Forbidden Touch Read online

  Forbidden Touch

  By K. S. Haigwood

  Published by K. S. Haigwood

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  Copyright © 2012 by K.S. Haigwood

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Dedicated to: Shawn

  For the nights I chose my characters over you. I love you. Thank you so much for understanding how important writing is to me, and remember that you are even more important.

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  Acknowledgements:

  First and foremost I would like to thank my editor, Ella Medler, for putting up with my grammar and punctuation. My usage of realize got aggravating at times to you. Just making sure you were paying attention. You make me look good, Ella. I would like to thank Patti Roberts for an awesome book cover and book trailer. It is hard to design a cover from the imagination from someone else's mind, but you seem to make it look easy. Thank you, Steve at E-printed books, for putting up with me and my tight schedule of needing Forbidden Touch formatted and back to me within 3 days. You accomplished that nearly impossible task and got it back to me in only one. You are awesome! And lastly, but certainly not least, I want to thank my readers. You are the reason my dream has come true. Don't ever, ever stop reading.

  Back to Contents

  Table of Contents

  Copyrights

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Epilogue

  Meet the Author

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  Chapter 1

  He stared down at the thick file on his desk. It was in the same place it had been for the last month. Strewed papers and photos cluttered the flat surface from corner to corner. And the stacks of daily newspapers that held all the articles on the murders were constantly piling up in the one other chair he had in his small cubicle. He had repeatedly told Captain Helsey Lore, over the last four weeks, that he had a few leads, but he did not. He was becoming obsessed with the case, almost as if something was drawing him in, but not telling him where to look.

  He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, then his five day old stubble. The shit was beginning to itch, but with all the hours he was putting in on the case, he was lucky that he was sleeping at all. Shaving was the last thing on his mind when he finally made it to his one bedroom apartment at the end of each day. The apartment wasn't home. He guessed home would be right where he was sitting, or in his unmarked police car, for it was where he spent most of his time.

  Of course, there was no one there to hear, "Hi, honey. I'm home." anyway. He shook his head at his self-pity. His last girlfriend had packed up and left more than seven months ago, he thought as he leaned back in his ancient chair. He sighed. He couldn't actually blame her for leaving him. It wasn't as though he'd had time for her or anything; which had been her exact words in the short note she had left on his kitchen counter. Dear Mitch, Maybe you'll have time for your next girlfriend. I'm out of here! Jen

  He grabbed his coffee mug and took a sip. He grimaced. It had turned cold while he'd been lost in thought. He sat it on the desk amongst the clutter, then actually pushed it back out of the way so he wouldn't make the same mistake again. He would force open his eyelids with toothpicks before drinking the too strong, too cold, too nasty shit the department called coffee. Was it actually a rule that all coffee, made in any police department, taste and look like crude oil?

  He heard someone clear their throat and he turned swiftly in their direction. Gracie Potter, the department Barbie doll, was looking at him, and it was clear she was irritated. She had dropped several hints over the three years she had been in homicide that she wanted to do more than investigate murders with him. He wasn't interested, but she clearly hadn't picked up on the hints he had dropped either. "Where the hell is your head, Foley, up your ass? I've been talking to you for the last five minutes."

  He knew she hadn't been talking to him for the last five minutes, but he probably still would have automatically tuned her out if she had been. He rolled his eyes as he shoved the papers and photos in the thick file, closing it with a loud clap. "You need something?"

  Her eyes grew a little wider as he looked back at her. He didn't understand why she was so hung up on getting in between his sheets. Any other male, in any of the departments, single or not, would've been happy to take her up on the offer. A lot of them already had. Maybe it was because he wasn't interested that kept her trying. He'd always been the one man that she couldn't have, and she was determined to change his mind.

  Her sneer changed to an all out gloating grin. "I was just saying that Blake and I solved the Hanover case today. The suspect confessed an hour ago."

  He looked back at his computer and began shutting it down. "That's good. Although you can't really say you solved the case when the guy turned himself in on his own, Gracie."

  "You're such an ass, Mitch. You need to get laid." She actually growled, then turned and stormed off. He would have smiled at that, if it hadn't been so childish.

  Mitch shook his head. The woman acted like a spoiled teenager most of the time, but he guessed she was right; he was an ass, always had been. More so in these last few weeks. And for getting laid, well, he wasn't sure he had the energy for such tasks anymore. He was only thirty-two, and true, he shouldn't have any problems in that department, and he didn't, really, everything still worked down there. He just didn't want sex.

