Seeing Red Read online

  His attraction for her is overwhelming. “Listen, maybe I should go. You know you can come by the office and we can take a statement.” His frayed nerves are getting the best of him.

  “But you didn’t get what you came for,” she says, her lips so full and beautiful. She rests her hand on his knee under the table.

  “Am I going to get what I came for?” Harper says, his voice deep and labored with lust.

  She doesn’t fight to fill the gaps in conversation. She waits, grabbing his full attention before answering.

  “I haven’t decided.”

  She has the most beautiful hair. She ties it back, off her face, and takes off her jacket.

  “But you are thinking about it.” He laughs at his enthusiasm and lack of elegance.

  Jessa is all sex, the promise of a chemical reaction so mind-blowing, he loses himself in the anticipation of it.

  Her eyes like a mood ring, changing from the icy blue of winter to a darker slate gray, the color of the sky in the pouring rain. Her black dress hugs every curve.

  He checks his phone and realizes he has several texts from Belle and a few from Seraphina.

  *ARE YOU EVER COMING HOME?*

  He has gone off the grid, and it feels good.

  He sends Seraphina a text, letting her know that he will be home late.

  Just a little longer, he thinks to himself as he shuts down the phone.

  “How about you, Harper? How did you become one of the good guys?”

  Harper takes a deep breath. “Is that what you think I am? One of the good guys?”

  “I’m optimistic, so far.”

  “Well, I guess I always wanted to be a hero. My old man was a drunk, which didn’t really excuse him for being a major asshole. He drank every paycheck on his way out the door.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Not really. In a way, he motivated me. I didn’t have to spend my life trying to be like him. I think it was Harvey Dent who said: ‘You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.’ I’m not sure what that has to do with anything. I better stop drinking,” he says with an amused expression.

  She watches him intently with those big blue eyes. He’s uncomfortable with the depth of her gaze. Harper has always been able to get people talking. But with Jessa, it is so easy to be naked.

  “Listen, I’m not sure what we are doing here,” Harper says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  “We’re just talking. It seems like you needed someone to listen tonight. So let me do that for you.” She laughs. “It’s the least I can do, really. Before you go back to saving the world.”

  This girl. Is she reading my mind?

  “Excuse me. I’m just going to run to the ladies’ room before we go.”

  He watches her move with the grace of a dancer, and so does every other man at the bar.

  While he’s contemplating what to do, his phone starts vibrating in his pocket. It’s Belle. Against his better judgment, he turns it off altogether.

  Jessa reappears, and in a room full of art, he has eyes only for her. Eyes meet; honest and open, she is searching for something.

  “What’s wrong?” Harper asks.

  “I’m an idiot. I lost an earring.”

  “Here?”

  “No, earlier. At my apartment. It went right down the drain in my bathroom. It was one of the ones my grandmother gave me. The super still hasn’t called me back.”

  “You just have to open up the drain. It’s easy.”

  “Do I look like a girl who knows how to just open up the drain?”

  “Not really. Listen, let’s get the check. I’ll do it for you, and then I’ll head out.”

  “Are you sure, really? That would be amazing. Thank you so much.”

  Harper helps Jessa with her coat. She trips on her way out the door and falls back against him. Her scent is intoxicating, like flowers and expensive perfume. He breathes in and is under her spell.

  She unlocks the elevator and they step in.

  Harper can feel his heartbeat quicken, his fingers aching to touch her. She brushes her body against him and catches her breath, biting her lip seductively.

  “Are you sure, Jessa?”

  “Ask me again, Harp, and I just might change my mind.” She takes her key out of the elevator, locking it between floors.

  “Jessa,” he says, his voice sounding distant. Her hands are all over his body.

  He caresses her lips; the feel of her skin is delicate, like silk. She presses hard against the taut muscles of his chest. Her fingers dance lightly down his shoulders. She feels the bulge of his gun around his waist.

  He’s lost in her, aroused by her caresses. He takes her hair down; so sexy, loose and disheveled. Her dress falls off her shoulders, leaving her breasts exposed.

  His lips run down her neck. She moans, her senses in overdrive.

  Her submission makes him desire her even more. His needs fill up the space between them.

  He needs to explore her, devour her.

  She teases, biting down on his lip playfully. Her cheeks flush with desire. She reaches into her handbag; it spills all over the floor. She finds the condom she is looking for, and she stares at him searchingly.

  “You must have been such a good Girl Scout.”

  He unzips her dress, and it drops to floor. She is naked, breasts exposed and nipples hard and pink.

  He kisses her lips, moving down her chin, tracing her toned stomach with his fingers. His hands move down, through the lace of her panties; she is wet with desire.

  He can’t take his eyes off her as she pulls down the zipper of his pants.

  He lifts her up and pushes her roughly against the wall, pinning her arms above her head. Legs around his back, locking behind, she moans in ecstasy as his fingers explore her.

  “Now,” she whispers and drags her fingers through his dark hair.

