The Killing Edge (18 page)

Chloe realized that Luke wasn’t listening to Victoria ramble; he was staring at the house as Victoria stepped on the gas, heading up the driveway.

When the car came to a halt, Luke quickly opened his door. “Stay here, in the car—and get the hell out if anything happens.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Victoria asked.

But Luke didn’t hear her. He was already striding up to the house. As Chloe strained to see what he was doing, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Luke approached it carefully, then slowly pushed it the rest of the way open and stepped into the mansion.

“What is he doing?” Victoria demanded, opening her door.

Something cold had slipped over Chloe the instant they arrived, holding her in its grip. “Vickie, don’t!” she said.

But Victoria was already out of the car, staring at the house, puzzled.

“Vickie, wait!” Chloe implored.

But Victoria ignored her and started moving toward the house.

Chloe got out herself and stood by the side of the car. “Victoria!”

Too late. Victoria had followed Luke into the house.

A second later, a bloodcurdling scream sliced the air.

Chloe rushed in after her friend, then froze, the chill that had descended over her turning to solid ice.

Blood.

Everywhere.

So much blood…

It dripped down the wall of the elegant entry hall by the base of the stairway.

And there, head on the third-lowest step, feet sprawled five or six steps higher, lay Myra Allen. Her throat had been slit, but her sightless eyes remained open, staring.

A few feet above her, at an angle like a broken doll, was the mousy little secretary, Alana. Alana—whose last name Chloe didn’t even know.

The scent of death was strong in her nostrils.

The color of murder seemed almost garish in the glow of the artificial light, like crimson paint tossed about by a maddened toddler.

Déjà vu.

It had been pathetically easy.

All those ridiculous crime-scene shows on television…

They just helped train those who wanted—needed—to kill.

But he was angry, and his fingers twitched on the knife. He had thought he’d gotten it right this time for certain.

Still, it hadn’t been a complete failure.

Myra Allen had needed to die. The others…well, they were there, so they died, too. None of them had been the one he needed, but he couldn’t take the chance that they would recognize him, even with the mask….

It really had been easy, though. So damn easy. Be the darkness, be the night, disappear in the shadows. Then walk out and become one with the elements. Bless the water, bless the darkness.

And still, his fingers were twitching.

He’d been close. So close.

If only the girls had come alone, he could have stayed, could have…

He had briefly considered it. He was brilliant, a warrior, a killing machine, trained in his craft, able to move like a wraith. For a split second he had weighed the pros and cons in his mind. But in the end he’d opted for caution, because the man…might be dangerous, and it was better to wait for the perfect moment than risk failure now, when he was so close.

No, the mission hadn’t been complete. But God’s warrior must have patience. It was better to win the battles one by one than to lose the war. And in between…

There were others who deserved to die. To fulfill his needs, and have their filthy souls cleansed and saved.

Best to disappear…into the night and the infinite darkness.

The time for real killing was coming closer and closer.

L
uke had heard Victoria coming, but he hadn’t been fast enough to stop her.

Her scream was deafening as he turned, hoping to push her out of the house. It was imperative that neither of them touch anything. But he didn’t move fast enough. He should have known that Chloe would race after Victoria.

She didn’t scream, though. She only stared in horror, stared at Myra and Alana, and at the wall, as her eyes narrowed with fury.

She was horrified—and furious, but she wasn’t scared, though she should have been terrified, should have fallen apart, as Victoria was doing now.

“Take Victoria. Get her out—just to the steps.” He managed to push Victoria into Chloe’s arms, and urge the two of them back out the door. Then he took out his cell phone
and dialed 9–1–1, speaking as clearly and succinctly as he could, giving the address and the situation, and asking that Lieutenant Stuckey be informed immediately.

He knew the drill, and he held his temper when he was asked to repeat the address twice.

He didn’t want to go back in; he didn’t want to take a chance that the killer or killers might still be around. But the police would arrive shortly, and he couldn’t take the chance that the killer had left someone alive upstairs or in the back, someone who might die while waiting for help.

He reached under the back of his jacket and pulled out the small custom Smith &Wesson he carried; the gun was compact, light and snub-nosed, and held seven rounds rather than the usual six. He handed it to Chloe. “You know how to use this, right?”

She nodded.

“The safety—”

“I know how to use it. Go.”

“I’ll be right back. I’m checking for—”

“Go.”

He left her and prayed the rest of the house would be empty. The stench of blood was overwhelming this time.

He didn’t go near the dead women; there was no point. No hope. He avoided touching anything, and checked out the kitchen first.

The kitchen offered up more horror. He found an older woman—he suspected she might be the seamstress—also dead. She was prone on the floor, but her head was twisted toward Luke. Her eyes were open. They didn’t register
horror, just surprise. There was no need to go closer and destroy evidence. The woman was long past help.

He hurried upstairs. Every door was open, as if the killer had been thorough in his search for victims. Luke entered each room and each bath, moving swiftly, touching nothing.

Thankfully, there were no more bodies. He hadn’t looked under the beds or out on the balconies, but he was sure that the balconies would have been far too visible from the nearby high-rises, and that if there were bodies under the beds, pools of blood would give them away.

