Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (6 page)

I wasn't a player, but I wasn't one to turn down a pretty woman and the invitation of some dancing and fun. But not tonight. Tonight I had work to do. And I was sick to admit that work had a lot to do with Ocean Breeze. Idiotic, obsessive brain.

“Naw, you ladies go on ahead. I'm swamped this evening.” I beamed a smile. “Sorry.”

“Aww, Callan. You promise us next time you come.”

Her broken English was kinda cute. Perhaps I should go. I was a sucker for exotic women, but black eyes as dark as space haunted me. Ocean, in her crazy get up of slutty bra-top and miniskirt—even though she screamed hooker, I saw through the makeup and act. Shit, that woman cast a spell on me.

I shook my head. “Next time.”

Bridget slapped my bare chest, flicking her hand free of salt water. “You always say that.” She pouted. It didn't suit her.

There was a puddle where I stood. I needed to get into my apartment before the strata manager saw the mess I made.

Hoisting my board higher, I threw her a grin. “Next time. I promise.” I legged the last flight of stairs and locked myself in my apartment. Safe in my domain. It wasn’t like I didn't like women. I had my fair share of infatuations, but never had someone grabbed me around the balls as much as Ocean Breeze. I broke every rule in a cop’s handbook, starting with the most important one:
No fraternizing with criminals.
The minute I figured out her little vanishing act, I’d stop thinking about her. I
wanted
to stop thinking about her. Our entire interaction—her arrest and our quick dinner—made no sense whatsoever. Why did I demand to have dinner with her? I practically arrested her all over again when she refused. 

Glowering, I stormed into my small bathroom. I stripped off my red board shorts, hung them over the rail, and jumped into the shower. I kept the water lukewarm. The weather was hot tonight. No point over heating my blood when just a memory of a particular disappearing girl could do that for me. Obsessive. Yep. Maybe I should go out after all.

After my shower and dinner of left over lasagna, I sprawled on the couch and opened my laptop. It was limited but I could access the police records from here.

Taking a swig of beer, I stretched and pulled up Ocean's file, which I'd scanned and emailed to myself. Probably not ethical, but so what? Everything I did where this woman was concerned wasn’t ethical. I cringed every time I recalled how forceful I was asking to see her again. What drove me? I’d never behaved like that before. She was dressed as a hooker for blimey’s sake!

Served me right anyway. I demanded her number, and she popped into nothing. Great stroke for the ego. But now I had a point to prove. The way she'd looked when she said she hated the law. The disgusted disbelief when she spoke of how the justice system failed to lock up the bastards who wrecked her life. That hurt because
I
was the law, and she hated me by association. I could understand her lack of trust in cops in general, but I wasn’t just a cop.

Clicking on her case notes, I made a note of the reference and saw ‘unsolved’ beside it. Honestly, how much effort did the force use? A week? A month? Her file probably went into the ‘too hard’ basket when Ocean was shafted off to foster care. The only thing was—there was no record of her being in the foster care system. So who took her in?

An unsolved file meant I had to approach the overseeing officer before delving in for new info. No way would I beg for permission. This was a personal project.

Screw it. I’d find those two ass-wipes who slaughtered her family and deliver them to justice. Too bad the death penalty was hard to come by.

“I kill monsters.”
Ocean's voice in my head made me jump. Was that true?
Was
she a murderer? If she told the truth, would she kill the two bastards as retribution?
Uh, I can't believe I considered that!
I did
not
approve of vigilantism.

And how did my thoughts go from wanting to chase
her—
only because of her vanishing trick, of course
—
to wanting to chase the men who caused her pain
? Seriously, I
should
go out tonight.
If my balls were overriding my brain, I needed a shag to think clearer. Ocean Breeze was a criminal and a freak of nature. That
was the only reason I sat here researching. So what if she’d taken my breath with her when she disappeared? I didn’t need it.

