I still don’t know what the fuck that means. What signs did I miss?”

  “I don’t know. Are you sure you missed the signs?” I asked.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means you don’t miss much. You’ve seen more than the rest of us. Ask yourself, did you miss it, or did you ignore it? I’ve never been married; I’m not the right person to talk to about this. But I do have four aunts, and when they were upset, there was no missing it. So, either your ex was a master of deception, or you didn’t want to believe the woman you’ve spent half your life loving was capable of stepping out on you.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “That may be true. I’ve been called that a time or two. But, it doesn’t mean I’m wrong. What Donna did was completely fucked. What she’s doing now is wrong.” I didn’t want to hurt Mike, but he had to pull his head of his ass about his ex. “She’s not your concern, Mike. You have three beautiful girls. They’re what is important now. Show them how much you love them. Focus all of your energy on them, and you’ll be golden.”

  “How did you know Donna had an affair? I never told you that.”

  “Seriously? She’s textbook. Statistics show that the likelihood a woman will divorce, especially women in long-term marriages, strongly correlates with her preconceived ability to remarry. Women initiating divorce after the age of forty with children is low unless there is abuse or some other stressor. I know there’s not abuse in your home. No job loss, no death of a close relative, no sick child. That leaves another man - her fresh start. You may have wanted to keep your head in the sand, but the signs were there. The new hairstyle, the new clothes. You bitched about her running the cards up to get those things. The gym. Really, you missed all that?”

  “I’m afraid to ask why you know divorce rates,” Mike said.

  “Women fascinate me. You grow up hearing sayings like happy wife, happy life. There are poems written about women scorned, songs about women burning an ex’s house down. What makes a woman both the loving nurturer and so emotionally unbalanced she can key your car and toss your shit on the front lawn all in one afternoon. Women provide care, feed their young, cuddle and love. But there is nothing fiercer than a mama bear when her young are threatened. They are ruthless and merciless. Kipling wrote, ‘Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies. He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.’.”

  “Son, don’t ever call a woman emotionally unbalanced to her face or you’ll find more than your shit on her front lawn. You can take that advice to the bank.” He chuckled, and in true Mike fashion, when he’s done with a conversation, he ended it, without preamble. He was out of the SUV, already walking toward the office before I caught up with him.

  He beeped the locks and mumbled his thanks.

  ***

  We were missing something. Thirteen bodies and still no trace evidence had been left behind. The profile needed to be reworked.

  One white board had crime scene photos too gruesome to look at; the other had the timeline and photographs obtained from DMV records. There was a connection; we were overlooking it.

  “Why?” I asked the room. “Why these women?”

  “They were convenient, easy targets. All had alcohol in their system at the time of death,” Ben answered.

  “None over the legal limit,” Mandy clarified.

  “We’ve established the offender is sexually incompetent. Small in stature, the unsub needs the ketamine to incapacitate the victims; he can’t otherwise overpower them on his own. Unassuming, non-threatening, and even friendly. The women all left willingly. Even with the overkill and rage, suggesting revenge or jealousy, the kill is still controlled. He only mutilates the face and a single stab wound to the abdomen. Organized, mid to late twenties,” Joel read the profile.

  “The first eleven were killed on the seventh. The last two on the twentieth. Why the change in the day of the month?” I mussed.

  “The stressor changed. We thought there was a childhood trauma that had occurred on the seventh day of a month. The change in the day now suggests the trauma occurred in adulthood. Something recent,” Mike surmised and thumbed through the file in front of him.

  “The ketamine? Mandy, was there a change in the toxicology report?” I asked.

  “No change. Administered orally, the high dose would take effect approximately ten minutes after it was ingested,” she answered.

  “The only change is the stressor.” I stopped and checked my watch; 4 a.m., too early to call in our tech Kristy. “When Kristy comes in, we’ll have her run the seventh of the month going back a year from the first batch of murders. Anything newsworthy. And for the twentieth going back four years. We need to find what is so important on those days.”

  “I’ll run doctors prescribing ketamine again.” Joel stood and added. “Ben, where are we on the security camera in the bar?”