  Her eyes challenge him, so wide open. She is at his mercy. He likes the feeling of power. She is all lust and passion, gyrating, her body a vibration of heat and electricity. She arches her back into him, deeper, his hands gripping, orgasms building, all hips and thighs until they are over the edge and climaxing in each other’s arms.

  She screams as if she were at the top of a roller coaster. Jessa is unusually beautiful, her features almost Egyptian, red hair and sapphire eyes—smoldering and sweet. He buries his head in her hair, detecting the smell of sandalwood, as she covers him with butterfly kisses.

  He would reenact the scene over and over in his mind: her dress slipping off her shoulder, their legs coiled, his desire ready to strike.

  He hears a strange, muffled banging. It takes a minute for Harper to realize it’s coming from outside, and not just the pounding of his heart inside his chest.

  “Hey, let the elevator go!” The words are followed by more angry shouting. They both laugh and scramble to dress and pick up the contents of Jessa’s purse.

  Once together, he turns the key, and the elevator lurches into motion, opening up into her apartment.

  Harper smiles and pulls her close. He whispers, “Let me guess, Jessa. That whole story about the earring—you made it all up, didn’t you?”

  “Please don’t be angry.”

  He moves closer to her, skimming his fingertips across her cheek, and kisses her passionately.

  “Jessa, I’m married, and I’m not going to leave my wife.”

  She wraps her arms around his waist and presses her body against his.

  “I know. You’ll see. I can be very discreet.” Above her, written in neon blue lights, the glow of modern art that reads, YOU ARE HERE.

  He walks through the dark streets of SoHo toward where he parked the car. He is starting to feel like Seraphina, the gears in his mind always shifting and moving, body on overdri
ve.

  The same thought keeps turning over in his mind, so he says it out loud: “Fuck, what have I done?”

  He puts the key in the ignition and pulls out onto the road. The tires crunch and the engine hums as he pulls onto the West Side Highway. He is driving too fast, in and out of the lanes.

  His trousers are wrinkled, and his shirt needs pressing, but that’s to be expected after a night with Jessa. She is a natural beauty with her shiny red hair and that killer body. And the sex, that alone is scandalous.

  Now he is a cheater, and nothing else matters. That one choice invalidated all of the other good he has tried to do.

  He is angry—angry at Seraphina for all of her weakness. All of it, her fault.

  She brought him down just like she always threatened to do. She had always been consumed by darkness. He thought he could save her, but no, she had to take him with her. So fucking selfish. Well, he wouldn’t let her. He would fight it.

  She isn’t sick, just needy; another spoiled rich girl who will do anything to get her way. He pulls onto the Garden State and sees a car pulled over on the side of the road. He breathes in deeply and forces himself to slow down.

  He calls Belle.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “With Jessa.”

  “You mean Jessica.”

  “What?”

  “She’s an escort, Harp. A very high-paid one at that. I’m talking two thousand an hour. She and Brooke worked together. That’s why I’ve been trying to reach you. Check your e-mail.”

  Harper recounts his conversation with her. He can’t believe it. He had been involved with the agency bust of Jay Eckler, Metropolitan Confidential, a guy who filled his days shopping for jewelry at Cartier in SoHo or shoe shopping for his girls at Manolo Blahnik.

  At night, he would be at Cipriani with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, handing out his signature titanium business cards. The type of guy Harper loved to destroy.

  “What agency?”

  “These girls are on their own. They meet clients online and carefully vet them. It’s a tight network. A girls’ club. She had some very powerful clients, ones that have a lot to lose if word of any of this gets out,” Belle says. “We don’t have any other names, and we’re looking for the guy who handles their books. The story is going to break tomorrow. I told them to keep Jessa’s name out of the news for now. She’s the only lead we’ve got. You still there, Harp?”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’m pulling into the driveway. Nice job. We’ll catch up in the morning.”

  He pulls over to the side of the road and just sits in silence, thinking it over.

  He opens an e-mail from Belle and clicks on the hyperlink. It’s an image of Jessa, dressed in a tight black lace dress, superimposed against the glowing lights of Manhattan after dark.

  The next picture, she’s in black lace, red lips, and sky-high heels, and one word: luxury.

  He clicks on it, blood pressure rising. Another link; Indulge me.

  The rain has turned to ice and snow; it whips and whirls outside his window.

  “Jessica.” He lets the name roll off his tongue.

  He doesn’t like the sound of it, not one little bit.

  Five

  LARA KANE

  Most autopsies are standard. After an external examination, Y- and U-shaped incisions are made, and the organs are removed, weighed, and inspected. In this case, the bloating in the abdominal area from bacteria and gases caused putrefaction.

  Harper had sent someone from his office to oversee the autopsy. So instead of getting a call from the medical examiner, Chief Assistant DA Lara Kane is waiting for him in his office. She is young and hungry, a graduate of Brown who recently joined the team.

  Harper waves her in.

  She sneezes and wipes her nose as she steps into the room. “It’s a good thing I don’t mind cleaning up messes, Harp.”

  “Women’s work,” he says, smiling.

  Lara responds to his misogynistic quip with a flip of her middle finger.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “I think I just did,” she says.

