Dead by Midnight - Beverly Barton [139]
He had arrived at eleven this morning, Pacific time. He had parked across from Jean and Jeff Misner’s home for an hour and then moved his rental car down the street and parked it. With a digital camera hanging around his neck and a sightseeing brochure sticking out of his shirt pocket, he could easily pass himself off as a tourist, if anyone questioned him. After all, the homes of numerous old and present-day stars dotted the hills above the Sunset Strip, but only a handful had obtained their vast wealth in such a blatantly sinful way as the Misners had.
No doubt Jean had a full-time bodyguard. Perhaps she’d had one even before he had sent her the first death threat, but most certainly ever since. A bodyguard or even two or more could not stand between him and destiny. His destiny as the avenger, the righter of wrongs; his victim’s destiny to be punished and rendered harmless. And having an obstacle such as a professionally trained bodyguard and overcoming that obstacle simply made success all the sweeter.
In typical tourist fashion, he meandered along leisurely, taking a snapshot every so often. He stopped and stared at the tall, decorative gates that protected the entrance to the Misners’ estate. Jean’s home was a five-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath Mediterranean mansion set atop a sloping ridge. By going online and doing a minimum amount of research, he had discovered the community amenities included a heated pool and spa, a gym, a jogging path, and a grassy park for children and dogs. The Misners had come a long way from the time he had been a cameraman and she a supporting actor in Midnight Masquerade. Jeff was now an adult film director and Jean’s porno Web site raked in a ton of money.
He couldn’t remain there much longer without possibly bringing undue attention to himself. He would come back for a while tonight when he was less likely to be noticed. And then early in the morning, he would return in a different vehicle, a truck perhaps, and wear jeans and a tool belt and pretend to be a carpenter or a painter or even a plumber. He needed to know when the bodyguards changed shifts and who came and went from the house. A cook, maids, gardeners, hairstylists, masseuse, etc.
And if by tomorrow afternoon, he had not come up with a plan that would put him in direct contact with Jean near the midnight hour, he would resort to his backup plan. He would simply telephone her, tell her that he was in town and he would very much like to see her.
Maleah and Shelley Gilbert had been colleagues for several years and although they had never worked a case together, they had occasionally crossed paths at the Powell Agency headquarters and at various agency events.
Everyone who knew Shelley liked her.
She had been that kind of person.
The simple, dignified memorial service had lasted a little over an hour and a half. The ceremony had included two eulogies, one given by her sister, Stacy, and the other by Griffin Powell, several prayers led by the minister from the Baptist church Shelley had attended, and three hymns sung by the church choir. And all during the service, Maleah couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Shelley was the second Powell Agency employee who had been murdered in a very short period of time.
From the agency’s inception, agent safety had been a top priority, and to Maleah’s knowledge only two agents had been killed in the line of duty. All the agents were reasonably young, had passed strenuous medical and psychological exams, and had undergone extensive bodyguard training. Even the employees at the Knoxville office complex had received in-depth exams and had been given lessons in basic self-defense skills.
The funerals of two fellow agents in less than