  “Same as the others. The day of the murder has been wiped clean,” he answered.

  “I’m going home to get a few more hours sleep.” Mandy tried to stifle her yawn and rubbed her eyes. “I’m too old for this.”

  “Me too.” I gathered my files and picked up my cell and tablet before heading for the door. “I’ll see you all in a few hours.”

  I didn’t bother stopping by my desk to secure my files. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep; I might as well use the quiet early morning hours to sift through them. We were missing something big. The clock was ticking until we found another mangled body in the alley. The BAU didn’t catch killers, the local police officers did. The profile was an investigative tool, one that helped the police narrow their suspect list and save man-hours, and hopefully lives. The problem with this case was the police didn’t have any suspects. The team was putting in extra hours trying to nail this guy. The more information we could provide the PD, the faster this animal could be locked away.

  I was dog-ass tired by the time I pulled into my driveway. The early morning coffee and adrenaline had worn off. I needed a nap; then I’d look through my notes again. I opened my door and went in search of my girl, Sally, and my bed.

  Chapter 4

  Nightmares and java

  “Please don’t do this,” Meadow begged.

  “You think because you’re so pretty you can have whatever you want. Take and take. Steal what doesn’t belong to you.”

  “I don’t. I promise. I didn’t steal anything. Please don’t,” Meadow cried out in agony as her flesh was pierced. A rush of searing heat bloomed in her stomach and radiated outward until it engulfed her entire body. The rough cement scraped the skin on her back as she tried to escape the anguish that threatened to pull her under.

  “You shouldn’t take what isn’t yours, you dirty bitch.”

  “Please,” Meadow begged and tried to blink to clear the haziness.

  The flash of a knife blade reflected the light from overhead and Meadow gave in to the pain; everything went dark.

  The scream that filled the room was involuntary as I scrambled out of bed, lan
ding on the floor with a thud. My legs were twisted in my sheet, which now was pulled clean off my bed, wrapping me in a sweaty cocoon.

  Why was this happening again?

  I’d gone almost a year with a nightmare. No, not a nightmare. Nightmares are scary dreams invented by your imagination. These were memories, my reality. My living hell.

  A shower did nothing to wash away the lingering effects of my nocturnal torture. I hated I still couldn’t stop myself from remembering what happened. Well, that wasn’t true. I couldn’t remember, not the most important part anyway. The police had interviewed me dozens of times, both in the hospital and the weeks after I’d been released. They couldn’t understand how I couldn’t remember my attacker’s face. I couldn’t even remember his voice. Nothing. Just the pain. I couldn’t forget any of the pain. Not the stab to my stomach, not the weeks of fever and infection, and not the ache I’d felt when the doctor told me infection had severely damaged my reproductive system and I’d never have children.

  I fucking hated remembering.

  I yanked the rest of the bedding off the mattress, dragging the bundle to the tiny laundry area, and tossed it in front of the stackable washer and dryer. I’d deal with it later. The lingering smell of fear filled my small apartment and threatened to choke me.

  I had to leave.

  The trendy coffee house on the corner of my street gave me a measure of comfort. I’ve been coming here for years, ever since I’d moved to Virginia right before my attack. Strangely this shop was the one constant in my life. I waited in line, ordered, and took my creamy, vanilla-flavored yumminess from Becky, the purple-haired barista. Coffee in hand, I moved to the back of the small space to the table in the corner, all the while thinking how sad my life had turned out to be. I thought I’d be married by now, maybe have a baby on the way. I would’ve finished my degree and the only worry I’d have was whether I’d give up my career to be a stay-at-home mom. I totally would’ve. I had wanted kids, wanted to be a mother. Now that was gone, and what was left was nothing short of a tragedy. Instead of a man and a family, I had a coffee house and Becky. The girl had been working here since the first time I’d come in. The only thing about her that’d changed over the years was her hair color. She’d never treated me differently, even when I’d come in with the bandage on my face. The only comment she’d made was, I hope they fry the bastard that hurt you. Then she took my order and smiled.