"Beyond Dark" excerpts
A few scenes from the first book in my fictional mystery series, "Beyond Dark"
Excerpt 1: Meet Alyssa
May 20, 2016
Friday
Ottawa, Ontario
Sometimes the dead couldn’t get any peace. Across the street, yellow crime scene tape that cordoned off the alley overflowed with eager reporters and camera flashes. Alyssa sighed in the front seat of the car, hands draped over the steering wheel while in park, and turned off the ignition with the fading notes of an R&B song.
It was eight a.m. The speed with which reporters were willing to hop out of bed to attend a crime scene for that firsthand glimpse of the white sheet draped over a body never failed to surprise Alyssa. She shook her head as she pulled a compact mirror from the center console and fixed a lipstick smudge after drinking from her reusable steel coffee mug on the drive over. After touching up her mascara, she set the compact back into the center console, threw her chestnut-brown hair over her shoulder beneath her grey newsboy cap, and got out of the car.
The eyes of the crowd fell upon her with scrutiny and curiosity. Remaining stone-faced and unreadable, she steadied her gaze on the two detectives standing over a body covered in a white sheet. The press throng crowded the street and slowed morning traffic, causing more people to pause at the scene. Alyssa bit her tongue when multiple microphones were shoved toward her, questions hurled as she crossed the tape.
“Agent! Agent Rawkesby!” shouted one of the female reporters. “What can the International Crime Bureau tell us so far about Julia Langdon’s murder?”
Alyssa rolled her eyes behind her black cat-eye glasses without turning around. “Seeing as I just got here, nothing. You all need to settle down. It’s a murder, not a spectacle.”
A few reporters glared. She paused, watched both detectives stand, and raised an eyebrow at their questioning glances.
“That was a lie. They don’t know I consulted on this case previously. Another poisoning?”
Detective Hooper, the older of the pair, nodded. He ran a hand through his greying hair. “Julia Langdon was a twenty-five-year-old singer, local, though she’s prominent across the country.”
Alyssa put on a pair of gloves and crouched down to peek beneath the sheet. She remained unmarred by the harrowing sight of an eloquent woman who carried death with the poise and grace of royalty. A spotless white sundress billowed around the slender body; her blond waves sprawled around her head. Despite being cold and stiff, the victim could have been sleeping with her hands folded on her chest.
“The prior victims weren’t as well known as she was,” his partner, Detective Shearstone, said.
Hooper shook his head. “The last three were actresses and models. Julia was a musician.”
“And the cooldown period shortened from four months to two. Pursuing higher-risk victims. This is becoming less about stalking and more about craving attention,” Alyssa said. “What else did you find out about Candy Flores since her murder?”
She glanced up expectantly when they paused. Hooper and Shearstone exchanged saddened looks.
“We got swamped with a mob war right as your assistant director shut down the Organized Crime Unit,” Hooper said. “We didn’t get a chance to return to this case.”
Alyssa stood before she let go of the sheet and let it fall gently.
“Does that mean there’s been no progress? Flores was murdered back in February.”
Hooper looked down. “I know. We’ve been helping our own organized crime task force. It’s been all-hands-on-deck. The Flores case had no suspects, no leads. Look, this killer isn’t going to stop, and we don’t have time to chase her — if you still believe it’s a woman.”
“I do. Women are more likely to kill using poison. The staging of the bodies indicates remorse, even relatability. To keep them in this condition and stage them modestly says this unsub isn’t seeking sexual gratification. There’s no trace of sadism. These victims were killed quietly. Julia was set here, posed and left. This is a ritual. The unsub has and will do this every time,” Alyssa said, her eyes softening as she gazed down at the covered body.
“The queen of diamonds card is present again,” Shearstone said. “As I’m sure you saw. The coroner is on the way.”
“I did,” Alyssa said. “Her nails and makeup are still immaculate. Either that was fixed afterward, or there was no struggle. She didn’t know this was coming. The unsub is someone familiar to them. They worked or were friends with her. She won’t be unordinary to that world. She’ll fit in and be overlooked. Nothing will be suspicious until you dig deeper.”
Hooper sighed. “That doesn’t narrow down much of a suspect pool.”
“Not yet, but I haven’t done a complete profile. Any other evidence found?” Alyssa asked.
“Nothing. As you figure, this was a dump site. There aren’t even any cameras,” Hooper said.
Alyssa glanced between the two buildings adjacent to the alley — one a popular nightclub and the other full of empty offices.
“If this is where I’m leaving a body, I know when it’s busy. I’ve been here before. This means I’m a local. I stick to areas I know, where I’ll return to relive the crime, to find some part of myself I leave in these murders. This isn’t about the victim. It’s personal and sentimental to the unsub. This is about her.”
Hooper and Shearstone watched her contemplatively as she took a few steps, delved into her thoughts, disconnected from the media chaos. The shouting faded. Shadows surrounded her in her mind, the camera flashes gone. She imagined the street dark in the early morning hours after the club closed and roads were vacant. Streetlamps and neon signs lit up the stark silence. It would have been easy to park a car in the alley, pull the body out — from the back seat, probably — and pose her before driving off.
But that card. What did it mean? Signatures were rarely random. A queen of diamonds imagery brought to mind wealth, perhaps greed, and superiority. She’d have to look into its meaning.
“She doesn’t spend much time with the body. She’s already fulfilled by the stalking and killing. This is over in minutes. The rest is where she takes her time. Poisoning takes time.”
With a sigh, Hooper rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and put his hands in his pockets. Alyssa looked over at the weary eyes of an older detective she’d known and respected since she moved to Ottawa. The poor guy would have a heart attack if he became any more overwhelmed.
