She pulled away from the curb, and he watched her until the thrum of the Interceptor’s engine faded away and the vehicle rounded the corner and disappeared from view.
Then his attention was drawn to the sound of a creaking hinge. He turned toward his gate and noticed that it was open, swinging slightly in the light breeze. He knew he’d closed it before he went out. That was something he was particular about. He looked both ways down his street and saw that all the other front gates were latched. That pissed him off. An open gate was a form of semiotics that singled one’s home out, made it stand out from the others, leaving a subliminal message to possible intruders that this dwelling and its occupants were less carefully guarded than those of his more security-conscious neighbors. Ordinary people might not notice such seemingly minor details, but people with deviant psyches were hyperaware of them. Psychopaths he had interviewed in prisons told him they could pick a suitable victim out of a crowd just by the way he or she walked.
Verraday latched the gate firmly behind him and made his way up the path, spotting a bundle of flyers on his doorstep—immediately beneath the “No Flyers” sign. He picked them up, inwardly cursing the delivery person who had not only disregarded his explicit request but then left his gate open and made him a mark.
Most of the flyers were the usual junk mail standards: vinyl siding installers, window cleaners, chimney rebuilders, and carpet cleaners. One caught his eye however. It was for a burlesque and rockabilly show at a club downtown, near Pike Place Market, featuring a troupe of performers called Sinner Saint. He’d heard about them. There was something clever and arch about their presentation. Their retro outfits were sexy but artistic and left something to the imagination. Their attitude was campy and tongue in cheek, and the dancers gave themselves witty names like Evilyn Sin Claire. He threw all the flyers into the recycle bin—except the one from Sinner Saint, which he slipped inside his briefcase. It looked like a fun night out. And as his sister Penny regularly reminded him, fun was something he didn’t have enough of in his life, a fact he considered as he put his key in the front door lock, not looking forward to the task that awaited him.
CHAPTER 8
Verraday entered the foyer, kicked off his boots, and hung his leather jacket up on a large Victorian hall tree. It was the only family heirloom he possessed. His great-grandparents had bought it new just after they made the move west to San Francisco from Toronto in the 1890s. There was something reassuring about this piece of Victoriana. After more than a century of existence, its color had deepened to the warm hue of aged whiskey, and it remained solid, like the people who had crafted it. Unlike the disposable, box store crap that was everywhere today, it had been built to last.
Verraday lived alone and kept the thermostat low when he was out, so the house was cold and made him feel like he hadn’t shaken off the chill of the morgue. He slid the thermostat needle up to 74 degrees and heard the furnace rumble to life below him in the basement. He checked his landline and saw from the display that someone had left a voice mail. He punched in the code to play it back. It was Penny.
“Hey James, it’s me. Just checking to see if you’re still coming over for dinner next week. Also, there’s this neat thing happening that you might be interested in. Call me when you get a chance.”