Cut to the Quick
Authors: Dianne Emley
Praise for
The First Cut
“
The First Cut
hurtles the reader down a razor’s edge of suspense to the final, shattering end.”
—L
ISA
G
ARDNER
“A great read …
The First Cut
should immediately establish Dianne Emley in the front ranks of thriller writers.”
—M
ICHAEL
C
ONNELLY
“Gritty, intense, and hard-edged,
The First Cut
is first rate.”
—T
ESS
G
ERRITSEN
“Action-packed, with plenty of suspense and enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing long into the night.”
—L
ISA
J
ACKSON
“Impressive … expertly plotted … Emley makes each gamble pay off.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Guaranteed to keep readers on the edge of their seats until the final page.”
—Tucson Citizen
“An edge-of-your-seat plot … nicely developed characters and genuine suspense elevate this impressive crime debut.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Has all the makings of what promises to be a captivating and enduring series.”
—newmysteryreader.com
ALSO BY DIANNE EMLEY
The First Cut
Cut to the Quick
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2008 by Emley and Co., LLC
Excerpt from
The Deepest Cut
copyright © 2009 by Emley and Co., LLC
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming hardcover edition of
The Deepest Cut
by Dianne Emley. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN: 978-0-345-50458-6
v3.1
Dedicated with love and respect to
my mother
Theda A. Pugh
and my mother-in-law
Marie E. Emley
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I’d like to recognize my brilliant editors and pals, Linda Marrow and Dana Isaacson. Your wise guidance and astute editorial sensibilities have enhanced and elevated my work.
Assistant editor Dan Mallory deserves a special nod for his contributions.
Heartfelt thanks to everyone on the fabulous Ballantine team, especially: Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, Kim Hovey, Rachel Kind, and Cindy Murray.
I’m grateful also to my wonderful agent, Robin Rue, and everyone at Writer’s House, especially Beth Miller.
I must also acknowledge the fine work of my tough copy editor, Teresa Agrillo.
The events and people depicted in this book are fictitious, but they would not have the same impact without the kind assistance of several law-and-order professionals. Any errors are the fault of this author.
Officer Donna Cayson of the Pasadena Police Department was again generous with her time.
Thanks also to the many Pasadena police officers and brass I worked with throughout the past year. I continue to be impressed by your dedication and professionalism.
Karla Kerlin, Special Assistant District Attorney, Los Angeles County, again cheerfully let me pick her brain about criminal law.
Retired police captain Steve Davidson was immensely
helpful, both for insights into police life and for his comments on the manuscript.
Gerald Petievich, author, former Secret Service agent, and buddy, made substantial contributions to the manuscript and aided my understanding of law enforcement personalities and tactics.
Ann Escue kept me from going astray regarding psychiatric facilities and methods, so critical in this book.
Ron Escue and Jon Redyk provided valuable insight on firearms.
Warren Bentley was helpful with information about small-claims court.
Thanks to my posse of friends, perceptive readers all, who beat up the manuscript: Jayne Anderson, Mary Goss, Toni Johnston, Leslie Pape, and Debra Shatford.
A grateful huzzah to friends who endured my whining: Rosemary Durant, Katherine Johnson, and Dottie Lopez.
Last, but never least, kudos to my family, who always contribute in ways both great and small. Special thanks to my nephew, Mark Pasqua, for observations about “lake life.” Hats off to the rest of the clan. The Emleys: Charles III, Robert, and Sally. The Kawaokas: Jeanine, Craig, and Cameron. The Pasquas: Sheila and Carl. The Pasquas II: Mark, Jennifer, and Carter. The Prices: Carole, Ed, Jeffrey, and Eric. The Pughs: Bill, June, Eric, and David. And the Pughs II: Chana, Jonathan, Aaron, Justin, Katherine, and Marie.
And of course, to my wonderful husband, Charlie, my safety net, my love.
Contents
ONE
N
othing bad
ever happened to Oliver Mercer. He hadn’t followed Mercer long before he’d figured that out. Nothing really bad. Having your teeth kicked out bad. Watching someone slit your girlfriend’s throat in front of you bad. Watching someone slit your girlfriend’s throat while you’re gurgling through your own slit throat bad. Or losing all your money. A guy like Mercer probably thought that was the worst thing that could ever happen to him. Or handing over his Rolex to a robber. Or finding his girlfriend in bed with his best friend. The fool.
Mercer had all the advantages. Born into money. While following Mercer around Pasadena, he’d heard people call it “old money,” like that made it even more important and special. Dough was dough as far as he was concerned. No better cushion from life’s problems than a mountain of cash. If at all, real trouble had just skimmed the surface of Mercer’s life, its misery lasting as long as a tiny baby’s frown. And when his troubles were over, those little tears and that wrinkled brow melted away, leaving nothing behind. It took decades of worry for those frown lines to dig in. That’s what Mercer was, as far as he was concerned: a big, fat baby acting like he’s something special because he has money he didn’t earn. Having airs and looking down on people. He’d seen Mercer do it. He’d gotten that close. He’d
worn his favorite disguise, but Mercer would have looked right through him anyway. He was one of the little people.
He smiled. Sometimes little people had big plans that could whip around and bite a guy like Mercer right in the ass.
He’d heard Mercer go on about a billboard company he’d bought into. “Outside advertising,” he’d called it, like that dressed it up or something. Guess it made Mercer feel like he had a real job. A well-placed billboard, Mercer had said, like the ones along the Sunset Strip, could earn fifty grand a month in rent. Billboards, for crying out loud. Who knew? Mercer’s partner had been having problems with the law for allegedly poisoning some expensive trees, city property, that were blocking his signs. Personally, he thought that was funnier than hell and had to hand it to the guy, if the story was true. Mercer had used unkind words when speaking of his business partner. Well, you gotta know who you’re getting in bed with, so to speak.
One thing’s for double damn sure, Mercer wouldn’t have gotten his girlfriend if he was a working stiff. Babe like her wouldn’t have given him the time of day. That’s all anyone needs to know about life right there.
Bad things did happen to good and to so-so people too, for no apparent reason. Mercer hadn’t learned that life lesson yet. He was about to show Mercer a different view of the world.
Looking through binoculars from his vantage point across the Arroyo Seco, he caught himself holding his breath. He let out a small sigh when all the lights in Mercer’s glass-walled home turned on at once, as they did the same time each evening. The house, designed by the much-discussed Spanish architect Santiago Torres, was striking on the hillside. The lights spectacularly set
it off. He was sure that’s why Mercer turned them all on. That was okay. Then everyone could enjoy it a little bit. The worker bees commuting on the 210 freeway could look up at the big house shining on the hill and have their spirits raised. It was like looking at a faraway castle. Sometimes just the suggestion that life can be different is enough to get you through another mean day. That was another astute observation, if he said so himself. Astute meaning “smart.” And if life is being difficult, sometimes you take things into your own hands.
He was grateful for Mercer’s attention to appearances for another reason. The lights made watching Mercer easier. The lights could pose a problem later, but he’d deal with it. He tapped ash from his cigarette into the car’s ashtray.
The globes on the antique lampposts along the Colorado Street Bridge near where he was parked also turned on. That was a pretty view from the freeway too. It was the first Saturday of September, the middle of the Labor Day holiday weekend. The evening was just how he liked it—clear, warm, and not too smoggy for the city. Not much traffic or people. It would be a fine weekend to go fishing, but the payoff of the sport he was engaged in now would ultimately be more satisfying.
Mercer walked out onto one of the terraces, holding a martini. The man was a creature of habit.
