Lizzy Gardner #2_Dead Weight (13 page)

“Hi,” Cathy said, offering a friendly hand to Melbourne. “I’m Cathy Warner, Lizzy’s sister. I’m sure Lizzy already told you that I’ve been one of your biggest fans since forever. There isn’t a thigh or arm contraption, book, or T-shirt of yours that I don’t own.”

“But do you use those contraptions?” he asked.

Cathy laughed as if he’d meant it as a joke, which he hadn’t. Then Cathy tapped a inger against his muscular shoulder, obviously copping a feel.

Lizzy might have been embarrassed if it weren’t so damn funny.

“Did Lizzy also tell you that we’re all signed up for your retreat in Lake Tahoe?”

“What retreat?” another woman asked, running back to join their ever-growing circle. Within seconds, most of the women were gathered around Melbourne, everyone gawking at the man as if Brad Pitt or George Clooney was the one standing there. This Melbourne guy tortured women daily with his get skinny quick schemes and thigh devices. And yet each and every one of these women looked possessed by some invisible force, each overcome with desire.

What was she missing?

As the women lirted and laughed at his every word, Lizzy watched him closely. She would love to ask him about Diane Kramer and see what he had to say. But it was too early yet. She needed to be patient, and stick to Andrea’s plan since that’s what she was getting paid to do. She would keep an eye on the man and see what Melbourne was hiding, if anything.

Chapter 19

Randy Tucker’s Turn

Taking care of Randy Tucker, number two on Hayley’s list of scumbag rapists, was proving to be much tougher than she’d irst imagined. Peter had been child’s play in comparison.

She had been watching Randy Tucker for a month now, but the problem with Randy was that he had no schedule. Every day of the week was a new day spent with new people in new places.

At least Peter had a schedule. He walked to Shotgun’s Bar & Grill and drank beer every morning for breakfast, sold drugs during the day, and then he either raped and pillaged or chugged beers at the Scorpion. After his worthless day was over, he went home and most likely drank himself into a stupor.

Randy, though, was a horse of a different color. He preferred pills over alcohol, but of course, indulged in both. Hayley had seen him grab a bite to eat at a diner once. Some mornings Randy woke in a park or a ditch at the side of the road. Some nights he didn’t sleep at all, just wandered around in the dark looking like a zombie.

He had a few ladies he visited, but mostly he wandered.

The only thing Randy Tucker did on a semi-regular basis was hang out in front of Bill’s Liquor Store. Usually a car with tinted windows or a hooded igure on a bike would show up. An exchange of money for dope would be made before Randy wandered off again.

And there he was now.

Figuring she’d have at least an hour to wait before he collected his goods, Hayley was surprised when the exchange took place less than five minutes after he appeared.

A black car with tinted windows drove up to Randy. He leaned low, his head disappearing inside the car for a few seconds. The sedan disappeared into the night and Randy headed for the empty ield behind the liquor store.

Hayley waited in the shadows of tall oleander. Cathy’s car was parked around the corner, but she wanted to give Randy time to swallow a few pills before she approached him.

Hoping he would head east toward the abandoned warehouse, she wasn’t surprised to see Randy tromp his way through the weeds and head west instead.

Shit. She’d have to go with Plan B.

She ran back to the car, grabbed her backpack from the backseat and slung the thick strap over her shoulder. She locked the car and then checked her hair in the side mirror, making sure the wig wasn’t lopsided before she ran to catch up to him.

Out of breath, she saw him round the corner, making a right on 2nd Street. Once he was out of sight, she walked as fast as she could in her new three-inch pin heels. She wasn’t sure which was worse, the heels or the wig.

Looking down, focusing on not breaking an ankle in her heels as they clicked against pavement, she took the same right on 2nd. Her head snapped up at the sound of voices.

She stopped walking. In fact, she could’ve heard a pin drop, or in this particular case, a needle.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“Hey there, Suga’ Nips.”

Three guys. One girl. The odds were not good.