I leaned back, sipping more beer. Did I believe Ocean was a killer? If I did, would I have to arrest her again? A flush rose through my body which had nothing to do with alcohol. To see her again. To see that violent passion and intelligence again.
Callan, focus. Work.

Settling in, my fingers flew over my keyboard. Typing links of code, I turned a simple internet search engine into a super powered tool; every snippet of information lurked, ready to be found.

However, Ocean was as elusive online as she had been in person. As far as the World Wide Web was concerned, she didn't exist. Extremely hard in this day and age not to make some sort of dent—either by credit card, car loan documents, or house purchase. Even something simple like school records. Who was this bloody woman?

Turning my attention to the men who ruined her life, I spent a few frustrating hours with nothing to show for it. Even with multiple hacking tricks, my search for the two bastards proved fruitless. There were no new leads. Nothing to give me concrete evidence to open the file and pursue the pricks who chopped her future to pieces with a rusty chainsaw.

Around 9:00 p.m., I turned on a light, and vaguely heard the clomping of heels as the Brazilian girls departed for their night of debauchery and drinking. Good luck to them. And good luck to the poor shmucks they picked up.

The evening turned late, and still I searched. A friend texted me at 1:00 a.m.:
Hey, bro. Where’s u at? Got me a super fine sheila who has a friend. Get ur ass over here. Wink Wink.

Ugh. It was constant: friends trying to hook me up. They accused me of being married to my job. Did it matter that I had bloody standards and refused to sink my cock into just anyone?
That’s probably my problem
. I hit a dry spell and this happens: instant infatuation with a criminal. Fuck. Perhaps a few hours with pounding music and a lithe form pressed against mine was exactly what I needed?

I swiped a hand over my face, groaning. One more hour, then I'd go. Sydney nightclubs didn’t believe in closing until daybreak, so I had loads of time to do another search before heading out.

My eyes were scratchy from looking at the screen too long, but I collaborated a ghost program to do a profile on all characteristics of a man who’d be capable of committing rape and murder in 1996. After I pressed
ENTER
, I paced my balcony, allowing the hiss of waves on sand to soothe me.

If my system came back empty, I’d have to try something else, but the program was one of the best. It was designed by Mr. Kim, my Korean school exchange father. To this day, I didn't know who he worked for. The Feds? CIA? Someone knew of his talent and he was forever huddled in his cave of an office, surrounded by humming hardware and glaring monitors. The hours I spent watching him manipulate computers, learning complex code, awoke me to the monstrosities of what large corporations kept from civilians.

I didn't like it. I wanted the truth, and Mr. Kim showed me paths to find that truth. His tutelage landed me working undercover in Bali. It was all very hush-hush.

Something pinged on my laptop. I shot back inside, slipping on the tiles in my rush, and glared at the screen.

A total of seventy-seven men were listed. Seventy-seven assholes who were classified by the system as psychopaths. Bloody fantastic. What a sick, fucked-up world I lived in.

Clicking through the mug-shots, I stared into seventy-seven pairs of eyes. It didn’t matter if they were blue, green, or brown. Each pair was dead as a zombies. No humanity left in their dark riddled souls. Creepy bastards.

I swigged the last of my beer, which was flat and warm, and stalked to get another one. My fridge was empty, apart from a block of moldy cheese. Awesome.

My hour was up—was I heading out? To be normal and dance with some blonde bimbo who thought being a cop was sexy? Or was I going to stay here and hunt in the way I excelled?

Why did I even bother asking myself?

I texted my mate, blowing him off, and settled in for a night of research. No point in even thinking about sleep. Ocean Breeze bloody disappeared into thin air. How could I rest until I understood how she did that? If I’d had alcohol that night, I’d have sworn someone spiked my drink. It made no sense and freaked me out. Was I losing my mind?

Making a determined effort not to worry about my sanity, I focused on her. Big mistake, as she tugged all the parts of me that shouldn’t be interested. 

Ocean was an icy woman who had more spunk in her little finger than most women in their entire bodies. If I could serve up her nightmare in shackles as a get-to-know-me gift, then I'd work all night.