  The
case was really beginning to wear on him, he thought as his eyes widened. Had he really just admitted to himself that he didn't want sex? Shit! He figured he would be ninety before he even thought something like that. And by then, he had hoped to be senile so he wouldn't know any better. He did want sex again, he told himself. He just didn't want it with Gracie Potter or any of the other women at the station, and that was the only place he'd been in the last four weeks.

  Mitch could hear the distinct sound of his partner's boots on the cheap commercial tile coming toward his cubicle. He logged off and stood up as Lazarus walked around the thin, four foot cubicle wall. Lazarus wasn't his real name, but any man who could take six bullets in the upper part of his body, die, then come back to life, didn't deserve to be called anything less.

  "You're cutting out early tonight, aren't you?" Lazarus said as he rested his elbow on the flimsy wall and looked at his watch. "You haven't left this early in a month."

  Mitch grabbed his leather jacket and walked toward the stairs with Lazarus falling casually into step beside him. "I need a drink. Want to join me?"

  Not even a heartbeat passed before his partner said, "Nope. I know how you get when you're drinkin' and got something on your mind. Don't guess I need to witness it again."

  Mitch had to smile at his partner. "Suit yourself. I'll see you in the morning. Tomorrow is Friday and I think I'll actually take this weekend off. I'm getting nowhere with what I've got. Sure would be nice to have a partner that would solve this damn case for me."

  Lazarus stopped and looked up at the stars when they exited headquarters. He'd been so different after the accident, Mitch thought. Almost like he knew a secret that he would take to his grave without whispering a word. He'd been a patrol cop then, and a routine domestic dispute between a husband and wife quickly turned into a homicide/suicide case. He had just removed his safety vest. It had been the end of his shift, and he had actually been on his way home when the call came in. He was within a block of the address, so he'd decided to check it out.

  The husband had shot and killed his wife for cheating on him. And as Lazarus, formally known as Kyle Lanton, kicked the door in to subdue the shooter, he took four rounds in the abdomen and two in the chest; one of the bullets only missing his heart by a breath of sheer luck. Then the shooter put a bullet in his own brain, ending it all.

  He died four times on the operating table. After being declared D E A D, time of death 11:55 p.m. and all, the son of a bitch took a breath. It's all still yet to be explained, and evidently Lazarus isn't talking about it. Maybe it was a miracle.

  There was a spot open in homicide when Lazarus fully recovered, and he took the job. He didn't need a bigger hint than death to tell him he was in the wrong department. He had been Mitch's partner for two years. And there he stood, looking up at the night's sky like a foolish star gazer. Mitch wondered sometimes if his partner needed a little more psychoanalysis from the department's shrink.

  "This one is for you, Foley," Lazarus said, still looking up at the dim specks of light through the city's smog.

  "And what the hell does that mean?" Mitch said as he put his helmet on, then started his bike. The engine roared to life, making the loud street even more deafening. It was chilly out tonight. The start of winter was beginning to show its ugly face, and Mitch wasn't anywhere near ready for it. It meant that he would be stuck in that damn car. He hated cars.

  Lazarus shook his head as he looked back at Mitch, then he shrugged his big shoulders. "Don't actually know what it means, Foley. Somethin' tellin' me to let you take the reins all by yourself."

  Mitch was really getting tired. Tired of Lazarus' damn riddles. Tired of this damn case. Tired of this damn job. He was just plain tired. He took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten to keep from saying something he would later regret. Most of the time he didn't care what the hell came out of his mouth. There were only a few people he held his tongue for. One was his Captain, but as soon as the guy was out of hearing range he told him off. He would do it to his face but he knew that homicide was the perfect job for him. He couldn't imagine doing anything else. Telling the guy off to his face would land him in the unemployment line. The second person was his mother. Well, she had been one up until cancer claimed her life eighteen months prior. The last person was the guy walking away from him, without so much as a good-bye or even a kiss-my-ass-see-you-tomorrow. Lazarus never did say good-bye. He just said what he had to say, and then he would leave or hang up the phone.

  Mitch shook his head as he pulled onto the street. He had wanted a drink, but the look on his partner's face a minute ago, when he said he didn't know why he was supposed to leave the case all up to him, disturbed him a little. Was the guy actually hearing voices in his head or what?

