Marty had thought she’d already drop-kicked Tommy, a car salesman she’d been seeing over on Marian Avenue. No loss, the jerk. The fact is, he’d believed she was alone. Where was Tommy’s car? Marty didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all. He had to be more careful.
Whatever, boot the jerk out, princess. Get your beautiful self back into bed and into dreamland, and I’ll give you something to guarantee a good night’s sleep.
Marty eased back toward the front of the house and hid himself in a mess of red bougainvillea. He was waiting patiently for Tommy to come trooping out the front door, when he heard a motorcycle coming down the quiet street. It was moving slow, as if the driver was looking for an address. At this hour? What was wrong with people? Even in Las Vegas regular people slept at night. It was only delusional brainless yahoos flying in here from who-knew-where who stayed up all night.
The motorcycle stopped in front of the house, idled. What was this crap? Had Tommy called a friend to pick him up? Or was it someone else sniffing on Marty’s turf? Nah, another thief wouldn’t be cruising around on a loud-ass motorcycle. He’d be hiding, like Marty, biding his time. Marty cursed low. All he wanted was to get in, lay a chloroform mask over his princess’s nose, watch her snap awake, then breathe in and pass out, three seconds, tops. He’d find that bracelet and get out with no one the wiser, but no, he couldn’t catch a break. First a boyfriend and now this motorcycle, and who was this guy? He heard the front door slam. So Tommy had called a buddy to come get him. Everything was all right. Tommy climbed aboard and the motorcycle revved and rocketed down the street. No more drama. Neither idiot was wearing a helmet.
Marty would give her another twenty minutes at least. If she was mad at the boyfriend, it’d take her longer to calm herself and float off to dreamland. He waited, listening, and now there was only the sounds of crickets, a coyote in the distance, but nothing else except a light desert breeze.
Finally Marty pulled the glass cutter out of his pocket and walked quietly toward the second-bedroom window.
Then he heard something, like a door opening real quiet, like someone sneaking around who didn’t want to be heard. No, impossible, it couldn’t have come from the princess’s house. She was alone. But his heart still pounded. Maybe he was getting too old for the business. He waited, the glass cutter poised in his hand.
Marty pressed the button on the side of his watch, lit up the face. Nine minutes after one o’clock now. He hadn’t survived this long by being stupid. He waited another five minutes. Nothing, no light, no sound. Everything was as it should be. The neighbors were all tucked in, pets snoozing, Tommy and his motorcycle buddy watching a late movie, guzzling beer.
Marty carefully carved a small circle in the glass, gently lifted it out with tape, and stuck his hand through the opening to unlock the window. He hoisted himself up and carefully eased inside the second bedroom, more an office, he thought, seeing the small desk, the laptop, a chair. He quietly closed the window, no sense taking a chance that a sudden noise outside would awaken her. He stood a moment in the darkness, listening, then pulled out the cloth wrapped around a small bottle of chloroform from his jacket pocket, and soaked it good. He walked silently to the door, opened it, looked out into the darkened hallway. There wasn’t a sound, not even an air conditioner, and that was good, it meant the princess was fast asleep. Would she have the bracelet on the nightstand next to her? That would make things easy. In his line of work, though, Marty had learned early on that something that easy happened maybe once in a decade.
He crept toward her bedroom, at the end of the hall, his sneakers soundless against the wood floor. The bedroom door was open. He slowly looked around the edge of the door.
And nearly fainted. He managed to keep his shriek in his throat, but the figure bending over his princess sensed his presence, turned, and Marty saw his face in the shaft of moonlight coming in through the bedroom window. He was wearing goggles smeared with blood and had a bloody knife in his hand. As the man jerked away from the bed, Marty saw his princess covered with blood, saw her head bent at an impossible angle, saw blood still oozing from her neck, all in a millisecond. And he could smell the blood, thick and hot and coppery. Marty ran back down the hall, threw a bookshelf down behind him. He heard the killer’s shoes hitting the wood floor in the hall behind him as he ran back into the small office. Marty dove out the closed window headfirst, cutting his hand on his way through, but he didn’t slow. He rolled to his feet, clutched his hand to his chest, and ran to where his car was parked three streets away. Only when he was driving away did he look back. He didn’t see anyone. Had the man seen his face? Would he be able to find him?
Marty’s heart pounded and he was still panting from his run and from stark terror. He’d never been so afraid in his life. He felt the pain in his cut hand only then, smelled his own blood, only not nearly as thick and fetid as the smell in the princess’s bedroom.
It wasn’t until later, after his hand had been stitched in the ER across town, and he was cruising on morphine, did he feel rage at what the monster had done. He’d stuck that knife into the princess—his princess—he’d slit her throat. And then he’d come after Marty.
3
* * *
CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT
HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY MORNING
FBI Special Agent Dillon Savich looked up at the light tap on his open door to see Special Agent Cam Wittier looking ready to jump out of her skin. What had her boss, Criminal Division Unit Chief Duke Morgan, told her? Savich waved her in. Before he tapped the key that darkened MAX’s computer screen, he knew she’d seen the grisly murder scene photo. He said matter-of-factly, “That’s one of the crime scenes from a particularly nasty set of tourist murders in Bar Harbor, Maine. People expect to enjoy themselves there, not get knifed to death in their motel rooms.
“Five dead as of yesterday. The police chief called me early this morning, asking for help. But enough of that. Come on in, Agent Wittier. Sit down.”
Cam settled herself, crossed her legs, and smiled at the man she’d always thought was as sexy as a Wild West sheriff at high noon. She’d pictured how he’d look moseying around in a long yellow duster and a pair of black boots with spurs, of course, when she’d first met him at a computer-coding class he’d given at Quantico. It was a bummer he was married to Sherlock, a good friend and kickboxing partner, and had to stay a fantasy, a no-go forever. Life, Cam sometimes thought, looking at Dillon Savich, was out of sync for her.