Devour, p.14
Devour, page 14
“Mom, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, daughter, I am. Your swimsuits are in the bottom drawer of your dresser, all the tanning products are in the bathroom storage, yes I will sew the neck on your favorite sweatshirt before you go, and we’ll have to ask your father if you really need some new luggage just because Rimowa is so, as you put it, hella cool.”
“Shit, you did hear it all.”
She was straining to see if the person inside the SUV was waiting on a neighbor or watching her. “That’s what I do.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s cool.”
Walking to the back door, she said, “Hon, if there’s nothing else that can’t wait until dinner—”
“Yeah, I gotta bounce anyway. Love you!”
As she stepped out on the patio, the car started.
“Love you, too,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “And give my love to Rachel.”
Disconnecting from the call, she walked around the side of the yard just as the SUV quickly pulled away. Watching it disappear from the neighborhood, she whispered, “That’s odd” and started to head back in. Hesitating, she looked back to where the SUV was parked, crossed the yard, passed through a fence gate, and walked up the hill to the street above their house.
Approaching the pine tree where the vehicle was parked, she looked down to find several cigarette butts—one of which was still smoldering. She counted five.
“Who would be—” she whispered, turning to observe the vantage point the person would have had.
“Oh shit,” she mumbled, looking directly into the bathroom where she had been soaking earlier with the curtain open. Then, looking at the other end of the house, she saw how easy it would be to observe any activity in the kitchen.
30
Steak Tartare
After a shower and shave at home, Dalton knew it was going to be hours before he would be able to enjoy a meal with Jasmine, so he prepared a light dinner of steak tartare—thanks to a new friend. He complimented the fresh dish with a side of roasted Brussel sprouts, truffle fries, and a hearty cabernet from nearby Napa.
Just weeks earlier, that “new friend” was a pilot with a two-day layover in the Bay Area. They had met at McCormick & Kuelto Seafood & Steaks on North Point Street in North Beach where Dalton was people-watching, aka tourist-stalking. Although he did not ordinarily venture to the city on a school night, Dalton was feeling particularly rowdy that night. After striking up an easy conversation while dining at the bar, he quickly learned that Phil Bishop—also a hobbyist photographer—had never seen the Marin Headlands.
So after a couple of cocktails, they took the short drive across the bridge and up to the hilly peninsula at the southernmost end of Marin County. The drive was carefree at that hour, the conversation was virtually intriguing, and the view—as always—was nothing short of spectacular. To top it off, the night had begun with clear skies; however, as they crossed the Golden Gate, a hearty fog crept in, so by the time they reached the summit, the scene was ripe for a photo op because the encroaching fog created a mysterious backdrop to the occasion.
After the tenth or twelfth selfie, they strolled back to Dalton’s truck where the fog had blanketed the mountaintop, making the clandestine finale all the more dramatic. Thanks to practiced maneuvers, exceptionally efficient tools, and the cover of fog, Dalton returned to his home and prepared the remaining loins for future meals. The man’s four-figure Rolex Air King and two American Express cards—one gold, one black—would make a nice addition to his already handsome collection of aliases.
Six hours later, Jasmine arrived promptly at 11:20 p.m.—just as she had texted an hour earlier. She joined Dalton at The Tonga Room & Hurricane Bar, an iconic destination that delighted guests with its tropical decor, decadent libations, and Polynesian-fusion cuisine since 1945. She appeared looking as fresh as a newly picked flower.
Welcoming her with open arms, he awaited her warm embrace. She obliged with a hearty hug. Her breasts against his chest and the fragrance of her hair were as intoxicating as the bourbon he had ordered prior to her arrival.
“Aren’t you the most beautiful creation I’ve seen today. Heck, this month,” he cooed, offering a tiny peck on her cheek.
“You’re such a flatterer,” she smiled as he held her chair. “And such the gentleman, thank you.”
They sat at the end of the bar where few people were.
“The bartender’s a friend, so we’re good to stay well after what’s left of the crowd dissipates.”
“That’s handy.”
The bartender was not a friend; however, a friendly handshake delivering a hundred-dollar bill before they ordered, made Harlan the Bartender and Nash the Contractor the best of pals.
“This may be a silly question—having just left a restaurant—but would you like something besides a splashy cocktail?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been on my feet since two this afternoon, I’m starved, and it’s not a silly question.”
With a nod to the bartender, Harlan arrived with cocktails and menus.
“Did I ever tell you that I applied to the CIA?” Dalton said, leaning in close for another whiff of her perfume. “And was rejected!”
“What? Wait…are you—”
“No, not the Secret Service,” he laughed, “The Culinary Institute of America.”
“Oh my god, that’s hilarious,” she laughed.
“However, I do service a fair amount of secrets, if you must know,” he winked.
“You got me!”
Grinning like Satan himself, he said, “You have no idea.”
Satisfied with robust conversation and tasty treats, Dalton paid the bill with a handsome tip and they headed out. They continued more laughs and conversation on the short walk to her car in the restaurant garage. Although he would have liked to continue the walk—in order to better gauge the surroundings and decipher the best method of capture—he went with the flow. Approaching her classic Jaguar, he was impressed to see it had been meticulously restored.
