Hell's Door Read online

  John kissed her neck. “Keep it up and we can continue later.”

  “Relax, I’m just playing the part. Don’t get any ideas.”

  “I’m full of ideas.”

  “Well, keep them to yourself, for now. Hey, that’s Ramsay…slinging drinks at the bar.” Lacey’s gaze rested on a tall, well-toned woman with piercing green eyes. Her hair shined blue-black under the lights, short-cropped and slicked back with gel. Small silver stud earrings gleamed in both earlobes. Her naked arms were tattooed with sultry nude women. She moved quickly, pouring drinks into tall glasses, toughness and confidence evident in her stance.

  The duo made their way to the bar, taking seats between two drag queens sipping cherry-colored drinks and tapping high-heeled feet to the canned disco. One wearing a platinum wig smiled at Lacey. “Love your necklace. Get it around here?”

  “Thanks. No, got it when I lived in the Midwest.”

  The queen shrugged, and then took a long swallow from her glass.

  John slapped down some green, catching Ramsay’s eye, and then waved his hand.

  Ramsay ambled over, gaze fixed on Lacey, silver bracelets and earrings shimmering beneath neon and strobe lights flashing above. “What can I get for you?” She smiled, revealing straight white teeth, and the hint of a dimple on her left cheek.

  “Beer for me. A glass of shiraz for the lady.”

  Ramsay propped an elbow on the bar, leaning close to Lacey. She smelled of clove cigarettes, whiskey and lilac cologne. She possessed a flawless complexion, perfect full lips and her eyes were amazing. Tall, curvy and tan—a beautiful woman—albeit dangerous and unusual. “Name is Ramsay Wolfe. I own the place. Don’t usually work the bar, but my main guy called out. First round is on the house for new customers.” She waved her hand at the cash, and then shoved it back at John.

  “Thank you. Name is Lacey.”

  “And you?” Ramsay asked, tilting her chin in John’s direction.

  “I’m John. Hey, thanks for the drinks.”

  “We just want you to come back. You guys new in this part of town?”

  “Lived in South County for years, but we got tired of the country. We needed a break from it. Found this place listed on the Internet. Thought we’d give it a try.” Lacey flashed a teasing smile.

  “Good. Enjoy.” Ramsay shifted her weight, standing tall, and then waved as though she wanted the couple to take notice of the pentagram tattoo on her palm. She moved away, nudging a leather-clad waitress, seemingly giving the woman orders, and then cleared the bar of empty glasses.

  A few minutes later the scantily clad waitress slid bright coasters down the length of the bar, and then strutted over to Lacey and John, setting down the drinks, and then greedily accepting the ten-dollar tip John placed in her hand. She blinked heavily lined eyelids and smiled, showing a slight overbite. “Hey, thanks. Give Ramsay a yell if you need anything else.”

  And the girl stood beneath a strobe light, chatting with a tattooed muscleman, smiling shrewdly when he pressed his hands to her shoulders, and winking when he slid a hand down her back. Her eyes darted to Ramsay, and the bar owner nodded. Waitress and muscleman walked away, as he wrapped his arm around her waist.

  The waitress led the man to the rear of the club, and then through a door. Smoke escaped over the threshold as a queen waved her arm, and red sequins tumbled from her shawl, onto the floor, blending with smoke and dust.

  Ramsay smiled, and then made her way back to Lacey and John. “So you guys got a house by the ocean?”

  “Yeah, Narragansett. Old house. Belonged to an elderly man I befriended.” John tapped his glass. “Run a little business down there…if you know what I mean.”

  “Business, huh? What exactly do you do?”

  “We take advantage of certain opportunities.”

  “Interesting. Well, you’ve come to the right place. Lots of us take advantage of what comes down the pike. World is different than we are, easier to fool most times.” She shrugged. “Welcome to Hell’s Door.” Her gaze rested on Lacey, and then a pack of bikers began to demand refills, calling Ramsay by name, and pounding meaty fists on the bar. “Have to go. Enjoy. Maybe we all can get to know each other better.”