He hurried back outside. Chloe and Victoria were right where he had left them. He took his gun back from Chloe and slid it into the narrow holster behind his back.

Victoria sat on the steps, crying and speaking incoherently. Chloe was sitting by her side, holding her quietly, apparently unable to think of anything to say, and smoothing her hair.

Luke hunkered down by Chloe.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

She nodded, looking at him over Victoria’s bowed head. “But I don’t think Vickie is doing very well,” she said. “What did you find in the rest of the house?” she whispered.

“The seamstress.”

Chloe winced. “What about the girls?”

“They must not have been home,” he told her.

He stood. A cruiser was arriving, its siren blaring.

Two uniformed policemen came running up the walkway to the steps. They stopped and stared at Luke.

“There are three female victims that I can see so far,” he said. “I didn’t touch anything, so the scene is the way I found it.”

“Right,” said the taller of the two. His badge identified him as Brian Marley; his partner, three inches shorter, was Ivan Slovenski.

“I’ll tape off the walk,” Slovenski said.

“You told the dispatcher to send Stuckey from Metro?” Marley asked Luke.

Luke nodded.

“Any reason?”

“He handled the last massacre on the beach, didn’t he?”

“The last massacre—oh, my God, you mean the Teen Massacre?” Marley asked. He pushed past Luke to the door, looked inside and made the sign of the cross.

Then he looked back at Luke with a ghastly expression his face, before pulling himself together and taking out a notebook.

Luke gave him his real name—wondering if Victoria would even notice, she was sobbing so hard—Chloe’s name, Victoria’s name and their reason for being at the mansion.

Then he heard more sirens screaming through the night, and Stuckey’s car—flashing lights the only sign that his car wasn’t an ordinary sedan—pulled up on the curb just beyond the gates. He stepped over the crime-scene tape that Slovenski had stretched out in front of the house and hurried toward Luke. He flashed his badge to Marley, and stared at Luke disbelievingly. “Marley, gloves and booties, please—quickly. And keep the area clear of gawkers, you got it?”

Marley jumped to obey. Stuckey looked down at Victoria and Chloe, who looked back up at him. He took a minute
to touch Chloe’s head, and pat Victoria’s shoulder. But the only thing he could manage to say was, “There, there.”

Finally Stuckey looked back at Luke. “How many?”

“Three.”

“You certain?”

“I looked for survivors.”

Marley produced latex gloves and booties just as the crime-scene unit arrived, producing more.

An emergency vehicle made it then, and Stuckey brusquely ordered one of the officers to see that Victoria was given some help.

He pointed at Chloe. “You, don’t move away from Victoria and the EMTs. And you,” he said to Luke. “Ah, hell, get your hands and feet covered, and come with me.”

Luke was surprised that Stuckey was allowing him entrance when others had already arrived at the scene, but Stuckey was powerful, and he could call a lot of shots.

Luke just hoped he could get the hell out of the way before any cameras showed up, and that he could keep his name out of the papers.

He stepped back into the house with Stuckey.

“Hell,” Stuckey said. “Hell and damn. Well, I can see why you didn’t need to check for a pulse. Do you know the house?”

“Somewhat.”

Stuckey walked over and hunkered down by Myra. “Left-to-right slash. Looks like he caught her on the stairs…then tossed her down, and that’s the way she landed.”

“I don’t think so. I think she was posed,” Luke said. He pointed to several blood smudges higher on the banister.

“I think you’re right. Upside down, eyes open. The pose must mean something to him.” Stuckey quickly moved past Myra to Alana. “Different M.O. One stab wound straight into the back of the neck. Fast, sure. Twisted the knife, just to make certain. Looks like he was upstairs and caught these two coming down.” He stood and looked at Luke.

“Where’s the third?”

“Kitchen,” Luke told him, pointing.

“Jesus,” Stuckey said, shaking his head and leading the way to the second crime scene. He bent down by the victim, moving her hair aside to study the back of her neck, then rose.

“The doors to the patio are open,” Luke said.

“So I noted. In by the front, out by the back?” He looked around the room once more, then asked, “You went upstairs?”

“Cursory inspection,” Luke assured him. “Looking to see if anyone was still alive.”

Stuckey turned and they walked back to the foyer and on up the stairs, careful to avoid the blood. They walked down the hallway, repeating Luke’s journey, going room to room, though Stuckey paused to look under the beds and pull back the drapes. None of the balcony doors appeared to have been opened.

“Clear so far,” Stuckey said. “And no one escaped from up here.”

They were in the room where Luke had once followed Rene Rodriguez off the balcony.

By the time they headed back downstairs, two homicide detectives had arrived, along with the medical examiner.
Grim introductions were made, but everyone deferred to Stuckey, who clearly had the leeway to run with this one.

“I need a time of death, as exact as you can get it,” Stuckey told the M.E.

“Body temps are just about normal. These two couldn’t have been dead more than thirty minutes to an hour,” the M.E., an efficient woman of Hispanic heritage, told him. “I’m headed into the kitchen to check the third woman.”