“What a handsome 1970 E-Type.”
“Good eye,” she smiled.
“Series 2, right?”
“Ooh, someone knows his vintages.”
“And a convertible to boot. Oddly enough, not something I’d have expected you to drive.”
“Is that right,” she slurred slightly. “And what would you have seen me in?”
As little as possible, he thought. “I would’ve figured you for a BMW. A six-or-seven series.”
Shaking her head, she pushed a strand of hair from her face. “Nah, too predictable, don’t you think?”
The strand had fallen back into her face, so he reached across and gently tucked it behind her ear—looking her directly in the eye. “This,” he tossed his chin toward the car, “Fits you perfectly. Classic and sleek. Actually, sophisticated is a better word.”
Even in the dim lights, he could see her blush. The moment was here. Time to make a move. Suddenly distracted, he noticed several cameras on either side of the restaurant rear entrance.
“What is it?” she asked with confusion.
“Nothing,” his mind scrambled. “Thought I saw someone in the shadows. That’s all.”
In one moment, he craved her like no other. An instant later, she was like a nun from his elementary Catholic school.
She grabbed his arm as though he were falling. “James? Are you okay?”
“Of course,” he stuttered a nervous laugh. “I feel so superlatively silly, Jasmine,” he said, backing away to avoid the cameras. “I suddenly remembered...and I suppose was just so caught up in you that I…heck, I feel like such an idiot!”
“What is it, James? Tell me, it can’t be…”
Her voice trailed into the distance as he searched his database. He could not believe his lack of preparation, his gross negligence of the obvious.
“I’m so sorry, Jasmine. You’re such a lovely gal—to whom I’m extremely attracted—it’s just that my mind slipped,” he fumbled, trying to think of something. “I told you I had until 10 tomorrow to prepare for my presentation, right?”
“Yes?”
“It’s not 10 until 7. I transposed it. It’s 7 until 10. I meant to say,” he nervously chuckled, “7 until 10!”
“What?”
Shaking his head, he kept his back to the security cameras and feigned, “I’m so stupid. Here I was all excited about being with you. I guess between the drinks—”
“James, it’s not a big deal,” she said, taking his hands. “We’ll get together another time. When you get back from the valley. It’s okay,” she said, leaning in to give him more than just a kiss on the cheek.
He felt his loins heat and his crotch swell. “You’re right. We had a wonderful evening. And we’ll have another one equally as wonderful soon. I promise.”
She noticed how he had begun awkwardly walking away and wondered what was going on. At the same time, she was so intoxicated she wasn’t sure she even cared. “Why don’t we go back to your hotel?”
His mind screeched to a halt as his mind raced to logistics. I don’t have a room at a hotel, but I do have a house on the other side of town, he thought.
Time slowed. He examined the variables: sequence, timing, strategy. The Devil and the Angel—as much as he believed in neither—begged for his attention.
What will it be, you Horny Prick, begged the Devil.
Why hurt such a beautiful creature, asked the Angel.
As he tried to decide between seduction or respect, he tasted a bit of both and grabbed her face, shoving his tongue into her mouth. It was frenzied, yet passionate, and she resisted at first, then voraciously gave in. Dropping her purse, she grabbed his ass. There they were, in the middle of the parking lot, kissing and groping like drunken teenagers.
Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes slurred into something else. His mind spun, his heart raced, and his breathing slowed.
Suddenly, it felt as though he had been slammed in the back of his head with a two-by-four. Next, his periphery vision closed in as he stumbled into a car.
The next thing Dalton knew he was face down on his living room couch, fully clothed.
“What the fuck,” he slurred, pulling himself up to sit on the edge of the couch. Trying to focus, he could not recall how he got in his car and then from downtown, across the bridge, and all the way to his home in Kentfield. He searched frantically for the memory of what happened after the kiss.
Slowly, he recalled removing one of his tiny, one-shot syringes, but he could not figure out where the knockout cocktail fit into the picture. Then, as he rolled his stiff neck, his throbbing head seemed to pound from the inside out.
That’s when he realized what actually happened.
Part II
Chow Time
31
Hung Overboard
Jasmine had made the smart decision to leave her car in the garage and called an Uber. How she managed to clearly see the screen to call them—much less have the presence of mind to get in the car, into her house, and into her shower—was lost on her. But there she was, sitting on the shower floor, fully dressed, with little recollection of what exactly happened between the time she and James walked from the Fairmont to the restaurant’s garage.
She got out of her soaked clothes and put on a robe, then headed to the kitchen for some tea and aspirin. Tiny glimpses of her overindulgence came flickering back. She tried counting the number of consumed cocktails, but the crushing pain in her temples prevented clear focus. Even smiling hurt right now.
Sitting at the kitchen table, she fumbled with a teabag while the water boiled. Soon the tea kettle began whistling, so Jasmine grabbed the kettle and poured herself a welcoming relief. Leaning over the large mug, the steam felt good on her face. Then, she suddenly felt her stomach begin tossing at the thought of mixing martinis and high-balls. Dunking the bag repeatedly, she tried suppressing the need to vomit.
