Detective Zack Townes is just getting over the sudden death of his former partner when he's assigned a new one. Sgt. Kim Patterson, an Alicia Keys look-alike, seems more like a model than a police officer. But while on the clock, she's all business.

When she isn't at work, however, it's a different story. She's single and ready to find Mr. Right, or at least Mr. Right Now. And she thinks that her partner, Zack, who is married, might be just the man to satisfy her desires.

Zack must use all his strength to resist the heat coming from his beautiful partner. When Kim goes to a local club to let off some steam and find a man, she meets someone who is doing some hunting of his own. Now, she finds herself kidnapped by a sadistic serial killer who has been preying on women throughout the city.

Kim must rely on all her cunning if she's to outsmart her kidnapper and manage to survive in Thrill Kill.

THRILL KILL

By RALPH L. MOTLEY, JR.

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 Ralph L. Motley, Jr.
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4401-8225-9

Chapter One

IT HAD BEEN nearly a month since Zack's old partner, Casey, was kicked off the force. With distress in his voice Casey called Zack in the middle of the night. Zack reluctantly rolled out of bed. His wife and six-month-old baby boy slept soundly, at least until the detective had gotten completely dressed. Then Diane asked, drowsily, "Where are you going?"

"Police work, hon."

Lifting her head slightly, she said, "Okay. Be safe."

He gave her a peck on the forehead. Zack stepped out into the sea of darkness, his black, bald head glistening under a streetlight and half-moon. He slid his big body behind the steering wheel, and he muttered under his breath, "This shit better be good."

When Zack reached Casey's apartment, all he heard was somber music coming from inside. Marilyn Manson's creepy voice rose above the dark chords. Zack wasn't a fan. But he had heard Casey play it before when he was depressed.

A dim light from inside barely showed through the partially drawn curtains. This was Zack's second visit since Casey's termination. The apartment door was ajar. Zack slowly pushed it open and was shocked by what he saw. On Zack's previous visit, Casey had been half-drunk. This time he was completely drunk and had a big gun pointed at his temple. The hammer was cocked.

"Come on in, big man," Casey said.

Zack's heart began to hammer against his chest. He immediately tried to diffuse the situation. It was part of his job. "Casey, calm down," he said, cautiously, extending his hands to emphasize his point. "Just calm down, it's not worth it."

Casey gave an eerie chuckle. "Of course it's worth it," he said.

Zack knew what Casey had at his temple: a snub-nosed 357 Taurus, one of many handguns they practiced with at the shooting range.

Zack glanced around and saw the place was a mess. Broken furniture and shards of glass and ceramics were scattered across the floor. Among the rubbish were countless empty beer cans and liquor bottles. Zack deduced Casey'd been on a drinking binge for days. His soiled clothes were further proof that he had been behaving this way for a while.

Slouching in a high-back chair in the corner, Casey slurred as he said, "Let's reminisce a little, big man. Look how well we worked together. How we busted those assholes. You know, the drug dealers and the serial killer that was thought to be dead."

Stepping over debris as he crossed the floor gingerly toward Casey, Zack said, "That's true, partner."

"How about that drifter that took us for a ride? I knew for sure that scumbag was the killer. For some strange reason, I still believe he was involved."

The bald, six-foot-six detective was just a few feet from Casey. One of his huge feet crushed a beer can. Zack froze in his tracks.

"Hold it, big guy!" Casey shouted, pushing the end of the revolver deeper into his skull. "I'll do it."

Zack threw up his hands. "Okay ... okay, I believe you."

"Now, back to my story. Look at all the good things I did."

"Yeah, you're right." Zack had learned in training years ago that if someone was trying to commit suicide, you should always agree with anything positive he or she said. Do whatever it takes to keep him alive.

"Then why would they just throw me off the force?" Casey asked.

You dumb ass, Zack thought. You failed one drug test after another. And if that wasn't enough, you violated rule after rule, which only confirmed everybody's suspicion that you were a rogue cop. An asshole that thought rules didn't apply to you. And to add insult to injury, Chief Watts stuck you with me; nonetheless, I managed to keep you clean during the good times, and now this.

Zack was within inches of grabbing Casey's hand when the hammer dropped. The side of Casey's head exploded. He twitched a few times, slipped down the chair, and slumped over.

The detective watched in horror. He thought he had done everything humanly possible to keep Casey alive.

A few days after the suicide, Zack recalled vividly the day he and Casey had celebrated the capture of the killer. They had been all but assured to receive their promotions. But that fateful night they decided to hit a few bars, dressed in civilian attire, much like the rest of the patrons. Before their night of drinking started, the detective said he would drink in moderation. Said he would drink just enough alcohol to get a buzz and then call it quits. A junior officer by the name of Chuck who happened to have the night off said he would be their designated driver for fifty bucks.