Slowly, keeping her gaze directed on their faces, she slid the backpack off of her shoulder and reached inside, thinking about her options with every breath she took. The rings she wore on her ingers were as good as, if not better than, wearing brass knuckles. But that wouldn’t be enough to take care of the six foot three monstrosity standing front and center.

She should turn around and walk away. But if she did that, she wouldn’t know how many of them were coming after her. She needed to be proactive and take out the biggest guy irst: the guy with the big grin, four silver teeth, and red, white and blue stars tattooed around both eyes. The stars were sort of cool and under different circumstances she might have commented.

“Lookin’ for someone?” Randy asked.

“As a matter of fact, I was. But—” she looked up at the road sign, “looks like I took a wrong turn.” She could feel the twelve-inch baton as she wrapped four ingers around the handle. With a push of the button it would extend to a little over twenty inches. She also had a knife strapped around each thigh. A Stubby knife with a birch handle and 3 1/4 inch blade, and her SOG, a small but lethal knife: all in preparation for Randy—not Randy and friends.

She took a step back, rethinking her original proactive stance.

Be smart
, she thought, as she turned to walk away.

“Whatcha got in the bag there?”

She turned the corner, pin heels clicking as she went. The big guy was on her ass. Fuck.

She walked just past the bus-stop bench, and then dropped her bag and turned toward him, holding her baton in front of her.

He stopped where he was, his grin bigger than ever.

“Why don’t you just turn around, go back to your buddies and leave me alone,” she said. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Is that right? A girl dressed like that—” his eyes roamed over her, “—walking around town in the dead of night is not only looking for trouble, she’s asking for it.” He shook his big head. “No,” he added with a chuckle, “let me rephrase that, sweetie. She’s not asking for trouble, she’s
begging
for it.” He laughed.

“Wrong again. Why don’t you listen with your fucking ears instead of your dumbass pea-sized brain? If I was desperate for a moron like you, why would I turn around and walk away?”

He pointed a inger at her. “I was gonna play nice, but now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings. I don’t let bitches talk to me like that.”

He walked forward, coming around the back of the bus-stop. When he was close enough, Hayley pushed the button on her baton, extending it long enough for him to grab it, sending a shock through his body. “What the fuck?”

He stumbled backwards and she took full advantage.

She went after him like a cheetah goes after its prey: without hesitation, touching his beefy arm with the prongs and holding it to his lesh, dumping energy into his muscles at a high pulse frequency.

She’d practiced enough times that it felt like second nature. Just lunge and hold.

He was confused, but it took another ive seconds before his knees inally buckled and he went to the ground. Luck was on her side when he hit his head on the back of the bench on his way down.

Hayley ran to her backpack, grabbed the handcuffs she’d brought for Randy and cuffed the big guy’s left wrist to the closest bench leg. No sooner had she begun to walk off when someone called out and she heard hurried footsteps close behind. Shit.

Hopefully it was Randy. Because she hadn’t gotten a clear view of the third loser and she had no idea what she would be dealing with.

She looked over her shoulder. Not Randy. Tonight the only luck she had was bad luck.

She waited until she could feel the asshole breathing down her neck, then whipped around and held the baton in front of her. His right foot came up quick and her baton rolled into the street.
Clink.

Clink. Clink
.

That pissed her off. The baton had cost her two paychecks. Picking up her foot, she stamped down hard, sending her three-inch pin heel right through his foot. He howled and for the irst time ever she was grateful for stilettos.

Before he inished screaming, she slammed her knee into his balls, and then came up fast with her palm to his nose, breaking it on the irst try. All of those defense classes had actually come in handy. Who knew?

While he rolled around in pain, Hayley stepped into the street, straightening her skirt as she went, and picked up her baton.

Returning to his side, she held the prongs on her baton to his neck, holding it there until the juice nearly ran out.

In a trance, like a fucked-up, rageaholic zombie, she didn’t bother heading for the car. As she passed by her backpack, she picked it up with one swipe of her hand and headed for Randy.

It was Randy Tucker’s turn.

Chapter 20

Feederism

Lizzy had been sitting in her car outside Michael Denton’s house on Cedar Street in Rocklin for over an hour. Other than Melbourne, it seemed Michael Denton was the only other man in Diane Kramer’s life.

