The Velvet Storm Sapphic Thriller EBook Bundle (EBOOK BUNDLE)

• Body Snatching/Shapeshifting
• Vigilante Justice
• Forbidden Romance
• Detective Mystery
• Secret Identity
• Supernatural Abilities

Chapter 1

What the hell is that noise?

Something is buzzing in my room and it's woken me up. I've got no idea what time it is, but I know it's got to be early, earlier than I'd normally be awake. My eyes feel heavy, like they're still glued shut from sleep, and the muscles in my arm groan when I stretch out to grab my phone from the nightstand. I don't even bother to check the caller ID when I answer the call and bring the phone to my ear; in the middle of the night there's only one place that call could come from—work.

"What do you want?" I grunt. "This had better be good."

"I wouldn't call if it wasn't."

Shit. I'd know that smarmy voice anywhere. It's Farber. That means somewhere out there, there's a dead body waiting for me. "What is it?"

"Does the name Carl Newsome mean anything to you?"

I'm too tired to think, but somewhere from the depths of my sleep-deprived brain, the name rings a bell. "Maybe. Why?"

"Well, you're about to get really familiar with him. He's dead. I'm heading to your place now. I'm about fifteen minutes out. The crime scene techs are already there, and the patrol unit that found the body is taking statements from the neighbors."

I pull the phone away from my ear to check the time, wincing as the screen lights up and momentarily blinds me. 2:53. I've only been asleep for three hours. "I guess I'd better get dressed then."

"I'd prefer it if you did," he says before hanging up. The line goes dead, and with a groan, I slump back against the pillows, closing my eyes. The comforter feels warm on top of me, and the sheets are so soft against my skin. It would be so easy to just roll over, curl up into a ball, and let sleep wash over me again...

So easy...

So...

No.

My eyes snap open again, and I blink a few times. It doesn't matter how tired I am, or how warm and inviting my bed is. Someone's been murdered, and unfortunately, it's my job to investigate. I could have done what my mother wanted and worked in finance, but then I wouldn't get to carry a gun and catch bad guys.

I don't have long before Farber will be here. If anyone else from my team was coming to collect me, I'd have twenty, maybe even thirty minutes, to get ready. But Farber's always so painfully punctual that he's more likely to show up early, if not bang on time.

I take a few minutes, stumbling around my house, pulling on whatever clothes I can find before I head to the kitchen. There isn't time to wait for coffee to brew, so I dump as much instant coffee into the thermos as possible, pour over some hot water and wait for Farber to arrive.

A couple of minutes later, when I step out into the freezing night air, warming my hands with the heat from the thermos, Farber is waiting in his car. He spots me through the grime of his windshield, waving to get my attention and beckoning me in.

Like I could miss you, *you're the only one sitting in a car with an engine running. *

"Morning," he mumbles as I slide into the passenger's seat. I scowl over at him and strap myself in.

"It's not morning. The sun's not out yet. This isn't morning."

He hums in agreement before pulling away from the sidewalk, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. We drive in silence for a few minutes while I sip my coffee, taking the time to wake up before we launch into the case.

"All right," I say finally, settling into the seat. "Tell me about this guy, this uh... What was his name again?"

"Carl Newsome. Have you heard of him?"

"He sounds familiar. Don't know why though."

"Well, he's probably crossed your radar at some point or another—he's a pretty prolific criminal. Started out with petty stuff as a kid, some vandalism and burglary. There's even an assault charge from when he was eleven, but that got dropped."

"Eleven?" I echo. This is all sounding more familiar, but I still don't recognize him. "What did he do?"

"Pushed a neighbor's kid down the stairs in their apartment complex. The girl was six."

"Fuck."

"Fuck indeed," Farber agrees. "But then it gets more serious. There was a sexual assault charge against him when he was fifteen, but nothing ever came of it."

"What year was this?"

"1973."

I snort, rolling my eyes. "Yeah, that figures. I'm assuming he's got a long list of offenses?"

