Angel of the Dark

Three.

Hardly the breakthrough of the century.

Instinctively, Danny felt that the key to unraveling the mystery lay in the rape of the young wives. Somewhere behind these crimes was a woman hater. A violent, sexually motivated beast.

He thought about his own wife, Céline, and felt a wave of revulsion and disgust wash over him, tinged with fear. If anything should happen to her, anything, he didn’t know what he would do. He wondered for the umpteenth time about the beautiful Angela Jakes and the other women, Tracey and Irina. Were they alive, living new, unobtrusive lives somewhere, as the police in L.A., London and Saint-Tropez all so badly wanted to believe? Or were they dead too, their three corpses rotting in unmarked graves, silent victims of this most ruthless and cunning of killers?

MATT DALEY PULLED INTO HIS DRIVEWAY feeling as nervous as a teenager on his first date. He’d been gone for almost three weeks, the longest he’d been physically apart from Raquel since they married. Despite her anger—since he refused to fly home for her lawyers’ meeting a week ago, she hadn’t contacted him once and had refused to return his calls or e-mails—Matt was surprised to find that he’d missed her. The break had given him a renewed determination to put things right with his marriage.

I’ve been neglecting her, he told himself. No wonder she spends so much time chasing an imaginary pot of gold in her lawyer’s office. Why wouldn’t she, with me cooped up in my office all day, or flitting around the world trying to solve these murders?

The thought crossed his mind that if he actually cracked this case, with Danny McGuire’s help, if he found the killer and brought him to justice, he might make Raquel proud of him again. Then he could write a screenplay about it, sell it to a major studio, and make more money than even Raquel could dream of. It was a nice fantasy, but in the meantime he had to spend more time with her. And he would. Now that he was back, he’d make everything right between them again.

Inside, the house was in darkness. Matt pushed aside his disappointment. It’s still early, he told himself. She’ll be home soon. At least this way he’d have time to shower and change after his long-haul flight. Air France’s economy seats had clearly been designed by a double-jointed munchkin and Matt’s lower back was killing him.

Upstairs, the bedroom was pristine, a testament to his long weeks away. Matt threw his suitcase down on the pale pink counterpane and began to undress. Only then did he see the envelope propped up against his bedside lamp. His name was on the front, in Raquel’s distinctive large-looped handwriting.

Matt’s stomach lurched.

Stop thinking the worst. It might be a welcome-home card.

But even as he tore open the letter, he knew that it wasn’t.

IT WAS THE BANGING THAT ROUSED him. It was deafening. Lying on the floor, a small pool of saliva staining the peach shag carpet in front of his face, his first thought was, Someone’s trying to demolish my house. With me inside it.

His second thought was, Good luck to them.

Raquel was divorcing him. He’d driven her away and she was never coming back. At that moment few things seemed preferable to being crushed instantly to death by a giant pile of rubble, the debris of what had once been a happy home.

BANG, BANG, BANG!

Not a wrecking ball. A fist. On a door. An angry fist.

“Open up, Matt. I know you’re in there.”

The voice was familiar, but Matt couldn’t place it. Then again, after two bottles of wine washed down with the dregs of a bottle of vodka left over from last New Year’s Eve, Matt had trouble placing his own legs. Tentatively he lifted his head off the floor, pushing back with his arms so that he was on his knees. The bedroom swam around him in peach swirls. He retched.

BANG, BANG, BANG!

“I’m coming! Jesus.” Matt staggered downstairs, clutching the banister like a paraplegic in a bounce house. Every step was torture, but he had to stop the noise. He opened the front door. “Oh. It’s you.”

Claire Michaels wrinkled her nose as a waft of alcohol fumes hit her in the face. Her brother looked as if he’d aged ten years.

“Raquel’s left me.”

“I know,” said Claire matter-of-factly. “She stopped by my place to leave a stack of unpaid bills for you, ‘in case you should ever deign to come home,’ as she put it.”

“What am I gonna do?” sobbed Matt hopelessly. “I love her, Claire. I can’t live without her.”

“Oh, baloney,” said his sister, pushing past him into the hall. “Go upstairs and take a shower and I’ll make you some breakfast. You can tell me about France. Oh, and Matt…? Drink a bucket of mouthwash while you’re up there, would you? Your mouth smells like something that died two weeks ago.”

CLAIRE’S BREAKFAST WAS DELICIOUS. FRESHLY MADE pancakes with blueberries, walnuts and maple syrup, smoked salmon frittata and a huge pot of strong Colombian coffee. Afterward, Matt actually felt semihuman again.

“She’s already filed for divorce, which has to be some kind of world speed record,” he told Claire gloomily. “She wants half of everything.”

“Except the bills.”

“Except the bills. Which I totally can’t pay. When they slice my credit cards in half, I’ll make sure to send her her share.” He smiled weakly. “What the hell am I going to do?”