MASS MURDER (2 page)

Now he had to get to work. The
flask
was returned
to its hiding place
,
and h
e
placed his lunchbox on an empty shelf, surprised to find
one of the monk’s wool blankets
t
here
.
He reached for a handful of
cleaning rags
and then grabbed a spray bottle filled with his favorite cleaning solvent
.
A
wire brush, rubber gloves
,
and a couple of old sponges
completed his list of supplies
.
He stowed this all
carefully onto a large metal cart, loaded on the vacuum cleaner
,
and then stepped around a supporting column
to
grab the rolling mop bucket.

A
small, dark object
sitting
on the floor
half in shadow caught his attention
.
Something had fallen off one of the shelves. Syd
leaned down to
pick it up
and gave a sharp intake of breath.
It was a
woman’s
patent-leather
pump, looking completely
i
ncongruous in such
functional
surroundings.
The shoe probably belonged to
a
party guest who had rendezvoused
here
with
a male counterpart
earlier in the evening.
The
thought disgusted him, but the
woman would be back
.
He
’d have
to take
the shoe
to the kitchen.
How was she walking around with only one shoe anyway?

H
e reached
down
again
to pick
it
up
when
the back of his
hand
bumped something just above
i
t
, causing whatever
it
was
to swing back and forth ever so slightly in the dark.
Surprised, Syd glanced up, peering into the shadows just in front of his face.
That’s when a
small cry escaped his lips
.

H
e
backed
away
, knocking over a
box
of paper towels
in the process
,
stopping at the door, his lungs incapable of drawing breath.
He remained
frozen
like that
, staring at the back wall, the premonition
finally
revealed.

Just
above the shoe
dangled
a slender foot
encased in a black
silk stocking
,
attached to the body of a dead woman
.

Chapter Two

Tension gathered in the courtroom like electricity forced through a high voltage cable.
Every eye was focused on the dark-haired young man in the center of the room and the buxom
blonde
in his arms.
The young man had
been acquitted of murder
making him
careless
,
careless enough to turn his back on the only real threat in
the room
—
his wife.

With the delicacy of a whisper
,
she slipped up behind him and slammed the evidence knife between his shoulder blades.
One juror screamed.
The judge jumped to his feet.
Everyone else watched in horror as the man crumpled to the floor.
The buxom
blonde
shra
nk back while the wife remained posed above her husband’s body, her lips drawn back with
the hint of a satisfied smile.

Giorgio Salvatori stepped forward on cue
,
his robes rustling against the hushed stillness.
The wife’s steadfast confidence
,
which had helped secure her husband’s acquittal only moments before
,
was gone.
She’d been betrayed by the man she loved
;
life as she knew it was over.
She relinquished the blade as
the court constable moved in to take her elbow.

“Guilty my lord,” she muttered
to the judge
.

T
he constable led her toward the exit while the audience remained in stunned silence.
A moment later, t
he heavy velvet curtains drew closed, awakening the first sounds of a rousing applause.

It was closing night.
Giorgio Salvatori faced a bank of glaring light bulbs using a handful of tissues to remove the heavy makeup that had helped create the illusion he was an aging British prosecutor.
The small, cramped room bustled with chatter as actors changed into street clothes.
Members of the production crew kept poking their heads in
to
shout closing night orders
,
while cast members entered and exited in various states of undress.

Giorgio reflected on the closing of Agatha Christie’s
“
Witness for the Prosecution
”
.
It
had been
one of his favorite movies as a boy
,
and he’d waited his entire life to do the stage play.
Even so, he’d nearly lost the lead role ten weeks earlier when the director cast John Wilson as Sir Wilfrid
—
the crusty prosecuting attorney
—
arguing that a practicing lawyer would bring a sense of realism to the role.
Giorgio had pouted for weeks.
Wilson was a tax attorney and had probably never seen the inside of a courtroom other than to argue his own parking tickets.
On the other hand, Giorgio was
a veteran police detective
and
understood murder investigations and court proceedings.

But
Giorgio had swallowed his disappointment and offered to serve as stage manager.
Fortunately, three weeks into rehearsals
,
Wilson fell and broke his leg repairing the gutters on his roof.
Giorgio didn’t cheer exactly, but as stage manager he was the logical replacement.
Besides, he was the better actor.
He’d once told Angie that becoming a cop had replaced his irresistible desire to be on stage
.
But he’d never lost his love of the theater
,
and it was only moving to a small town with a rotating work schedule that
provided this new opportunity.
He glanced over at the costume table
with
a pang of regret
. T
he discarded black robe
and
powdered wig
were now only fond memories. Everything would be returned to the costume depart
ment to be saved for another production.

“Jo Jo, you were great!”

Giorgio looked up to find
his brother’s
six
-
foot, two-inch frame filling the doorway.
Giorgio’s younger brother
, Rocky,
stepped forward and threw one long leg over the bench, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“I can’t believe it,” Rocky continued, “a cop playing an attorney.
You’re gunna get ribbed about this one.”
He gave Giorgio a rough slap on the shoulder, his dark eyes gleaming.

“Glad you liked it,” Giorgio mumbled.
“I’ll be ready in a minute.”

Giorgio reached for another tissue watching Rocky out of the corner of his eye.
At thirty-
six
, Giorgio was the older sibling by only two years
,
and yet he wondered why anyone would ever mistake the two as brothers.
Rocky towered over Giorgio by at least four inches
,
and his broad shoulders and thick
,
dark hair made him look like he was still in his twenties.
His brother’s casual good looks had always intimidated Giorgio.
While Rocky took after their father
— tall, slender and athletic —
Giorgio had inherited all the flaws from his mother’s side
—
high forehead and a tendency to put on weight.
Giorgio sucked in his stomach, believing that whatever he lacked in looks and grace,
he made up in bulk and muscle.

“Man those wigs were cool,” Rocky chattered on, rapping h
is fingers on the makeup table.
“But
I
never thought I’d see you wearing a dress.”

“It was a robe, not a dress.” Giorgio curled a lip as he slicked back the brown hair that was just beginning to show strands of gray.

“Yeah, well it looked like a dress,” Rocky laughed.
“But you get better every time I see you, you know?
What’s the next play, a musical or something?”

Rocky grabbed a powder puff and clasped it between his fingers, sending up enough fine dust to obscure his image in the mirror.
Giorgio watched him thinking his brother was like a teakettle
,
always simmering and ready to whistle.
He contemplated whether his mother had ever considered putting him on medic
ation.

“How’d they do that knife bit at the end, anyway?” Rocky continued.
“It looked so real I thought I was gunna have to come up
on stage and arrest somebody.”