Ain't Your Bitch (Interracial Urban Erotica)(159)

Eleven



The little woman on her screen telling her how excellent her online  dating experience was going to be made it all that much more real. Maybe  this wasn't such a good idea after all. Maybe she should have  reconsidered. The temptation would be great, but what was it going to  help if she ended up dead in a ditch somewhere?

It wouldn't help anyone, but they weren't going to catch the guy on  their own. They weren't approaching the case with the right kind of  serious concern, and it was going to bite them in the ass until they  realized it.

She wasn't willing to wait that long. She was going to find this guy,  and she was going to catch him. If she could only get him, then that  would be one thing. But she wouldn't just stop there. She was going to  go as deep down the rabbit hole first, before she pulled out and got the  sons of bitches who did this cold.

Jamelia closed her eyes and tried to calm down. This was no time to be  losing her cool. Not so early on. She needed to keep her head on her  shoulders as long as possible. She was going into the lion's den here.

She had the account already. A few years ago she'd heard about online  dating, and opened an account. It had lasted all of several minutes  before she realized that it wasn't ever going to happen for her, and for  that matter she didn't want it to happen that way if it was going to  happen.

Pulling in a breath, Jamelia clicked the button to reactivate her  account. It was a good thing that she had it already. If she had a  one-day old account, it would make it difficult for him to trust when  she emailed him out of the blue. As if someone had put up a fake account  with a picture of his latest murder victim. He'd absolutely know the  jig was up.

But now she had an account with two or three tasteful four-year-old  pictures that were still just about good enough, she hoped. Then she got  to messaging.

Craig Hutchinson might not respond. It might make him nervous,  especially if he thought that she knew who he was, or who he had been,  to her sister. But if he were a serial killer, or involved in serial  killings, then he wouldn't be able to resist the chance at a repeat  performance, even if he had misgivings. That was what the whole plan was  built on.

She closed her laptop and went to watch daytime television, just like  the Captain told her to. See, Jamelia thought to herself. I can do as  I'm told. Besides, it might be hours before she got an answer from the  guy, and it was a long shot in either case. She sat down on the couch,  fished for the remote between her knees, and clicked the T.V. on. Some  news story, but it wasn't about her sister. They probably weren't going  to run anything about her on the T.V. at all.

Jamelia wasn't sure how she felt about it. If they let out all the  details-that the FBI were involved, that they suspected the work of a  serial killer, then there would be way too many unanswered questions and  way too much trouble. They'd never be able to live it down. But if they  left out details, then what was the point of doing any story at all?

So they didn't run one. That was typical. Exactly the reason that she  couldn't stand letting someone else do the work to track down her  sister's killer. One thing gets a little hard, and suddenly they're not  so committed to the truth any more. If she wanted someone willing to do  something hard, then she had to rely on herself. Nobody was going to do  it for her.

She flipped the channel until she found a bunch of women talking amongst  themselves. They had another woman at the table and proceeded to make  ground beef out of her. It was like watching someone caught in a pack of  hyenas. Everything she said was a chance to pick and criticize and  fight.

Oh, it was all very friendly on the surface, but Jamelia knew all about  how the game was played, and it was about as friendly as a gunfight.

She flipped the channel again. A T.V. judge was shouting at the  defendant in a case. From what Jamelia could see, the girl deserved it,  sort of. These shows held no real appeal for her, either. Everyone on  them was scum. It wasn't a case of one person being injured and the  other being a bastard. Everyone should have been put in the corner until  they learned to get the hell along with other people.

Then again, that wasn't so different from real life. The judges were all  a bit too keen to throw temper tantrums. Usually sitting judges manage  not to do that, but it might have something to do with being able to  threaten people with jail time if they don't shut the hell up. That  probably made a pretty big difference in terms of frustration levels,  Jamelia figured.

Her phone buzzed. An email had arrived. It was from the dating service.  She'd gotten a message!, it read. Exclamation mark and all. Her face  twisted into a taut smile. Already, the seed she had planted was  starting to grow.

She opened the laptop again, refreshed her messages, clicked it open.  Instead of Craig Hutchinson, she was treated to the profile picture of  the man who had written her a very …  excited message. A very explicit  message, and attached was a very explicit photograph of a cock as thick  as her wrist.

She closed it as fast as her fingers could click the buttons and she  blinked. God damn it. That's exactly what she had hoped wasn't going to  happen. Maybe this was a mistake. Her phone buzzed again. Another  message.

She took in a deep breath and prepared to be disturbed. Then she clicked  it open. A biker-looking type, built like he was still in the Army,  smiled out at her. He still had all his teeth, which meant he was either  just putting on airs with the motorcycle club vibe, or he was better in  a fight than most.         

     



 

That, or he had a very good dentist, but that was unusual by itself for that sort of guy in her experience.

He would love to meet. In public, of course. He suggested a coffee house  on the south side of town. Too isolated for her, and it wouldn't play  into her hand the way she'd hoped. What about the beach? She was right  out by the boardwalk. It was crowded, so no danger for either of them.  That would work better for her.

A message came back a minute later, asking how he'd know her. She took a  deep breath. She had to play this to the hilt, that was the only way to  do it. She'd be wearing a light blue swimsuit with a large  flower-print. She didn't know how to describe the flowers, except they  were dark-colored. Then she went off to find the bikini she hadn't worn  in years.

Now her skinny figure would come in handy. She hadn't gained a pound in  almost ten years, so the swimsuit should still fit, she hoped. But the  problem was where it would be.

Well, that and how to carry her backup gun when most of her body was on display.





Twelve



The sun was beating down. What a poor excuse for a January. Too hot,  especially after all the fun in the snow only a few days ago. She laid  back against a plastic chair someone else had set out a long time ago,  watching with her eyes while trying to look still and resting. Her big,  dark glasses helped with that a bit, since hopefully nobody would see  the minute motions of her eyes.

She heard someone approaching, but kept a watch out anyways, not  bothering to look. Whoever was doing these murders was ballsy, but not  this ballsy. There must have been two hundred people in plain view. He'd  have been caught by the time he made it to the end of the sand.

"Jamelia Brown?"

His voice made her turn even as she had planned on pretending she hadn't  heard him. He sounded like honey tasted, sweet and dark and everything  in between.

"Craig Hutchinson?"

He hadn't dressed for the beach, but that just put her at an advantage.  She was putting herself on display for him. Taunting him with her body,  to an extent, and if he thought they were there for a swim the effect  wouldn't be as distinct.

"Yeah, that's me. You want to get something to eat?"

"Where were you thinking?"

"I don't know this part of town," he confessed. "You got any recommendations?"

That was a surprise. A guy like this, he wasn't killing because he was  losing his goddamn mind. That was why they hadn't caught him yet. The  guys who thought it all through, they made plans. If you tried to mess  with their plan, they would make a new one before they followed through.

Yet, this guy had come here with no particular plan except wearing a  heavily-padded motorcycle jacket and looking like he could train with  any of the guys down the beach, and could probably outrun all of them.  She filed that knowledge away for later.

"Oh, sure. There's a Coney Island right at the edge of the beach. It's pretty good."

She rolled out of the chair and picked up her purse. It was heavy with  the weight of her gun, but she didn't show that she felt the extra  weight. She'd put it in the middle to try to get rid of as much blocking  as she could. If she was lucky, he wouldn't even know it was there  until the moment she pulled it on him.

"This way." She started to walk, and he walked beside her, his boots leaving deep impressions in the soft sand.

"You come around here often?"