“Let me take this one off your plate, if you want,” she said. “I already have clearance from my unit chief.”
“This is why I called you,” Hooper said. “I can’t solve this case with the ongoing mob war. Besides, female killers are your specialty.”
The three of them looked up as the coroner’s van arrived, the media spectacle far from dying down. The coroner hopped out of the van and rushed over.
“I’ll take it from here,” Alyssa replied. “Catching these women is what I do best.”
Excerpt 2: Her new partner
Alone with yet another case, Alyssa pulled toward her the evidence box dated June 2015. The lid wasn’t even off when Sam spoke from the doorway.
“You are one of the few people Detective Hooper will give cases to, no matter how swamped he is.”
Alyssa smirked, setting the lid on the table. “I have a good professional relationship with him. Always have. If he were an ICB agent, I’d request him as a partner.”
“You both share an intense dislike for everyone else,” Sam said.
“Exactly. We could be grumpy old agents together. Common ground,” Alyssa replied. She glanced up when the other agent snickered.
“But I see you’ve sent me a kid instead.”
Sam sighed. “This is Agent Thayer Volikov. Your new partner.”
She rolled her eyes. Thayer smirked and ran a hand through his black hair, styled into an undercut with longer locks on top of his head. He set his coffee down on a nearby bookshelf, away from the evidence boxes, and stepped forward, extending his hand. “It is a pleasure, ma’am.”
She circled the table to shake his hand, raising an eyebrow at his Russian accent. “We’ll see about that.”
Sam left the room, and Thayer grinned.
“Fair enough,” he said, clasping his hands together. “SAC Daviot didn’t fill me in, so I am clueless as to the case.”
“Have you ever dealt with a serial killer case?” Alyssa asked.
“No, ma’am. I was on the Organized Crime Unit before it was shut down. I got sent back to the tech analyst office. But I at least know my way around a crime scene. I have also done a fair bit of reading on criminal psychology.”
Thayer’s green eyes had a contemplative depth and a mischievous glimmer to accompany the tattoos exposed when he took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. As he leaned on it, Alyssa glimpsed his right forearm, which had the inked image of a pink and purple night sky, framed with motorcycle handlebars. Across the sky was a quote in Russian. Tattoos of red dahlias and a highway curved up his left forearm under the rolled-up sleeves of his blue knit sweater, which he wore over a black dress shirt.
The contradiction made her pause, the edge of cockiness subtle beneath the respect in his tone. A young white man, who couldn’t be any older than thirty, likely a rookie. His entire appearance made her wonder what a hell-raiser he’d been before this career.
“Tech analyst and a biker. Interesting combination, kid,” she remarked in an unimpressed tone.
Thayer frowned, then looked down and let out a small laugh. “I guess it is.”
“I’m not terribly impressed with a rookie for a case that already lacked the attention to detail it required, so I hope you can keep up,” she said sternly.
“I’ve waited my whole life for this, ma’am. Turn me loose,” Thayer said, sitting in a chair.
Excerpt 3: A glimpse at the killer
Purple floral fabric swung around her legs when she twirled before a full-length mirror, long locks of gold dancing over her petite shoulders. She pulled on the lilac denim jacket and paused, hands on her hips, amber eyes ablaze as she stared, her smooth hands straightening the cotton skirt. She viewed herself from the side, the slender figure that had gained five pounds, making her scream at the scale.
“You’re hideous!”
She turned to the desk and sat, crossing her legs and straightening her back. She put on a pair of lace white gloves, picked up a black pen, and began writing in the pink floral notebook already open to the top page, where she’d previously torn out others.
I am you when I gaze in the mirror. You were exquisite. Perfect. Contagious laugh. Your friends adored you. I saw how that man looked at you like you were diamonds. But you were free, so free, to yourself and to your dreams. Are they your own dreams? Was this life everything you ever wanted? You were brimming with vivaciousness and femininity. Genuine. I never heard you speak a harsh word or gossip.
I am not like you. I am surrounded by beautiful things, but I am not one of them. I am poison to anyone who tries to love me. Poison to all. I was poison to you. I only wanted to be you. Free. Loving. Not trapped in this cage, these walls, where the ghost still lives. Not trapped in the skin of this vile, hideous thing one might call a woman. At my basic appearance, I want to tear my skin off and bleed out. But then I wear your clothes. Put on the mask. Wear your aesthetic. Then I feel eloquent once more, only because it’s you. But the eyes… I can never escape my eyes. I am poison in your veins. I am something treacherous in the shadows. I am alone. And I deserve to be.
I gain weight. I mess up my makeup. I mess up a line on camera or at an audition. I pose the wrong way for a photo. I smile when I am supposed to be cold and hard. I take off my clothes and wash off my makeup at the end of every day and stare into the mirror at every flaw, every bit of fat showing, every skin blemish, and every inch of me so horrendous to look at, and I wonder… am I still beautiful? Will I ever be?
Womanhood is the murderess. Not me.
With shaking hands, she set the pen down and gently tore out the pages. She pulled an envelope from the drawer, scribbled down an address with no return, and put the letter in it. Using water from a nearby glass, she sealed the envelope before adding the stamp. She stood up in shoes she could never fill — straight off a dead woman — grabbed her purse, and set the letter inside. Pausing at the mirror, she adjusted her hair, checked her makeup, and straightened the dress before leaving, keeping her lace gloves on.
She locked the door and strolled down the sidewalk. She paused at a postal box and put the letter inside before continuing on, catching a bus to vanish into the city. Belladonna needed a new mask.
“Beyond Dark 1: Belladonna” is available here.