“Okay, Jaz, let’s think this through,” she said to no one. “That last one had a really odd flavor—and not really that boozy.”
The clock stove read 7:45.
“So much for yoga,” she mumbled.
Feeling her stomach flipping again, she went for the toast. She replayed walking to her car, kissing her date, and then his sudden change in behavior. Buttering a slice of toast, she sat back down and let the steam warm her face again.
“That was some smooch, Mr. Nash,” she said quietly.
She stopped. “I think I nearly sucked his face off,” she mumbled, “Or was it him?” Moving her tongue around, she winced before yelling out, “Hell, he bit my tongue for crap’s sake.”
Suddenly, an image of a syringe in his hand shot across her blurred mind. That’s when she recalled his aiming for her neck— then her grabbing his arm and fighting him off, twisting that same arm until the syringe pierced the side of his neck.
“Holy Shit,” she whispered, visibly shaken.
32
Sexy Abattoir
Standing in the shower, Dalton enjoyed the nearly scalding water beating down on the back of his head and neck. It burned but felt good. Sipping a glass of tonic water laced with bitters, he eased the need to purge his rocky stomach.
“Damn, I drank too much,” his voice boomed in the oversized shower. “Wasn’t sure that was possible.”
Trying to replay last night, he had difficulty recalling all the steps. I remember everything, he thought, rolling his neck to loosen the stiffness. Another fifteen minutes of steam and he was in the kitchen pulling items from the fridge along with four ibuprofen.
“What I need is a fat breakfast,” he said out loud with a slight laugh.
He looked at the microwave clock. It was 7:55.
“Shit,” he whispered, stopping to text Baxter: “Morning Baxter. I’m running behind. Please start the morning routine IF I’m not there by 8:30. I’ll be in no later than 8:45. Thanks.”
Before the Wolf range could get his iron skillet hot, his phone pinged: “No worries, Sir. I’m parking now and will handle everything. See you at 8:45.”
“Good puppy,” Dalton said with a smirk.
Walking to the refrigerator, he opened the bottom drawer and removed a package of homemade ground sausage. The label read: Dalton Farms.
His garage and storage facility was his own abattoir, aka slaughterhouse.
Within minutes, he was sitting down to enjoy “local sausage,” four farm-fresh eggs, and a French press. Admiring the lean nature of his meal, he recalled the gentleman who provided his tasty breakfast.
Tom Laramore was among the first locals to fully recognize the potential of leasing expensive boats. Laramore Sailing, based in nearby Sausalito, started small, grew quickly, and had been among the most luxurious charter companies in the area. Tom was handsome, appeared to have come from a good gene pool, and had always remained in great shape. In fact, as an ironman competitor for over a decade, he was in top condition at 55.
However, Tom was a jerk. As an arrogant and angry man, he never missed an opportunity to display his temper. Plus, he was not that good at handling his liquor. So, after a weekend jaunt when Dalton returned one of his boats in less than pristine condition—which meant it was not perfectly spotless, thanks to several overserved friends—Tom raked Dalton over the coals in front of his friends. More than a bit overserved himself, Tom proceeded to yell at the top of his lungs, adding several unnecessary insults when the point had already clearly been made. Dalton chose to let it go, deciding to clear the air another time.
That other time came the following weekend when Dalton visited Tom at his heavily wooded and extremely private Mill Valley home. Dalton had learned from a neighbor that Tom’s family was away for the weekend. He arrived to find Tom alone with his two retrievers, Amos & Andy, in the backyard enjoying steaks and beer. He proceeded to share his displeasure with Tom’s public insults, and when Tom pushed back—both verbally and physically—Dalton ended their conversation with blunt force.
A nearby marble and stainless silver sailing trophy made the perfect weapon because it was both heavy and handy. That was followed by Dalton’s favorite portable cocktail: Ketamine. There was enough to drop a charging elephant in under three seconds, so he gave a healthy dose to Tom’s neck, and two smaller doses in the freshly-grilled steaks for Tom’s four-legged pals.
While Tom would never wake up or insult anyone again, the two pups would awake unharmed in three or four hours—enough time for Dalton to remove any sign of his presence, fold Tom into a large carry-on suitcase, and be on his way without a trace.
With breakfast now finished, Dalton dabbed each side of his mouth with a napkin, allowed a healthy belch, placed his dishes in the dishwasher, and then took his keys from the counter and left, whispering a sardonic, “Thanks for breakfast, Tom.”
33
Mother’s Daughter
Approaching Natalie’s room, Kathryn peeked inside and watched her daughter toss a wide assortment of clothes on the bed, only to stand back, match one top with another bottom or top, then try other items, and so forth. This went on for some time.
Kathryn stuck her head in the door. “Hon?”
Natalie jumped. “Geez, scare me why don’t you?”
“Sorry,” she said, sitting on the foot of the bed. “I’m incredibly excited for you. I know how long you’ve been dreaming about this trip.”
“Yeah, I’m a little excited,” she winked. “And by little I mean a LOT!”
Picking up several items, Kathryn folded them perfectly and stacked them next to the suitcase. “And I’m pretty excited to be taking my trip, too.”