"Oh yeah. But he hasn't seen nearly as much jail time as you'd expect. Or hope," Farber adds after a moment's pause. "Somehow he always slips through the net, usually for lack of evidence. The only problem is, he's been popping up in police stations for the last forty years, and even though he keeps getting older, his victims stay about the same age."

Oh. I grimace, shaking my head slowly. I know why I've heard this guy's name before. Even though I've never been assigned to investigate one of his cases, I've met people who were. His name floated around break rooms and conversations by the water cooler. Just about every cop who's ever met him has wanted to wring his neck.

"Yeah," Farber agrees quietly. "I don't think people are going to be lining up to help us with this one. Hell, I don't want to be working on this one."

As he says that, he curls the thumb of his left hand up to touch his wedding ring absentmindedly, fiddling with it just for a moment. He's got a baby boy at home, less than a year old, and since he was born, Farber's been struggling with cases that involve children. I get it. How hard it must be to come home to a family when your head is filled with the things we see every day.

"A crime's a crime," I remind him gently. "We may not want to solve it, but we've got to at least try."

Farber's jaw clenches for a moment, and he grimaces, wriggling around in his seat. He's conflicted, and I know it. I've seen that look before on so many other cops, and I've probably had the same expression myself a handful of times. The problem is, no matter who the victim is, we've got to investigate and to do that we have to put our own feelings aside.

"Whatever happened to him, I think he deserved it," Farber mutters, more to himself than to me. I can't help but agree with him, but I say nothing more. Instead, I try to change the subject and move into safer territory.

"What do we know so far?"

At that, Farber's expression clears up, and he glances at me again out of the corner of his eye. "That's actually why I called you. It's another weird one."

Oh shit.

No cop wants to hear the words, a weird one, and I've had to explain that to friends over and over again. It might sound interesting in films or TV shows, but weird usually translates as hard to solve. And in the past few months, we've been getting more and more weird ones landing on our desks. I'm not the only detective in the area who's got a stack of unsolved weird murders on my hands.

"Define weird," I say slowly, even though I really don't want him to.

"Well, Newsome lived in an apartment complex downtown, right? One of those old builds that's supposed to be torn down in the next few years for redevelopment? It's sketchy, the kind of place where you really don't want to know who you're living next to, so everyone keeps to themselves; they don't interfere with other people's business. Well, anyway, a neighbor made a call to the non-emergency line, reporting a weird smell from Newsome's apartment. Seemingly been there for a while. At first it was just people on his floor, but then the downstairs neighbors started complaining about the smell, too. It just kept getting worse."

"I'm assuming the weird smell was..." I pause for a moment, looking for the right word. "Cadaver?"

"You'd be correct. The dispatcher sent out a patrol unit to go do a welfare check on the place, but the stench was overwhelming when they got there, so they kicked the door down and went in. They found Newsome in his bedroom, dead. Apparently, it was so bad the first guy on the scene puked in the hall."

"I'm still finishing my coffee, you know," I remind him, taking another sip. The case doesn't sound that weird. It sounds like someone didn't want to live next door to a predator and took matters into their own hands. "So far, I'm not seeing a lot of reasons to wake me up at 3 am."

"It gets weirder," he assures me quickly. "They talked to neighbors, asking them what the deal is with the place. When was the last time they saw Newsome? Did he have any enemies in the building? The usual. And that's when it gets strange. Wanna know how?"

"Desperately," I drawl, downing the last of my coffee.

"The neighbors complained to Newsome about the smell coming out of his apartment four days ago. That's how bad it was. He told them to just forget about it, that it's no big deal. But when they kicked in the door, Newsome's body was the only one they found."

I pause, looking over at Farber. "Come again?"

"The smell the neighbors were complaining of was the smell of a dead body, right? But the only body they found when they went in was Newsome's—the same guy that told them not to worry about the smell."

That makes no sense. How could they complain about the smell of a body before there was a body? "Are they sure they spoke to Newsome about the smell?"

"They're positive. And apparently, that smell had been getting worse and worse. It's weird, right?"

