There it was: the first sign of belonging.
“Plus, my wife likes you girls.” Was that a smile?
Antonio directed his attention back towards Mano.
“Did you get a chance to ID the guy?”
He shook his head no. “Windows were tinted too dark. Red truck, beard, Latino, and that was about it.”
“If he’s serious about getting to Page, he’ll stalk her—we’re going to put a tail on her. We’ll catch him like that. The only way we’re going to get rid of this problem is to kill him. For some reason, he doesn’t like fixers, and he won’t stop killing until we kill him. This last time he killed kids, and we all know that’s an unspoken rule: no kids—and no women when we can help it, but never kids. This guy is fucked up for sure. I can’t imagine killing kids. Go about your day to day life like normal. Don’t let Page out of your sight. We’ll catch this bastard, and when we do, he’s going down.”
Page was glad it was El Loco they were after, and not her. Better El Loco than me.
Antonio Wayne’s eyes looked like razors cutting through the atmosphere. He wasn’t the kind of enemy to make if you valued your life.
“One more thing,” they all looked at Antonio in anticipation, “do all the research on El Loco you can. Get in touch with Tad and see if El Loco looks the same or if he’s aged so much, he looks different. Try to find out if he’s in the states or Colombia. Find out who his connections here are. Dig up anything you can on the guy.”
“Will do,” Mano stood up and grabbed Page’s hand. The meeting over, they had somewhere to start finding a serial killer.
Chapter Twenty Five
El Loco could barely move his shoulder, and he was beginning to wonder if it was dislocated. The bitch was going to pay.
He was taking a big chance doing what he was doing right now. He had parked his truck down the street and eased his way up to Page’s door. Getting in was easy enough for a man like him, and the fact there was no security system made it simple. Didn’t the man care enough to have one put in for her? That was the first rule of crime: protect your habitat. Worthless bum.
The smell of potpourri and wax melts wafted through the air giving the home a boutique atmosphere. The place was neat with nothing out of place. Books lined the walls with shelves that appeared to be older antiques. He couldn’t resist doing a walk-through. He walked into the kitchen that sparkled with the latest of stainless-steel appliances. Once again, everything was pristine. It was the bedroom he wanted to see. His cock jumped at the thought of going through her panty drawer. Maybe he’d have some fun with the bitch before he killed her. Something about the woman being so clean was a turn-on. Most of the women he fucked were hookers who could care less about their housekeeping skills. Page was a woman out of his league, and to fuck her would be like conquering the unobtainable. There was a small hallway leading to the bedroom. He opened the door, and another pristine room came into sight. The bed was adjustable with an antique quilt draped over it. The pillows were fluffed and matched the quilt. A large antique dresser caught his eye, and he walked over towards it. There was an antique handmade burr walnut jewelry box placed on an old handmade lace doily. Clearly, the woman had a love for antiques and history. The jewelry box alone was probably worth five-hundred dollars. He opened the trinket box and expected to hear music and see jewelry. Maybe he could steal something as a trophy—just to have a piece of the woman he would soon abduct and defile. There was no music like he’d been expecting, but it was what the box contained that baffled him. There were various types of keys—some modern, some skeleton, and some once again antique. Was this a collection of keys, or did they unlock something? He had seen an artistic painting of keys in her hallway, maybe she was just a key collector. He’d never heard of ‘key kink’ before, but hey, it worked for him. He picked one up and fingered it. It had a number engraved on it—879 like it was the key to a lockbox.
What would Miss. Page Wordsmith have to hide that was so important and secretive it needed a lockbox. Maybe it was her will, some people kept them at the bank in lockboxes for safekeeping. Perhaps it was the book she’d be publishing. Artists were funny about their work, and plagiarism was a threat. She was a good writer, so perhaps she was smart for protecting her job. She seemed to be a woman who was responsible in all areas of her life—a businesswoman. The more he learned about the woman he was stalking, the more intrigued he became. No wonder Mano had fallen head over heels. This was a particular woman—a different breed. He ran his hands over the dresser that probably cost more than he made on a job of taking somebody out. It was polished to a high sheen. She took pride in not only her appearance but her surroundings as well. He’d noticed when he looked in her SUV that it was detailed, and that discipline seemed to affect all areas of her life. He opened the top drawer, and once more was surprised to see a journal with a lock on it. He opened the key box and found a key that looked like it would fit. He opened the treasure of words she kept hidden from the world. Her writings were about the families she’d met in her work overseas. She wrote about her feelings, with an occasional poem or picture she had drawn. The pages dripped with the love she felt for other lands and peoples. For a moment, he felt like she deserved to live. Maybe she was just telling her story and the story of those less fortunate. He slipped the dairy back in the drawer and purposely left it unlocked. He wanted her to know he’d been there without really knowing it for sure. If she feared him, it would connect her to him without her realizing it. Every time she looked over her shoulder, it would be because of him. He opened another drawer, and another wave of scent overcame him from the sachet she had in her panty drawer. He slowly fingered her intimates as his cock grew in his pants. He was captivated. She had various styles of panties—even the cotton ones with dainty yellow flowers on them were sexy. He picked them up and breathed deeply-taking in her scent. They had been next to the most private parts of her body. He thought about ejaculating in a pair and putting them back in the drawer but decided against it. There was a part of him that wanted her to like him, and not think he was some sicko peeping tom. He neatly folded the panties and stuck them in the pocket of his jeans. He would carry a piece of her privacy with him.
He closed the drawer but left the key box open on purpose. She would be paranoid now knowing someone had been in her house but not being able to prove it. It was one of his favorite things to do, move things around in someone’s home. When people became overly suspicious, everyone became a potential threat. Fear would cause her to begin making mistakes. Disrupting her life was a game he was playing, the mindfuck of all mindfucks. He walked back out to the front room where he had seen a corner she used for her office—surely there would be some interesting information there. She must be close with her roommate because they shared a desk. It was easy to tell which side was hers because there was a picture of Mano on it. It appeared she had caught him when he didn’t know because his expression was calm and serious as if he was contemplating the deep meaning of something. Her desk was set up neatly with a small lamp, a box of Kleenex, another picture of Page and Mano laughing with their arms around each other, and her computer. He could tell it was in hibernation mode. He moved the mouse around and brought it back to life. He still needed a password, and after trying a couple things that popped in his mind, he gave up. He’d have to find another way of attaching spyware on her computer. He moved the box of Kleenex, just one more thing to alert her to his presence in her home. He wished he could be a fly on the wall and see her reaction when she realized all boundaries she had set had been crossed. He stood up and made one more visual pass and committed it to memory. He wanted to package the scent she had here as a memory to take with him but couldn’t. He would never forget the imprint she’d left on him. He wasn’t expecting her to impact him, but she had. She was the kind of woman any man could fall for—even if it was in a sick twisted way. Now he would be following her as much out of obsession as a desire to kill her. Perhaps coming here had opened up a new way of looking at the author. She was growing on him, like some unwanted intrusion he hadn’t invited but couldn’t resist. Was that what she’d done to Mano? Mano didn’t strike him as a man who could easily be won over, even if it was by the opposite sex. Maybe Mano had hated her at one time too.