  Now he’s laughing out loud. “Are you feeling all right?” Harper has a way with women. He can charm anyone, even the staunchest feminist, like Lara.

  “Just a cold,” Lara says with no emotion or affection, leading him to believe he is failing to charm her. He will have to change that.

  Belle walks in. “I’ll brief Harper, Lara. Can you grab the photographs?”

  Lara shoots Harper a look and walks out. “Did I piss her off again?” Harper asks.

  “She was headed that way when she got in. But you didn’t help matters much.”

  “Is that the autopsy report?”

  “Brooke had contusions and abrasions of the scalp. Her fractures are complex, showing a lot of force. All the slash wounds were made by a single-edged knife about six inches long. It takes skill to remove those organs with such speed and precision. Whoever did this has most likely done it before.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’ve seen calves butchered, and I can tell by the clean lines and the cutting around the organs that the man who did this has done it before.”

  Harper doesn’t want to hear this. Belle is hinting at the possibility of a serial killer.

  “He has knowledge of police procedures and forensics; this is not your average thrill-seeking psychopath. He may have used chloroform or trichloromethane to knock out his victim.”

  Harper realizes this makes perfect sense. Chloroform is a sweet-smelling, colorless liquid that can be vaporized into a gas to numb the pain. It was first used as an anesthetic in 1847 by a Scottish obstetrician, James Young Simpson, who tried it out on two of his dinner party guests, purely for entertainment purposes.

  “So Brooke Beck was still alive when they started cutting,” Belle says.

  Harper nods solemnly. “That would explain why she didn’t put up a fight, and nobody heard any screaming. Did anything show up in the tox report?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean much. Chloroform has a very high evaporation rate, although it can leave traces of burning on the skin if it comes in contact with the nose or mouth of the victim. Brooke didn’t have any of that.”

  “This guy is a pro. Maybe he has some military training. He’s fast, efficient and a skilled surgeon,” Harper says.

  “During the Civil War, ether and chloroform became indispensable tools for military doctors, who performed tens of thousands of amputations on the battlefield.”

  Lara returns with a steaming cup of coffee and the crime scene photos.

  She does a double take, looking at Harper now with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, the same one she gets before she is about to deliver another lame-brained gibe.

  “Are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?” Lara takes out her phone and points it at him. She takes a picture.

  “What are you planning to do with that?” he asks.

  “Well, this is such a stretch from your compulsive metrosexual nature. Maybe I’ll post it on Facebook. Then I’ll tweet it and put it up on Instagram. So, not much.”

  “I had a fight with my wife, so I slept here last night. Feel bad now?”

  “You fight a lot.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “More of an observation.”

  “Yes. Seraphina and I fight. We’re married. That’s what married people do. Listen, when it comes to my marriage, why don’t you leave the detective work to me.”

  “Sure,” Lara says, burying her eyes in the paperwork, realizing she struck a nerve. “We got the results back from the forensic botanist.”

  Lara takes out the evidence bag containing the brown bean from the crime scene and says, “The Calabar bean is a plant indigenous to the coastal area of southeastern Nigeria known as Calab
ar. The seed is extremely poisonous, and it’s extracted from the Calabar bean, scientifically known as Physostigma venenosum. The effects are similar to that of nerve gases used in war; they disrupt communication between muscles and the nervous system. It’s got quite a history. African tribes called it the ‘ordeal bean.’”

  “What is an ordeal bean?” Harper says with a short, nervous laugh.

  “West African tribes used it as a system of law, by feeding a few seeds to the accused and subjecting them to a dangerous experience or ‘trial by ordeal.’

  “They believed God would perform a miracle and let the accused live if they were innocent. If not, they died from the poison, and justice would be served.”

  “That’s some nut,” Harper says. Belle starts to laugh.

  “If you swallow the bean whole, you have a better chance of surviving,” Lara says, ignoring their frat-boy behavior. “They used the power of the beans to detect witches and people possessed by evil spirits.”

  Belle shows Harper his notebook, where he has drawn a picture of a bean and written, “This is nuts!”

  “And one last thing, Harp. Brooke Beck was pregnant,” Lara says.

  “Jesus Christ. Really?” Belle says, horrified. “That’s the motive. He knocked her up and didn’t want any part of being a father, so he murders her and makes it look like a ritualistic crime.”

  The door bursts open, and Harper’s assistant sheepishly walks in, placing the New York Post on his desk. The headline reads, NYU STUDENT MURDERED AND MUTILATED.

  “Cindy Adams called. Again.”

  “Did you get a new assistant?” asks Lara.

  “I didn’t notice,” Harper says distractedly.

  “You didn’t really just say that.”

  “I did. This office is a revolving door, and that’s how we roll.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “And that’s how I roll.”

  “You’re pretty funny … for a girl.”

  “Are those the glamour shots?” Harper says.

  He takes the crime scene photographs and looks them over. “It’s a shame. She was such a beautiful girl,” Harper says.

  “So if she were ugly, it would be okay that she was brutally murdered and dismembered?” Lara says.