He nodded back, flashing on a wispy fantasy of her coming over and saying how much she liked a man in a uniform. The deputy had heard stories of cops making a traffic stop and the women “paying the fine”
behind a row of trees near the highway or in the backs of squad cars (the seats of Harley-Davidsons figured in some versions, as well). But those were always I-know-somebody-who-knows-somebody stories. It’d never happened to any of his friends. He suspected too that if anybody—even this desperate housewife—proposed a romp, he couldn’t even get it up.
Which put him in mind of the geography below the belt again and how much he needed to relieve himself.
Then he noticed the housewife was waving to him and approaching. He stopped.
“Is everything okay around here, Officer?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ever noncommittal.
“Are you here about that car?” she asked.
“Car?”
She gestured. “Up there. About ten minutes ago I saw it park, but the driver, he sort of pulled up in between some trees, I thought it was a little funny, parking that way. You know, we’ve had a few break-ins around here lately.”
Alarmed now, the deputy stepped closer to where she was indicating. Through the bushes he saw a glint of chrome or glass. The only reason to drive a car that far off the road was to hide it.
Pell, he thought.
Reaching for his gun, he took a step up the street.
Wsssssh.
He glanced back at the odd sound just as the shovel, swung by the housewife’s gardener, slammed into his shoulder and neck, connecting with a dull ring.
A grunt. The deputy dropped to his knees, his vision filled with a dull yellow light, black explosions going off in front of him. “Please, no!” he begged.
But the response was simply another blow of the shovel, this one better aimed.
Dressed in his dirt-stained gardener outfit, Daniel Pell dragged the cop into the bushes where he couldn’t be seen. The man wasn’t dead, just groggy and hurting.
Quickly he stripped off the deputy’s uniform and put it on, rolled up the cuffs of the too-long slacks. He duct-taped the officer’s mouth and cuffed him with his own bracelets. He slipped the cop’s gun and extra clips into his pocket, then placed the Glock he’d brought with him in the holster; he was familiar with that weapon and had dry-fired it often enough to be comfortable with the trigger pull.
Glancing behind him, he saw Jennie retrieving the flowers from the patch of dirt around the neighbor’s mailbox and dumping them into a shopping bag. She’d done a good job in her role as housewife. She’d distracted the cop perfectly and she’d hardly flinched when Pell had smacked the poor bastard with the shovel.
The lesson of “murdering” Susan Pemberton had paid off; she’d moved closer to the darkness within
her. But he’d still have to be careful now. Killing the deputy would be over the top. Still, she was coming along nicely; Pell was ecstatic. Nothing made him happier than transforming someone into a creature of his own making.
“Get the car, lovely.” He handed her the gardener outfit.
A smile blossoming, full. “I’ll have it ready.” She turned and hurried up the street with the clothes, shopping bag and shovel. She glanced back, mouthing, “I love you.”
Pell watched her, enjoying the confident stride.
Then he turned away and walked slowly up the driveway that led to the house of the man who’d committed an unforgivable sin against him, a sin that would spell the man’s death: former prosecutor James Reynolds.
Daniel Pell peered through a crack in the curtain of a front window. He saw Reynolds on a cordless phone, holding a bottle of wine, walking from one room to another. A woman—his wife, Pell guessed—walked into what seemed to be the kitchen. She was laughing.
Pell had thought it’d be easy to find almost anybody nowadays, computers, the Internet, Google. He’d discovered some information about Kathryn Dance, which would be useful. But James Reynolds was invisible. No phone listing, no tax records, no addresses in any of the old state and county directories or bar association lists.
He would eventually have found the prosecutor through public records, Pell supposed, but could hardly browse through the very county government building he’d just escaped from. Besides, he had little time.
He needed to finish his business in Monterey and leave.
But then he’d had his brainstorm and turned to the archives of local newspapers on the Internet. He’d found a listing in thePeninsula Times about the prosecutor’s daughter’s wedding. He’d called the venue where the event was held, the Del Monte Spa and Resort, and found the name of the wedding planner, the Brock Company. A bit of coffee—and pepper spray—with Susan Pemberton had earned Pell the files that contained the name and address of the man who’d paid for the fete, James Reynolds.
And now here he was.
More motion inside.
A man in his late twenties was also in the house. Maybe a son—the brother of the bride. He’d have to kill them all, of course, and anyone else inside. He didn’t care one way or the other about hurting the family but he couldn’t leave anyone alive. Their deaths were simply a practical matter, to give Pell and Jennie more time to get away. At gunpoint he’d force them into a closed space—a bathroom or den—then use the knife, so no one would hear shots. With some luck, the bodies wouldn’t be found until after he’d finished his other mission here on the Peninsula and would be long gone.
Pell now saw the prosecutor hang up his phone and start to turn. Pell ducked back, checked his pistol and pressed the doorbell. There was the rustle of noise from inside. A shadow filled the peephole. Pell stood where he could be seen in his uniform, though he was looking down casually.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“Mr. Reynolds, it’s Officer Ramos.”
“Who?”
“I’m the relief deputy, sir. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Just a second. I’ve got something on the stove.”