  “Did she buy it?” Lacey watched Ramsay as she obliged the bikers, and then approach a young girl sitting at the bar. They outwardly had a heated discussion for a few minutes, and then the girl slid off the bar stool and exited the club.

  “She’s tough and calculating.” John sighed.

  “I think she’s got eyes for me. We’ll use it as an advantage.”

  “Careful. There’s boundaries. Even I—”

  “She’s a piece of shit. There are no boundaries when it comes to slime like her. I can deal with the consequences.” Lacey pressed a knee to John’s shin.

  “Not sure if you can deal with me, though.”

  “You don’t know what I can handle.” Her gaze shifted to Ramsay. “Looks like she’s not going anywhere for a while.” Lacey sipped her drink, allowing the sweetness to roll over her tongue.

  “We’ll come back again…and again until we nail her.” John placed his hand on Lacey’s neck, massaging it slightly.

  “John, I…”

  “Blending in just like you…”

  “I’ll play the part…as long as I have to.” She leaned closer to him, pressing her cheek to his, feeling him tremble as she kissed him. He returned that kiss—hard, with fervor. Lacey wanted to hold him, to show him the kind of lovemaking she craved, but she had to hold back. “Come on. We’ve seen enough for now.”

  Lacey moved ahead of John, losing him in a throng of tattooed men, and then Ramsay was there, smiling, motioning to John, who’d been surrounded by a couple of girls in sheer dresses and spike heels, seemingly enjoying the attention. “That your man?” Ramsay asked.

  “For now. He pays the bills, but things change quickly with me.”

  “Yeah, well variety is good, too. Hope you come back again…soon.”

  “I will.” Lacey smiled, tipping her head to the side, as John slid his arm around her waist. And they moved back into smoldering heat.

  “We could go back to my place. I rented a room on America Street.” He reached out, but she backed away, waving her finger. Thunder crackled, and then a streak of lightning lit up the sky. Light raindrops shined on John’s hair, dotting his flesh, like tiny teardrops. She wanted to touch that face, wipe away shimmering water, but logic wouldn’t allow the act.

  “Look, you’ve got to make things right with Laura.”

  He lowered his eyes. “It’s hopeless. We’ve tried to make it work…I tried, but she’s gone too far…and it’s over.”

  “I have to go.” She hurried away, eyes fastened on the sky, and her heart beating wildly. She’d let John down again, but there were others who needed her, girls in trouble, with broken souls and empty hearts—the kind Ramsay Wolfe took advantage of, and the bitch wouldn’t release them until they’d spiraled to ultimate destruction.

  * * *

  Gabriel pressed his pen to empty white pages, thinking of a woman they called Lady Blood, a girl he’d spoken to on the corner of Weybosset and Chestnut streets, and she’d told him she partied at Hell’s Door, and she asked if he’d ever been there. He lied, telling her he had not.

  She’d asked his name, and he’d said, “Azrael.”

  And she told him, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Then I’ll be Gabriel—it’s all the same anyway.”

  “Is it now? And what do you do, Gabriel?”

  “I’m a musician. I just sent a demo to Magic Records in New York.” He thought about the man he’d met in Boston a year ago, a singer and guitar player, who’d taken him to his loft, showing him music sheets, allowing him to listen to what he’d written, as the man strummed a battered guitar. And he’d cut the musician’s throat as he slept, later gathering his clothes, his guitar and the sheets of music. And he became that man, traveling the interstate to Providence…and he’d
become others, when he needed to. Their clothing and possessions with him, and their personalities etched in his mind…all a part of him now…and forever.

  “Musicians are sexy,” Lady Blood told him, throwing back her head, laughing as city sounds echoed in the distance.

  He touched the knife inside his belt, running a finger over the hilt. But then a Ford Mustang slowed down, and its driver called out to the hooker, and Gabriel waved good-bye. He felt rage, knowing she had to be next—and he’d slipped on gloves he’d bought at the dollar store, waiting for the man in the Ford Mustang to take the girl back to the corner. Then he told her he’d pay her for sex, taking her hand and going into the alley…killing her just like the others, thinking of another woman, whose face sometimes manifested when he gazed into storefront windows, and who came to him in daydreams. He wrote her name over and over, dedicating page after page to her.