“It’ll be about the same,” Stuckey said wearily. “This was fast. Well planned, and fast.”

“He—or she or they—was looking for something,” Luke said.

“Why do you say that? Nothing looks out of order.”

“The doors upstairs. They were all open. Last time I was here, they were closed.”

“I thought some of the girls lived here.”

“They do. Luckily, they don’t appear to have been home. The three of us are only here because Chloe and Victoria had fittings.”

A man in a crime-scene jumpsuit was taking pictures. “Doug,” Stuckey said. “Get someone to find Myra’s address book or cell or PalmPilot—whatever the hell she used to keep track of her life. We have to start calling the girls who lived here. We need to make sure they’re all safe and accounted for.

“Who lived here? Who should I be worried about?” Stuckey asked.

“Rene Gonzalez and Jeanne LaRue, for certain. You’d have to ask Victoria or Chloe about anyone else,” Luke said.

Stuckey groaned. “Rene? Sweet Jesus, I hope to God we
can find that girl fast. I can’t believe Chloe and Victoria had to walk in on this.”

They were supposed to have been here when it happened, Luke realized. Only Chloe’s work schedule had kept them from coming at seven. He would have been with them, and he might have been able to stop it. Or he might not have suspected the killer until it was too late, because the killer might have been a regular at the mansion.

He kept his thoughts to himself for the moment; any ideas he had, he would share with Stuckey when they weren’t surrounded by other people.

“I’m going to go and give my statement, and then get Chloe and Victoria out of here. You’re not going to need them anymore tonight, right? They barely stepped inside. I’m not sure what they can tell you, and I don’t think they can take much more.”

“Chloe seems to have it together,” Stuckey said. “But don’t worry. I’m sure one of the officers has already taken down whatever they saw. So yes, go finish up, yourself, then get those two out of here. If we find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

“I’d say Chloe was right, and the real killers weren’t discovered ten years ago,” Luke said.

Stuckey frowned. “This isn’t the same. It can’t be the same. There’s no writing on the wall.”

“Maybe the killer heard us coming,” Luke suggested.

“Hey, found the PalmPilot,” a crime-scene tech called over.

“Get on the phone. Call all the women who are listed as living here,” Stuckey ordered. “We need to find them fast!”

Luke left the house and headed for the ambulance, where Chloe was sitting with Victoria.

She looked up at him. “Tell Stuckey—I got hold of Rene and Jeanne. They were together. They finished their fittings early and went to a new club down on Washington. One of the beach security guys is going to go and get them.”

He nodded, and after checking to make sure she was okay for the moment, turned to go back and give Stuckey the information. He couldn’t recall ever seeing the hardened cop look so relieved.

Luke was certain he would soon be receiving another visit from Octavio, begging him to hog-tie his daughter and keep her away from the agency and the shoot. Although he doubted the shoot would even take place now.

He looked up and noticed that the press was arriving and the street was getting crowded, despite the uniformed officers’ efforts to keep control. Gruesome news traveled fast, apparently. He dialed Chloe’s number. “Hey.”

“You’re calling me?” she said. “When you’re twenty feet away?”

“How’s Victoria?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“They gave her a sedative. Can we go?”

“See if you can get her to her car. Will you be able to drive? I’ll meet you there, but I don’t want to be seen, especially now.”

She was silent for a moment. “Luke, every cop here tonight has your name.”

“And the cops won’t be giving it out.”

“Do you need this charade any longer?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay. We’ll be right there. I’ll have one of the EMTs help me with Vickie.”

“Thanks.”

A minute later, Chloe and Victoria, helped along by Marley, met him at the car. As soon as Victoria was settled in the passenger seat, Marley briefly saluted Luke. “Thanks for…thanks. And don’t worry. We’re all under a gag order on tonight,” he assured him.

Luke nodded. “Thanks. Can you get someone to clear curiosity seekers so we can get out of here?”

“Will do.”

Chloe dug through Victoria’s purse for her keys and slid them into the ignition without trembling, then edged the car out onto the street. Marley was as good as his word, and they were able to get past the crowd and make their getaway. More police vehicles were descending on the house as they left. Luke stayed down in back, out of sight until they were on the Rickenbacker Causeway and headed back to Miami, when he finally sat up straight.

Victoria wasn’t making a sound. She wasn’t asleep, though, simply leaning back in the seat, staring straight ahead.

“Victoria, hang in there, okay?” Luke said, patting her shoulder.

“She’s going to be fine,” Chloe said.

“Myra was…my friend. Even poor Alana,” Victoria said, then started to sob softly again.

Chloe met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I’ll keep her at my house tonight,” she said.

“Actually, you’re going to keep
me
at your house tonight, too,” Luke said.

She frowned.

“I’ll be on your couch,” he said firmly. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

She smiled at him. It was a sad smile, a serious smile, but still a smile. “That will be fine. I’m sure Leo will be glad that there’s a man sleeping in my cottage, as odd as that sounds.”

He offered her a smile in return.