Chapter 2
Chapter two
Mac
Getting into swanky events has never been easier.
My first contract for a pilot episode of Murder Talk and one season turned into a three year deal and even more money.
I did in fact buy myself a place with a guest house, but I also paid Di enough for her to buy a little place not far from mine in LA.
We still take out criminals who get away with their crimes with bribes, but now I charter private planes and more excuses to rub elbows with the evil people I planned to kill.
Sometimes, I let myself get release in another way, and I am considering the flirtatious chef’s offer. Being in the public eye has put me back in the closet, but I didn’t mind sleeping with women. I don’t want to marry one or have children, though, so they never last long.
What I truly like in the bedroom is rarely allowed out of the confines of my fantasies.
My show is too popular, and I’m too recognizable, to go to a club.
The offer of a one-night masked play time with the sexy younger man is tempting, though.
Ethan’s tan skin looks like it would take effort to mark up.
Those deep brown eyes would cry so prettily, and his curly hair would be fun to hold onto while he serviced my cock.
Willing my dick to calm down, I knew it would be even worse after I took out the corrupt CEO I was there to kill. I didn’t have time to play.
While I’m a household name as Owen MacKenzie, the man who looks into the worst crimes on your television, I’m also infamous as the “Fat Cat Killer.” The moniker wasn’t my choice, but Di pointed out that if I didn’t roll with it when discussing my own crimes on the show, it would look suspicious.
After circling the room again for half an hour, I find my target sneaking off to the hall again. I just missed him running into Ethan, but now is my chance. The man has an addiction to nose candy, so my favorite method of murder will suit him nicely.
Following him, I slip on my leather gloves that have an extra finger. If the cameras don’t get wiped fully, or someone takes a picture, the sixth finger will make it look like an AI edit. That was Di’s idea for when I can’t have her in my ear, since everyone is always filming these days.
The man in question stops at an alcove and pulls the hidden necklace from behind his tie. Besides his predilection for buying coke, Joe here also likes to buy children. He keeps paying off prosecutors, and after having one of his former victims on my show, I know he has to die.
This location is perfect, because the cameras are pointed at doors and the hallway is curved, and Di’s research said he would sneak out to feed his habit at least three times during the evening. I missed the first, ran into Ethan on the second, this was my chance.
Pulling the short, thirteen millimeter syringe from my pocket, I uncap it and approach him. Holding it between two fingers, I cuff him on the neck like an old friend.
“Joe, are you skiing on your own?” I ask as the needle sinks into his fat neck. With my other hand, I hold out a baggie of fentanyl laced coke in front of his face, hidden by our bodies if anyone walks by.
“Are you sharing?” He asks without facing me fully, moving his hand to touch the spot I stabbed on his neck. As much coke as he uses, along with the liquor he has been drinking, and I know his pain is dulled.
“I’ve had enough,” I reply as I tuck the syringe back in my pocket. If he used the coke, it would ensure his death and the cover up. “It’s yours, if you want it.”
Joe’s greed knows no bounds, and he happily takes the baggie, dipping his tiny gold spoon from the necklace into the bag. He snorts it and goes to hand the bag back to me.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tuck my gloved hands into my pockets. “I have a flight to catch and would rather not have it on me.”
He only shrugs and takes another bump. His pupils were already pinpricks, but his breathing is slowing. It will take him some time to die, so I wave and head back to the party, slipping the gloves off in my pockets.
It’s ten o-clock, but I want to be sure the man is dead when I leave, so I waste time on small talk with simpering wives who hit on me while their husbands chat business a few feet away.
A stumble catches my eye an hour later, and I see it’s Joe moving to the hall again.
Excusing myself, I follow at a distance, seeing no one help the human stain.
His addiction is well-known to this circle, and he’s not well liked.
I kill a lot of men who are only mourned by the stock market, and Joe will not be an exception.
Finding him slumped against the wall alone, I crouch down to find Joe’s breathing almost stopped and his lips a greyish-blue. “Hey there, Joe, not feeling so well?”
He doesn’t react, so I lift his hand and see his fingers have gone grey as well. With so many accidental overdoses, I take pleasure in causing one on purpose for a man so evil.
“If you’d spent your money on real charities instead of ones just for show or buying children, you wouldn’t be dying right now,” I told him, though I doubted he could comprehend my words anymore.
“Holy shit,” a soft curse catches my attention, and I turn to find the sous chef with a hand over his mouth. “Should we call 911?”
“Oh, no. He had too much nose candy and liquor,” I scramble to explain. “He just needs to sleep it off.”
Instead of looking sad, Ethan rolls his eyes, “You said he was dying. Did you do something?”
His last words are laced with disbelief, so I roll with it. “Do something? Like help him sit down so he doesn't fall?”
Ethan narrows his eyes, like he can see through me bullshit like no one but Di ever has before. “I have training, I know his blue lips mean something serious.”
Standing, I loom over him. I’ve never been caught before and I need to know if he will be a problem. “Who trained you?”
“The CIA,” he tells me with defiance on his face where I expect fear. Ethan looks down at the billionaire CEO as the man falls to his side and something dawns on him. “You’re the Fat Cat Killer!”
Fuck. I mentally curse and cover his mouth as I push him against the wall. What am I supposed to do? If he has CIA training, he’s likely undercover. Was he here to catch me? I wish I had Di on comms right now.
“You’re coming with me,” I growl. I need to get out of there, but I can’t leave a witness behind. One who knows my name and guessed at my secret killer identity.
“Unless someone gives him Narcan soon, he’s dead,” Ethan points out as I take his hand and lead him toward the service exit.
“That’s the plan,” I mutter, dragging Ethan along with me down the stinky alley.
My hired driver is waiting two blocks away, and he knows to take me straight to SFO without a word. Ethan doesn’t talk, I assume from shock, but I still don’t know if I’m going to kill him yet.
The plane is gassed up and ready, but Ethan is an unknown variable. “Do you have your ID on you, and your phone?”
“Yes,” he answers, and I hold out my hand, waiting. He puts his wallet and phone on top of each other, and I read his full name on his ID and passport. Who carries their passport?
Ethan Miller, apparently. I take a picture and send a text to Di to look up a witness but don’t wait for her response.
“Do you live with your family? Friends?” I asked, not giving the wallet or phone back.
“I rent a room in the city,” he supplies. “But I’ve only been there a few weeks.”
Does he realize he’s giving me the information I need to kill him without anyone noticing? I am starting to think he lied about his CIA training.
My assistant’s texts buzz repeatedly and I pull out my phone to find a string of them.
Di
A witness?!
Ethan Miller comes from money but seems to be working as a sous chef.
He’s cut off financially and has no close family or friends.
I checked the cameras, deleted them. I’ll pay off the TSA workers and flight staff to pretend he’s not there.
Sending a quick thank you, I look up to see we’re arriving at the airport. Di works fast, and we get through security with a ticket for Ethan that doesn’t match, but it gets him in the door.
My only plan is to get him alone so I can interrogate the man, beyond that I’ll be flying by the seat of my pants.