  4

  Rain had finally come to Providence, cooling the heat of the last several days—falling in fat droplets, thrashing brick buildings and saturating city streets. It mixed with blood and death in a darkened alley. And it spattered timeworn memorials to the departed, falling on cracked stone and blurring marble angels frozen in time, eerie sentinels, guarding the ghosts of Providence. On the streets, and within decades-old buildings, people lived their lives, fearing a bloodthirsty reaper within the city’s shadowy realms—unaware of a team working within murky night—the chosen few—too familiar with decadence, evil and insanity.

  Lacey crouched down to examine a headless corpse. Shaking her head, she looked up at her partner. “It’s Brenda Archer.”

  She motioned to a crude tattoo on the victim’s left arm; a dark moon with the words Lady Blood scrawled across it. “See this?” She shivered as wind swirled rain, tossing paper and trash down the alley. “Lady Blood, that’s what they called her. She worked the corner of Weybosset and Chestnut, until Ramsay claimed her as property.”

  “Knew of her from a few years back, when a couple of guys from Fall River went on a spree, killing homeless, and then leaving the bodies down by the river. She claimed she saw somebody harassing a vagrant down on Pine, later the guy turned up dead. She identified one of the suspects in a lineup.”

  “Read about those murders when I worked in Atlanta.”

  “Yeah, fodder for a couple of true crime books.” John pulled a cap out of his jacket pocket, and then absently placed it on his head.

  Lacey glanced at the crew from the medical examiner’s office, who were collecting ripped clothing, discarded in a pile of garbage. They worked quickly and meticulously, with gloved hands.

  She nudged John. “Brenda was wearing that red mini and black lace halter the last time the guys on Vice saw her…a couple of blocks from Hell’s Door. She’s been dead a couple of days according to the ME.”

  “Wonder how many more there are. Those missing girls…I…” John tugged at his cap, and then slowly shook his head back and forth.

  After the clothing had been secured in plastic evidence bags, Lacey turned her attention back to the body and pointed to the victim’s right hand. “Here’s more proof—her hand still has the stamp from Hell’s Door smeared on it—same as the other four victims.”

  Demmings moved closer, stepping over blood streaming down wet pavement. “I know that sick mother’s the killer. But we never find prints, or any hard evidence to prove it.”

  Lacey stood up and hugged her slight body as the rain intensified. It soaked her thin blouse and short cotton skirt. Her nipples were hard, taut against the fabric, seen in strobelike flashes beneath the blue lights of the police vehicles illuminating the alley. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. “John, we know Ramsay killed every one of them. We’ve just got to catch the piece of shit at her own game.”

  “I wonder if the heads are buried somewhere off the interstate…”

  “Never know. I worked a case in the Midwest. Killer beheaded all his victims, left the bodies at the scene. We found the heads lined up on his dining room table—guy was sleeping in the next room when we beat down his door. Claimed somebody sneaked in and planted the heads.”

  “Rico Calvino. Followed that case. Guy still insists it was a setup.”

  “We found incriminating hair and fiber everywhere.”

  Lacey shook her head, allowing John to guide her to the car, moving away as he tried to pull her closer. His touch, although inviting and sensuous, was unwelcome to Lacey—remaining forbidden.

  Lightning lit up the dismal alley as John began to speak. “I think if we continue what we’ve been doing at Hell’s Door—frequenting the joint like we’re on the same team—watching Ramsay very carefully—we’ll nail her.”

  “Okay, later then? I’ll meet you inside.”

  He smiled slightly, his gaze moving over her with apprehension. “We could grab dinner first. I know a great Italian restaurant on Atwells. Then we can go to the club together when we’ve finished.”

  “John,” she sighed. “I told you before I’m not interested in that kind of relationship. We’re partners. There’s no room for anything more.”

  Nothing more for now.

  He forced a smile. “Whatever the lady wants.”