"Definitely weird," I murmur, settling back in my seat.

As we approach the crime scene, it becomes increasingly obvious that Newsome lives—or, more accurately, lived—in a bad neighborhood. We drive towards the apartment building, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice the signs that we're heading for one of the poorer parts of the city. Boarded-up storefronts line the sidewalk. Graffiti is everywhere... Walls, windows, trashcans. Everywhere we look, there are signs of poverty.

"What a shithole," Farber mutters from the driver's seat, shaking his head in disbelief as he looks out of the window, curling his lip in disgust. I feel my shoulders tighten up at his tone, the way I always do when someone talks about a community like this. In my time on the force, I've heard too many comments like that. More than I'd care to remember, and it always rubs me the wrong way.

Most of the time I hold my tongue, roll my eyes and shrug it off as another charming comment from one of my co-workers. But not tonight. "Shut up, Farber."

"What?" he sounds defensive but I don't bother looking over. "You're saying it's not a shithole?"

Don't.

I glance over at him out of the corner of my eye and see him shift uncomfortably in his seat, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. I could tell him not to judge a place like this, and especially not to judge the people that live here, but I know it wouldn't do any good. It never does.

"Forget about it," I mutter, turning my head away again. "Just make sure you don't say that sort of shit in front of anyone who lives here. Got it?"

He snorts at that. "You think I'm that stupid?"

"Trust me," I murmur, narrowing my eyes as we approach an intersection. To the left, I can see the flashing of emergency lights, but they're so far down the street it's just a faint glow. "You don't want me to answer that question."

We turn down the street and head for the crime scene, straight into the now glaring lights of the ambulance and first responders. Farber pulls up next to a crowd of civilians who are gathered outside. Most must be neighbors, judging by their nightgowns and pajamas. As I get out of the car, I spot another small group who is dressed in regular clothes, and my heart sinks.

Reporters.

How the hell do they get here so quickly? No matter what time of the night or day, they always have an uncanny ability to sniff out a story. There they are, circling the police tape like a pack of vultures. And if they're here, then that means...

That means she'll be here too.

Suddenly I feel queasy. It's not that deep sickness in the pit of my stomach that I sometimes feel when I know something bad is about to happen; it's a more general sense of unease somewhere around my navel. It's what happens whenever I know Jude's likely to be around.

It wasn't always like this.

There was a time that I didn't dread seeing her. I used to look forward to it, but those days are long gone. Now, whenever I see her, I know she's going to have a snide comment at the ready, or at best, a cold glare.

It's my fault, I know that. I hurt her, and she's got every right to hate me for it. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

As we get out, I look over at the crowd. I can't see her, but that doesn't mean she isn't lurking around, ready to record a statement.

Farber and I duck under the tape and make our way to the rest of the officers who are gathered. There's a patrol officer leaning against the wall of the building, bent over, bracing his hands against his knees. Even from a distance I can see his shoulders heaving with deep, shuddering breaths.

"It must be bad in there." I nudge Farber's shoulder and motion towards the officer.

"Yeah, the first reports were pretty gruesome. The crime scene techs are already doing a sweep apparently, so we'll have to be careful."

"Got it."

We head towards the building, and as we do, I take one last glance towards the crowd of people. Most of them look like concerned neighbors, talking amongst themselves, and I can't spot a familiar face among them.

Maybe she isn't here. Perhaps no one told her about what happened.

"Hey, boss!"

I turn back towards the apartment building to see another member of my team waving from the doorway. Detective Joel Park. He must have headed straight here while Farber came to get me because he's already wearing shoe covers and a mask over his face.

"You'll want these." He tosses a cotton mask in my direction. "It's...unpleasant."

Park came to us from Miami a few years ago. From the few stories he's told us about his time down there in Vice, he saw some pretty horrendous crime scenes. It warped his sense of what's "bad," and I've learned that when he says "unpleasant," it roughly translates to "god-awful."

I don't know what we're going to find up there, but whatever it is, I hope I'll be able to keep my coffee down.