The Watched (CSI Reilly Steel #4) (22 page)

This killer had taken out hundreds, maybe even thousands, of innocen
t victims, all of whom died off-screen. Once he really thought about it though, he realized that using the Angel of Death from
The Ten Commandments
was probably a bad idea.

First of all, he had no ide
a where he’d get so many kids at such short notice, and the idea of killing a bunch of infants did turn his stomach, even if it was for artistic reasons.

But the deciding factor was a bit simpler than that. The resulting outcry from completing such a film would completely overshadow what he was trying to do. Aside from all of the people who’d label him a monster for killing kids, every right-wing kook in the country would start on a religious rant. That was the last thing he needed.

No, the Maestro wanted to be appreciated, not reviled.

So he moved on.

He was still saving a couple of options until he had the perfect casting, but maybe he could dip into
Se7en
. He was fairly sure he could find a pregnant blond and the right-sized box, but without the reactions of the other characters, it just didn’t have the same impact. He could’ve been chopping the head off of any blond. The significance would be lost.

Although, beheading did sound like a good idea. Censored films always did them the
very same way: the victim, the cut away to the executioner and the fall of the axe, the roll of the head. Such a cop-out. And these days, with special effects taking the place of stunts and the abundance of vampires and zombies, decapitation was as common on screen as gun shots.

All this meant was that he shouldn’t use just any old beheading. He needed something special.
Something
memorable.

Two movies popped into his head simultaneously. One male victim, one female. Both with deaths unique enough that, with the right costume and set-up, they couldn’t be mistaken
for anything but what they were.

The latter would be a perfect sign-off piece before he began his own work
with Sheldon. What better way to usher in a new era than to recreate the deaths of two characters based on real-life people, and use two iconic films to do it?

The Maestro smiled. The
setup for this one needed to be just right for both parts, but it was going to be well worth it when he was done.

Now, he had one other thing to do before he could call it a night.

He’d never considered himself a particularly articulate man. He tried, of course, but most of the time he thought he sounded stilted, pretentious even.

It didn’t help that he was so much smarter than the people around him. It was difficult to put so much brilliance into words. As a result
, he generally found himself rewriting his letters several times until they were letter perfect – no pun intended.

He re
read the second draft of his new missive with a critical eye. It was always hard to find the right balance of soul-baring without giving away his true identity.

‘What makes a particular film or scene stand out? Is it the writing, the directing, the acting? If popularity is the basis of judgment, it would seem that the audiences choose the most gratuitous, disgusting, shocking piece of filth possible and tell all of their equally unsophisticated friends
. . .’

The Maestro stopped. He probably should rethink the accusing tone.

He wanted to bring the public to his side, not alienate them.

Besides, he had to admit that making movies was much more fun than he’d originally thought it would be.

‘I don’t know about you guys, but I could use a drink,’ Bradley announced as he put aside the arrow he’d been examining. T
wo sets of surprised eyes turned his way. ‘Look, we’ve been working our asses off for the last week and more. And I know I’m not the only one who could do with a bit of a break.’

‘Do you really think now is the best time to drop everything and go get drunk?’ The edge to Todd’s voice was sharp.

‘Todd,’ Emilie began, putting a gentle hand on his arm. ‘I don’t think that’s what Bradley was saying. And he’s right. You’re going to burn out if you try to keep going like this.’

‘I’m not suggesti
ng we all go out and get wasted.’ Bradley’s voice softened. ‘I’m just saying that we’ve all been putting in insane hours this week. Let’s go out, have a drink and go home. Get some real sleep tonight, and come back focused and ready to keep working.’

‘All right,’ Todd reluctantly agreed. He put the most recent victim’s shirt back in its bag.

They moved to a bar down the street often frequented by other law enforcement and by the time the team had ordered their second round of drinks, the tension had all but melted away. Even normally quiet Emilie had loosened up. Todd and Bradley listened with amusement as she shared a story about her first time counseling at summer camp when she’d been mistaken for a camper out past curfew.

‘So the security guard, looking very pleased with himself, escorts me in to see the camp director,
who just happens to be my aunt.’ Emilie’s tale was interrupted when an overly intoxicated young man bumped into the table.

‘Excuse me,’ he slurred. His face broke into a large smile as he ran his eyes over Emilie. ‘You’re pretty.’ He put his hand on her shoulder.

She shook it off, trying to be polite. ‘Thank you. Have a good night.’

‘I wanna have a good night with you,’ he
continued, reaching for Emilie’s face.

Long fingers clamped around the man’s wrist and Bradley yanked the young man away from Emilie. ‘I don’t believe the lady’s interested.’ His voice was firm.

‘And who’re you? Her father?’ The young man leered at Emilie. ‘Guess I shouldn’t tell you what I want to do—’

The rest of the sentence was lost as Bradley’s fist connected with the man’s jaw.
He shook his hand as the man tumbled to the floor.

Todd raised an eyebrow, taken aback by this unusual display of violence. He looked from his partner to Emilie. Was there some kind of budding office romance going on here?

‘Dean,’ Bradley called out to the bartender. ‘You’ll want to get some guys over here to throw out the trash.’ When he turned, Emile was staring at him with some kind of wonder in her eyes. He shrugged and smiled. ‘I can’t stand men who don’t know how to treat a lady.’

‘And on that note,’ Todd
said, glancing at his watch, deciding he wasn’t going to stand in the way of true love. ‘I should get going. I really like that idea about catching up on some sleep.’