They hit the Tavern first. Situated downtown between a burger joint and a bookstore, the popular bar and grill catered to a mostly blue-collar crowd.

Zack ambled in last, standing for a second at the threshold. He nearly filled the doorway as he peered around. The bartender waved them over.

"What's happening, fellows?" said the bartender, a slightly overweight man in his forties with thinning hair and a goatee. "So what're you guys having?"

They each took a stool at the bar. Casey ordered first. "How about a Long Island Iced Tea?"

"And you big man?"

"A Bud," Zack said.

The designated driver, sheepish, said, "I'll have a cold water."

With a frown, the bartender stared at the junior cop.

"I'm the driver," Chuck said. "It's their party."

"Good deal."

Even though he was a thin man and just under five-foot-nine, Casey could drink the average man under the table; he polished off his iced tea in seconds and ordered a Zombie.

The detective just shook his head. "You're going to pay in the morning."

"You might be right, partner. But that last drink was a little watered down, too weak."

After another beer for the detective and a third drink for Casey, they decided to hit another bar, called Sammy's Joint, out in the suburbs. The place was packed. It was an older crowd, which suited Zack just fine since he was middle-aged. Still holding up well, Casey filed in first as music from the seventies filled the air. Donna Summer's "Last Dance" was playing.

"I love her music," Casey shouted over his shoulder, bobbing his head to the beat.

They surveyed the bar for a place to sit, finding an empty booth next to the dance floor and sliding in.

Moments later, a pretty young waitress ambled over. "May I help you, gentlemen?"

Casey, sitting on the outside of the booth, leaned toward her and slurred something in her ear that made her chuckle. They placed their orders. The designated driver, Chuck, got a Coke; Zack a water; and Casey, vodka on the rocks.

When the waitress left, Zack, his expression disgusted, blurted, "Don't you think you've had enough?"

Casey laughed at him and said, "Have you seen me fall down or even stumble, Zack? Chuck?"

"Nope," Chuck quickly replied.

Zack didn't let up. "You know alcohol can be tricky. Once your body metabolizes it, we'll probably have to drag your ass out of here."

"I doubt that," Casey said with a wry smile. "I know how to hold my liquor. I'll be right back. I need to use the restroom."

Moments later, the waitress brought over their drinks. Zack gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change.

Seven minutes had elapsed, and Casey hadn't shown up. A bit concerned, Zack decided to check out the men's room. When he entered two other men were handling their business at the urinals, but no Casey. As Zack walked past the stalls, he noticed all the doors were open but one. He leaned to the side to get a look at the occupant's shoes. They were Casey's.

Zack approached the stall and stood on his tiptoes to peek over the door. His feelings hovered between disappointment and disgust. His partner was smoking crack. Casey was so caught up in what he was doing that he never realized he was being watched. Zack was so angry that he stood back and kicked the door in, breaking the latch.

Casey, his eyes wide, could only say, "What? What's the matter?"

"So that's what it's all about."

"What do you mean, big man?

"Man, I knew you had a drinking problem," Zack said. "But I thought you had conquered the drug one."

"Yeah, I am sorry, man."

"No, I feel sorry for you."

"The rehab helped some, at least for a while." Casey thought a moment before continuing. "But see, my urges kicked in. Sometimes I couldn't sleep at night. I would wake up in the middle of the night needing a fix."

The detective had an urge to book Casey for using and possessing crack but thought against it. "So tell me how you pass those drug tests."

"I know someone who warns me when they're going to pop them on me. I take a few pills to clean my system."

"You know, you're really, really pathetic."

Casey stared up at Zack, then dropped his eyes to gaze at the linoleum floor.

"Let me see that shit." The detective grabbed the drug paraphernalia, let it fall to the floor, and stamped it to smithereens. "Got any more crack on you?"

"No," Casey said, "I smoked it all up."

Zack knew Casey had sealed his own fate. And he couldn't blame anybody but himself. What was he thinking? Zack wondered. He knew we were about to get promoted. A drug test was optional if you didn't have prior alcohol or drug problems but mandatory if you did. It was the department's policy.

Zack had turned down his captain's position nearly as quickly as he received it. It was more administrative than he would have liked; moreover, he despised the sycophantic attitudes of some of his fellow officers. He'd always thought there were two different types of officers: the real cops, who worked the streets, and the paper-pushing bootlickers, who sucked up to top brass in hopes of getting promoting. He was the former.

Before his two-week trial period was up, Zack went to the chief's office to turn in his papers. He quipped to him that this wasn't his domain. His forte was ridding society of the scum that polluted the streets. The chief said okay and told Zack he would have a new partner pretty soon. Before the detective left the office, he asked the chief to please not assign him another weirdo like Casey. The chief said okay.

After witnessing Casey's suicide, Zack was ordered to see Dr. Grimes, a psychiatrist with the police department, before he was allowed back on the streets. He thought it was a bunch of baloney, but he relented.