  She felt his gaze as she made her way to her car—knowing her slender legs, firm breasts, and the way her long blonde hair framed her lovely face, turned him on.

  She knew he’d do anything to have her.

  * * *

  John watched as Lacey turned the corner, and then allowed the rain to beat down on him, lost in the past and feeling regret.

  He and Laura lived together in a first-floor apartment in Johnston; a quiet neighborhood, a place where Italian landlords took pride in their property, charging low rent and supplying tenants with heat in the winter.

  His mind went back to a Sunday morning when blue jays gathered on a bird feeder outside the kitchen window. Brightly colored curtains caught the breeze. Tiger lilies, planted years before, stretched toward the sky. Sunlight streamed in, and the weatherman announced the temperature would rise to ninety degrees. They drank coffee, ate fruit and cereal. Every now and then he’d touch Laura’s belly, feeling tiny flutters, content that he’d soon have a daughter. He’d been happy for the first time in years.

  He wanted a family—a normal life. “We can tie the knot at the small Baptist church in Warwick. I checked. They just need a few weeks’ notice.”

  Laura had looked at him with blue-gray eyes. “I’m not sure I can marry you. I mean, you’re a homicide detective now. My friend, Noreen, her husband was on homicide. Killer shot him in the head.”

  “I’m not going to get killed. Sure, it happens, but most of us survive.”

  Laura folded her napkin. “I’m not sure I can live with it. The late-night calls. The sick feeling in my gut when the news broadcasts a sociopath is on the loose—and I know you’re in the thick of it, and you might not make it back home. The killer knows your name, maybe where you live…” She rubbed her eyes. It didn’t do any good. Tears streamed down her face.

  “It’s just hormones. Doesn’t that kind of shit happen to pregnant women?”

  She didn’t laugh. “Stop being an asshole.”

  “I’m the toughest guy you’ll ever meet. My grandma Nicola—from my mother’s side of the family—still says novenas for me. Don’t worry.”

  “Stop it. Nicola’s six feet under. It’s not funny. I do worry. Our baby needs stability. And besides, I have a dream where the killer gets me.”

  Those words still stung, even though he and Laura eventually married, they’d gone through a series of breakups and reconciliations. But when their daughter Deborah became ill—dying of a rare cancer a year ago—things gradually fell apart.

  Now dreams of having a family had ended. The woman he once loved was gone, and the child they’d made together could never return.

  He feared he couldn’t mend what seemed beyond redemption. For now he could befriend the night and hope to find a killer within it.


  5

  August 27, 2012

  “Lady Blood liked to cut herself. She liked to cut others, too. And then, they drank each other’s blood. Some people paid her for the perversion. I always wondered if she wished one day she’d bleed out—that it would end. And I think she was afraid of the end, because I heard her screaming—when she woke up from bad dreams on nights I stood in the dark—watching her—preparing for her death. She threw out the sleeping pills she bought from the dealer on Pine Street—too afraid to keep them by her bed—too afraid of what she might do. So, I had to help her. I had to bring her to the place she wanted to be…and now she’s at peace.”

  Each detail had been recorded in the journal, with small, neat handwriting and black ink. That’s the way it went down, for years—a lifetime of toil and love.

  And that night, in the rain, the girl begged to be released—they always did. Most were tough and flamboyant, yet afraid of death. Didn’t they realize the gift they were about to receive?

  The acts of love could not be interfered with, so no substantial evidence had been left behind—not since the beginning. Cunning and skill merely led cops to a string of dead ends. Killing had become second nature, and each woman’s scream a treasure—and every plea for mercy brought feelings of elation.

  The rain felt good, and Brenda Archer’s blood tasted sweet. She’d been overpowered in the alley, taunted at first—penance for her sins—and then the knife blade moved slowly over her flesh, beginning with her toes, her inner thighs, and then her firm stomach. Shock had been apparent when the knife began to tear at her neck—still alive before her carotid artery was severed, spraying crimson—so beautiful, splattering on cement and brick, trickling with storm water—a work of art forged with darkened passion.