‘
You’re probably right,’ Bradley said. He picked up his coat and turned to the younger technician, leaving Todd in no doubt whatsoever that his suspicions were correct. ‘Want to split a cab, Emilie?’

As they
said goodbye and went their own way, Todd castigated himself for not having noticed his colleague’s growing closeness when it was right under his nose, though he guessed they were all working so hard he’d been focusing on little else but the investigation.

Still, if he’d missed that, what else had he been missing lately? Was Reilly right about bringing in outside help and letting the FBI take over? Were he and Daniel too caught up in their own grief, too immersed in finding vengeance for Holly than being able to methodically examine the facts as they presented themselves. Or too pigheaded to accept anything other than their own theories? In short, was he really doing everything he could to find Holly’s killer?

Not for the first time, Todd doubted his ability to see the wood for the trees.

CHAPTER
25

The slightly nasal voice of the nine o’clock newscaster in the background once again talking about the movie killings caught Reilly’s attention.

‘The recent spate of horrific murders remain unsolved, and as usual,
neither the police nor the DA’s office have issued a statement, leaving many to wonder just how much actual work is being done to catch the killer. Or if the authorities are simply waiting for the Maestro to strike again.’

She shook her head, exasperated.
The perspiration on her skin was drying, leaving her feeling clammy and gritty. Definitely one of the things she
hadn’t
missed about the warmer climate. ‘You’d think the media would know better by now.’

‘
I think it’s less about knowing better and more about just not caring.’ Daniel took a sip of his wine. ‘And about what they can get out of it in entertainment value rather than what’s right.’

‘Makes them not much better than the killer himself then, doesn’t it?’ Reilly commented darkly.
The more tired she got, the loopier she became.

‘You know reporters just get pissy when the cops don’t tell all,’ he said, turning toward her.

‘
I know,’ she muttered. ‘Doesn’t mean I have to like it. But . . .’ She looked up at Daniel as the thought struck her. ‘What you just said about caring more about what they can get out of it, rather than what’s right.’

‘What is it
?’

‘It’s Todd.’
Reilly had been debating whether or not to tell Daniel about her concerns. ‘He’s putting himself under so much pressure to solve this case that I think he’s losing sight of the big picture. Like refusing to bring in outside help.’

Daniel
considered her statement for a moment before responding. ‘When Todd came to tell me that he wanted to go into the forensic field, it was said as a kind of challenge, like he expected me to try to warn him off, to tell him that he wasn’t going to be good enough for it. Since then I think every one of his achievements has been accomplished with a chip on his shoulder. He’s letting his grief over Holly turn into this need to fix things on his own.’

‘It’s not working though, is it? We need to do something.’

‘What you need to do right now is get some sleep.’ Daniel’s tone was amused. He stood up. ‘Let Todd work things out on his own. We can keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t cross any lines, but other than that, there’s nothing anyone can do. He’s a Forrest, after all.’

‘Meaning pigheaded to the last?’
Reilly raised a smile. ‘I’ll head for bed in a few minutes.’ As Daniel walked into the kitchen she tucked her feet up underneath her and closed her eyes, wanting to just rest up for a moment. When he came back, she’d get up and go to bed. The thought was still in her mind as the darkness crept over her.

It had all been a bad dream,
Reilly realized, as she walked into her house. Her mom and sister were right there, laughing, talking, joking. She rushed forward, wanting nothing more than to put her arms around them both, hear them breathe, see them smile.

Even as her skin touched theirs, she felt them start to cool under her touch. Despite this, she clung to them, knowing that if she pulle
d away, she would see the chalk-white flesh, the sightless eyes. If she didn’t look, then it hadn’t happened . . .

Her eyelids were stone heavy, but she forced them open anyway. She had to stop that incessant buzzing alarm.
Reilly sat up as her hand closed on her phone. She turned off the alarm and was halfway to the bathroom before she realized that she was still wearing the clothes from the night before. The best she could figure, as she climbed into the shower, was that she’d fallen asleep on the couch and Daniel had carried her to her room.

The thought brought forward a memory. It was fuzzy, clouded by sleep and grief, but
she knew it was true. After her mother’s funeral, after everyone else had gone home, back to their unbroken families, Reilly and her dad had sat up together on the couch until, finally, she had succumbed to her exhaustion. She’d only barely been aware of her father as he’d carried her to her room, but she’d never forgotten the feeling of being safe and loved.

It had be
en that memory she’d clung to in the days afterward when Mike had abandoned the family, seeking solace in the bottle. No matter what happened, she always had the knowledge that he loved her.

As she searched through
the closet for something to wear today, her phone rang. She glanced down at the name and smiled.

‘Chris, hi!’
Reilly switched to speakerphone. She was delighted to hear from him, but the cheeriness in her voice sounded forced even to her own ears. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the cobwebs.

‘Hello, stranger.’ Even though it
wasn’t all that long since she’d last heard it, the Dublin accent sounded almost alien to her. ‘How’s the tan coming along?’

She smiled balefully. If only . . .

‘Hope I didn’t phone too early and wake you up or anything, but it’s lunchtime here—’

‘No, it’s fine, I was up,’ Reilly interjected. ‘How’s everything there?’

‘The same, up to our necks in it as usual. It’s not the same without you, though,’ he added fondly. ‘We all miss you, of course, but Kennedy in particular is bereft without you. Don’t think Gorman appreciates his particular brand of humor as well as yourself,’ he laughed, referring to Jack Gorman, the GFU colleague who was covering for Reilly throughout her enforced leave