Zack was agitated, lying uncomfortably on a leather sofa. A small lamp opposite him cast a dim light partway across the room.

Dr. Grimes also had her own private practice. But the bulk of her work was with the police department. She sat and watched Zack patiently. She was in her early fifties and petite. Several of the guys on the force thought she was cute, except for a slight protruding mouth. She ran two miles every morning, giving her an athletic figure and firm legs. She wore a black conservative suit with a skirt that had a short slit on each side. Dr. Grimes sat with pen and pad, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, as she listened to her new client gripe.

"Hey, look, doc," Zack said with a scowl, "there's nothing the matter with me."

Petulant dispositions like Zack's were something Dr. Grimes had become accustomed to-especially with her police-officer clients. Her civilian patients, who sought her out, weren't so puerile. They were more cooperative. Cops, as it turned out, weren't so fond of discussing their problems with their wives, let alone a shrink. She detested that word. The cops she'd dealt with over the years believed they had a certain image they had to project to the public-one in which they, the women officers included, conveyed their toughness, their balls of steel. Otherwise some lowlife would blow them away. Dr. Grimes wasn't dismissive of such a persona, especially in the public eye, but Zack was there for her to prevent or at least ward off any repercussions from Casey's suicide.

"You have to talk to me, lieutenant," she said. "It's standard operating procedure when someone has witnessed such trouble within his ranks."

Zack let out a silly laugh. "Casey wasn't among our ranks at the time."

"Well, that doesn't matter."

The big man knew she wasn't going to budge. He reluctantly stretched all the way out and settled in for the session. He let out an exasperated sigh and crossed his arms across his torso, letting her know he still wasn't completely in agreement.

Dr. Grimes shifted in her leather wingback chair and crossed her lower legs. With pen and pad at the ready, she said softly, "Walk me through how you ended up at his place."

He took a deep breath. "Like I said, Casey was kicked off the force. Internal Affairs was sick of his antics, and so was I. So I get a call in the wee hours of the night, and it's him. At first I was going to hang up on his ass, but something told me not to."

"Was his voice different? One of desperation?"

Zack paused and turned to look at her as if she read his mind. "Yeah," he said slowly. "It was slurred from the alcohol, but through that I could tell he seemed to be teetering on the edge."

"Like he was trying to hold on?"

"Yes," he said, gazing at her face.

She locked eyes with him for a moment. "Continue."

The detective was stunned that Dr. Grimes knew his inner thoughts. Up until now, he'd figured psychologists and psychiatrists were quacks that were after a quick buck. He had equated them with the ubiquitous psychics that were plastered on his television set in every other commercial.

"I'd been to Casey's place once after his termination," Zack said. "He had been drinking then, but this occasion seemed different."

"How so?"

"He was playing some dark, macabre music that I'd heard before. I believe it was Marilyn Manson. But this time I listened to the lyrics, which I'd never done."

"What did they say?"

"Something about death, you know, weird, freaky shit," Zack said.

She gave him a knowing look. "Yes, I concur."

"Oh, you listen to that mess?"

"Of course not. I am familiar with the music and what it has the potential to do to people when they listen to it." She paused. "Now back to what happened next."

"Well," he said, switching his gaze to the ceiling, "at his place there were countless beer cans, broken liquor bottles, and furniture strewn all over the place."

"Where was your former partner amid the debris?"

"On the other side of the room with a gun pressed against his temple. Once he had my undivided attention, an evil grin crept across his lips."

"Did he talk?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

"The other time I saw him, he talked about how he was abused and neglected as a child. Like he wanted pity or something. Apparently, he was feeling sorry for himself. And I did manage to pull him out of his despair. Well, at least for a little while, I guess. Now he was back there again. But on the night of his suicide, he wanted to revisit our time together as partners."

Dr. Grimes said she thought that was very kind of the detective to listen to his former partner's problems.

"It's just that he was too aggressive, overly zealous when he didn't have to be," Zack said. "He let his emotions get the best of him."

"What else happened that night?"

"When I saw the gun, I was in shock that he would take it that far. I tried to talk him out of it." He waited a second. "I guess I failed ... was too late."

"Don't beat yourself up. It's not your fault. He was going to do it regardless. He needed an audience, a witness. And it happened to be you."

"I never looked at it that way. Maybe so, doc."

"The reason I asked you to take me back to the night in question is because, believe it or not, it tends to cleanse your conscience. It's cathartic. When someone's emotions aren't released in a proper way, one might suffer in silence. Or he may become aggressive with loved ones or pets. It also could manifest itself in the taking of drugs and alcohol."

She flipped her notepad shut, pushed her glasses back on the bridge of her nose, and consulted her watch. "That'll be all for the day, detective."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from THRILL KILLby RALPH L. MOTLEY, JR. Copyright © 2009 by Ralph L. Motley, Jr.. Excerpted by permission.
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