Lizzy had hoped to stop back at the of ice and check in with Hayley and Jessica before heading home, but once again that probably wasn’t going to happen. She needed to talk to Michael Denton today, not tomorrow.

It was past ive o’clock and yet the heat was not letting up. Lizzy’s legs were sticking to the car seat. Not pretty.

When Andrea Kramer had hired her, she’d said that ninety-ive percent of her billable hours were to be focused on Anthony Melbourne. The other five percent could be spent how Lizzy saw fit.

Other than the people at Diane Kramer’s work and the Weight Watchers Warrior group she had joined this morning, Michael Denton was the only other person Diane might have been in contact with before she disappeared.

Lizzy checked her cell phone. No messages. A few minutes later, she saw the man she’d been waiting for pull his silver Honda Civic into the driveway. She waited for him to lock his car and head for the front door before she made her move and followed after him. The moment he turned the key and opened the door to his house, she called out to him. “Michael Denton?”

He turned toward her. “Can I help you?”

Michael Denton was ive foot ten, maybe ive eleven. He was twenty-nine years old, but he looked much older. His hair was curly and wiry and the same brown color as his eyes. He looked apprehensive.

“Hello,” Lizzy said. “My name is Lizzy Gardner. I’m a private investigator and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions about Diane Kramer.”

“I’ve already talked to the police. I answered all of their questions. .on more than one occasion, I might add.”

“I know. I’ve seen the iles, but Diane’s sister, Andrea, is not happy with the results.”

“That woman is never happy.”

Lizzy angled her head. Michael Denton was the second person this week to put Andrea in a negative light.

“Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “That was out of line. I don’t even know the woman.”

Lizzy tried to put him at ease and keep him talking. “Don’t worry.

You’re not the irst person to speak about Andrea negatively. Sounds like Andrea might have been overly concerned for her sister.”

“I don’t know if I would call it concern. The woman seemed obsessed with her little sister. She never left Diane alone. There were times when Andrea would call Diane every ive minutes. Excessive, don’t you think?” He shook his head. “I don’t think Diane cared, but it drove me crazy.”

“Were you and Diane dating?”

He pointed to his chest. “Me and Diane?”

Lizzy nodded. “Yes. Were the two of you in a relationship?”

“No. It was nothing like that.” He looked at the keys in the door. “Do you want to come in?”

“I would love to.”

By the time Michael Denton made himself comfortable and got them both a glass of iced water, nearly ten minutes had gone by, giving Lizzy plenty of time to take a look around his living area, which was quaint and homey. Two end tables and the recliner were decorated with large handmade doilies. The walls were covered with pictures she assumed were family and friends, every frame a different color and size. At closer view, she noticed that nearly every woman in every picture was eating: pizza, cake, donuts, and cupcakes. .odd.

“I’m sure you’ve heard and now you can see,” Michael said, gesturing toward the wall of pictures as he entered the room, “that I have a fat fetish.”

Lizzy blushed.

“It’s not a big deal,” he told her. “In fact, I have a girlfriend.”

Lizzy raised a curious brow. She pointed to the wall covered with pictures. “Which one is she?”

“She won’t let me hang her picture. In fact, she won’t let me feed her either.”

Lizzy tried to get it all straight in her mind, but too many pieces were missing. “All the women in these pictures allow you to feed them, but that’s the
only
thing going on between you and them?”

“That’s correct.”

“So, simply feeding them cupcakes, or whatever, turns you on?”

“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “There are many forms of fat fetishism, but I’m what most would refer to as a fat admirer. Not only do I like feeding overweight women, I prefer to date women who are clinically overweight.”

“You mean obese.”

“Sure. Call it whatever you want. I’ve already got the Fat Acceptance Movement group coming around, giving me grief.”

“Why is that?”

“They argue that feeders like me take pleasure in seeing fat women immobilized and helpless.”

“Is that true?”

“Not at all. In fact, I encourage the women I feed to exercise regularly.”

“Really?”