Cold Judgment (24 page)

Mercedes was still grinning as she wrote another yellow sticky for Brad, telling him to send Marcie a check for twenty-two dollars, her half of the wedding gift. A call from Marcie always cheered her up, and having her here for the birthday party would be wonderful.

The last message made Mercedes frown. Her agent and business manager, Jerry Palmer, wanted to discuss her next project over lunch tomorrow. But there wouldn't be a next project for Jerry. She'd already talked to someone else, and she was planning to switch to them right after
Summer Heat
was completed.

When she'd broken the news to Brad last night, they'd had a nasty fight. Jerry was Brad's friend, and she'd hired him on Brad's recommendation. They'd argued for hours, but finally Brad had agreed that she needed to go with someone who had more clout with the big boys. And that brought up another problem, one she needed to solve immediately.

Mercedes picked up the telephone and called Sam Abrams. He'd been her lawyer for almost a dozen years, and he was practically a member of the family. That gave her certain privileges other clients didn't enjoy, like access to his home telephone number.

It took only a moment to make sure that all her future earnings would go directly to Sam's office, and Mercedes was smiling as she hung up. By this time it was almost seven in the evening, and she was beginning to think much more kindly of Rosa's chicken salad. She'd swim twenty laps, treat herself to another glass of wine, and eat in the poolside cabana.

Since she'd already lost a total often pounds, none of her old bathing suits fit her new, svelte figure. She'd ordered more, twelve lovely, white suits that had been especially designed for her, but when she opened the drawer in the cabana, she found that the designer had made them in the wrong color. There were twelve new suits, but all of them were red.

Mercedes frowned as she remembered a line from the first threatening letter.
Red is the color of blood.
Her fingers trembled as she held up the suit, but she forced herself to remain calm. The crazy fan was long gone. And even if he wasn't gone, there was no way he could get past the sophisticated security system. She took another sip of wine to fortify herself, and slipped into the red bathing suit. She wasn't about to give up her exercise regime, because some looney objected to the color of her bathing suit!

There was a sound, and Mercedes froze. It sounded like the security gates were opening. Were they home already? She waited a moment, expecting to hear Rosa's station wagon, but there was no crunch of tires on the crushed rock driveway.

It took no more than a second for Mercedes to pick up her handgun. The solid weight of the tempered steel was comforting, and she held it tightly as she listened for any other alarming sounds. But everything was perfectly quiet.

Since her security system was new, and she wasn't quite used to relying on it, it took Mercedes a moment to remember to check the closed-circuit monitor. There was one in every room, including the cabana. When she switched it on, the camera showed that the gates were fully closed. The sound she'd heard must have come from the pool equipment, or perhaps her neighbor's gate had opened. Sound sometimes carried quite far in the canyon.

Mercedes felt a little prickle of fear as she stepped out of the cabana. Of course, there was no reason to be nervous. Her security system was armed. If anyone tried to get into the house, bells would clang, sirens would blare, and the police would be notified immediately. She was perfectly safe from any intruder.

She put her Lady Smith down at the side of the pool, and tested the water with her toe. The pool was warm, just the way she liked it, and Mercedes slid into the water. She'd learned to swim at an early age, like most kids who grew up in Minnesota. The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes had several within biking distance, and Mercedes and Marcie had spent practically the whole summer in the water. But the swimming season was short in Minnesota, barely two months long, Mercedes was glad she lived in California, where she could use the pool year round.

Mercedes used the Australian crawl for her first two laps. She was an excellent swimmer, and when they were teenagers, both she and Marcie had qualified as Red-Cross-certified Life Savers. When she'd moved to California, she'd actually taken a job as a lifeguard at Santa Monica Beach. It had paid for her acting lessons, and given her a great opportunity to get a tan. Then Mike had discovered her, and her dream had come true. She'd gone from her one-room, ramshackle apartment in Venice, to this gorgeous, twenty-room mansion in Mandeville Canyon.

She pushed off at the deep end and swam another lap, using the butterfly stroke. It was physically exhausting, lifting herself out of the water with her arms, and Mercedes was puffing by the time she finished. Time to change to something less rigorous, like the breast stroke. Two laps of that, and she switched to the side stroke for another three laps.

Free style was next, and Mercedes alternated between her favorite strokes for five more laps. She was getting tired, but she was pleased at all the calories she must be burning. She chose a modified crawl for her last six laps. A total of twenty laps was a lot, but she knew she could do it.

The end was in sight, only one lap to go. Mercedes was running on pure determination, when she approached the deep end of the pool. She looked up and gasped as she saw a dark shape behind the palm tree by the diving board.

Suddenly the pool lights went out, and she was plunged into darkness. Mercedes opened her mouth to scream, but it ended in a sputter as strong arms pushed her head beneath the surface of the water. She kicked out desperately, trying to propel herself away, but her tired legs found only the slippery resistance of the water. There was nothing to kick, nothing to push, as her head was held under the water in a grasp of steel.

Her tortured mind screamed out for air. Her lungs were burning as her muscles began to spasm. She struggled to pry loose, but her frantically clawing fingers encountered padded gloves. It was no use. Her mouth and lungs were filling with deadly water. The last thing Mercedes Calder saw, before final blackness closed in, was the wavering image of her killer's familiar face above the surface of the water.