  Instead of going to Durk's bar, Mitch took a left at the light and headed north to his apartment. It wasn't far, and if he still needed it later, he had his own whiskey in the cabinet.

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  Chapter 2

  Mitch opened his fridge. He didn't know why. If anything had of been in the damn ice box, it would have been green and furry by now. He hadn't been to the store to buy groceries in months. It wasn't his favorite thing to do. However, he did like to eat, and it was still early enough to order a pizza from around the corner.

  He made quick work with his cell phone, and in twenty-five minutes or less, he'd have a steaming all meat and cheese pizza pie delivered to his door. Why did people grocery shop anyway, when you could have the shit cooked and brought to you with only a few numbers dialed on a phone?

  There was Chinese, Mexican, Italian, Greek, not that he'd tried Greek, but they would deliver. Hell, you could even have Tofu delivered if you were desperate. He hadn't ever been that desperate.

  He made his way down the short hall to his bathroom and, after flipping on the light, he looked in the mirror. Covering the reflection came to thought. He looked like hell warmed over. His dark-brown eyes were dulled by the red around them. His dark brown hair was too long, and that beard he was evidently working on made him look homeless instead of GQ material.

  He rubbed his chin, then shook his head. He was too tired to worry about any of it tonight. Maybe he would do something about it all Saturday. He could do something about those bloodshot eyes though. A little Visine and eight hours of sleep should cure those. He squinted as the clear drops fell into his eyes. It burned like hell. He sighed as he thought of sleep again. To get eight hours of sleep was almost like a dream itself. Every time he did try to rest, he would have horrid nightmares. For some reason he related his nightmares to the murders. Maybe the case was the reason for the nightmares. The strange thing was, he would see faces in his dreams, then a few days later see those same faces on the front page of the Independent.

  He hadn't told anyone about his dreams because, well, he didn't want to look like a total psycho freak. He would say they were premonitions of some sort, but he didn't believe in all that crap. Magic wasn't real. There was only reality, and last time he checked, dreams were not reality.

  A snapshot of a woman flashed in his head. She'd been in every one of the dreams. She was beautiful, and maybe that was why he wasn't interested in having sex with anyone he already knew. No female he'd ever met in real life measured up to her beauty. No other female could even hold a candle to her. She'd seduced him with her beauty many times in his dreams ... no sex, no touching, but God how he wanted her. Women that beautiful didn't exist anyway. If they did, they sure wouldn't be seducing him.

  The nightmare part of it was that she was always covered in blood just before he was about to touch her. The victim's blood maybe? He shook his head. No woman could be responsible for the unusual murders.

  It was a serial case, but there was no blood left in the bodies, not a drop. The unusual thing about it all was that there were no injuries on any of them. No slit wrists or throats, no bruises or lacerations of any kind on the bodies, not even needle marks. That was what had Mitch pulling his th
ick hair out the last four weeks. He couldn't concentrate on finding the who, because he couldn't stop thinking about the how. How the hell had the killer gotten the blood out of the bodies? There were seventeen, and counting. Seems the guy was murdering three to four people a week, with none of them being alike. No certain race or age or gender. Just randomly picking off people and dematerializing their blood out of their veins. It didn't sound serial, but he didn't know what else to call it. Maybe he just hadn't figured out the pattern yet.

  The buzzer sounded, pulling him out of his daydreaming. He went to the speaker, then pushed the button to speak and unlock the main door down below. "Come on up, Brad." It should have disturbed him that he knew the pizza guy by name, but it didn't. He actually knew all the people who delivered food to him by their first name.

  He opened the door wide then went to find his wallet. Brad was leaning against the kitchen counter when Mitch came back in the room. "Hey, you wanna go to the game on Saturday? My girlfriend bought me tickets, then found out she has to work. Everyone I know is already going, so I have an extra ticket if you wanna be my date, Foley. Free ticket," Brad said with a smile.

  "Well, I don't know. Are you buying my dinner too?" Mitch handed Brad twenty bucks for the pizza. He didn't have to tell him to keep the change. It was an understanding they had. Brad had been his pizza delivery guy for the last two years, and all the other delivery people from different food chains didn't bother to hand him change back either, unless they wanted to get yelled at. They had all learned the hard way. Mitch understood that the people only earned minimum wage, and minimum wage wasn't enough to live on in this city. A seven to ten dollar tip wasn't too much to give them for bringing the food, already prepared, to his door.