All week if I had to.

Chapter Six: Ocean

I
stretched as long as my limbs would let me, and my feet fell off the end of the feather and lavender stuffed bed. The smell of fresh bacon and eggs floated up the rickety staircase, and for once I had no urge to hunt. No impulse to kill.

Throwing off the duvet, I grabbed a fluffy towel, and headed down the daisy-covered hall to the bathroom. I loved Maurice's bathroom. It was as if I stepped through time. The bath-tub was shiny copper, with a small hearth beneath to keep the water warm. The toilet flushed using a chain—at least it wasn't a long drop—and the shower was served by a massive cauldron in the rafters with a spout covered by a bamboo cup with holes to allow water to seep. It was rustic, charming, and absolutely freezing.

I'd forgotten how freakin’ cold England was.

I allowed the water to flow hot before stripping and jumping under a torrent of drops.

My heart bloomed when I noticed girly shampoo and conditioner on the shower ledge. Maurice was adorable—stocking his house with things for me. I'd neglected him. It was wrong of me to stay away for so long. Who cared if we argued? I was a spineless cow to leave him with no explanation. But the terror of my black marks—a new one erupting with every kill—stole my sanity. I needed to forget about them. I thought I could forget Maurice, too. To disappear from his life now, rather than in a few years when the marks devoured me. 

It was stupid to think I could. I couldn’t live without him. I needed his love, his understanding and companionship.

Once I was fruity fresh, I dressed in a pair of black jeans and my favorite apple green blouse. This house was the only place I left belongings permanently. This was my home.

Lifting the newspaper clipping from my pocket, I glared at my personal demon. This photo would be my driving force. A death sentence. Adrian Mathieu’s life was forfeit for the lives of my mother, father, and brother. I’d strangle him to death, all the while looking into his horrible eyes. Or perhaps I’d buy a chainsaw and finish him how he did my family.

I swallowed hard, dispelling my black thoughts.

Tucking the monster into my back pocket, I slipped into a pair of gold sandals, and applied a lashing of mascara and lip gloss. That was it. I didn't believe in makeup. If you weren't pretty enough without it, caking yourself in goo wasn't going to increase your chances.

As I slid down the banister, Maurice's dreadful humming wafted from the large scullery.

He flashed me a grin when I appeared in the doorway. On the rustic kitchen table, among the rooster-shaped salt and pepper shakers and coordinating blue china, sat a small bag tied with a silver ribbon.

“Sit, sit.” Maurice bustled over to kiss my cheek. He smelled of Old Spice and laundry detergent. Heaven. “That's for you. Breakfast is almost ready.”

My eyebrow quirked. A present? He never gave me presents. I eyed the bag as if it were poisonous.

“It's not going to bite. Open it.” Maurice didn't look over his shoulder, but he knew me too well.

Filling my cheeks with air, I reached across and stole the pouch. The ribbon came away easily and pooled on the table like liquid mercury. I was more interested in the ribbon than opening the bag. For some reason, I was shy. I didn’t deserve a gift, not after leaving him for so long. Maurice was too good to me on so many levels.

Hands appeared over my shoulder and opened it for me. “This was my wife's. I want you to have it, seeing as I don't have any children.”

My heart squeezed. Inside was a gold necklace. I plucked the dainty chain and it unraveled as I pulled it from its prison. A charm the size of a plum dangled. It was a lattice peacock, but instead of the typical tail, there was an inferno of flames. Inlaid in the gold were sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. It was stunning.

“I can't take this. It's worth a fortune.”

Maurice pinched it from my fingers and clasped it around my neck. The gold whispered with a chill as it settled in the dip of my throat. I touched it reverently while Maurice pecked the top of my head. “It's yours. I want no arguments.” He went to serve the English fry-up, adding, “It's an antique. I had it designed as a wedding present for Betty. She loved it. It's a cross between a phoenix and a peacock. Betty used to say it reminded her that beauty was only powerful if the soul was strong and pure.”