The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [182]
The man was no fool.
Would such a careful and canny man be oblivious to his current wife’s activities?
He had no criminal record, though he’d been sued a number of times in civil court for various financial deals. A quick scan told her most of them were nuisance suits, brought by unhappy and unlucky investors.
He owned four homes, and six vehicles, including a yacht, and was associated with numerous charities. His reported worth was just under a billion.
Golf, according to the various media articles and features she scanned through, appeared to be his god.
Every name on her list had an alibi corroborated by a spouse or partner or employee. Which meant none of them held much weight.
Sitting back, Eve propped her feet on her desk, closed her eyes, and took herself back into the Chinatown alley.
She walks in ahead of him. She leads the john. Her feet hurt. She’s got a bunion. Shoes are killing her. Two in the morning. Hot, airless. Not much business tonight. Only two hundred in her cash bag.
Gives her four, maybe five johns on this circuit, depending what they wanted.
Been in the game a long time, knows to get payment up-front. Did he take it back, or didn’t he give her a chance to take it? No chance, she decided. He’d want to move fast. Spins her around. Wants her facing the wall.
Does he touch her? Run his hand over her breast, her ass, slide it over her crotch?
No, no time for that. Not interested in that. Especially after the blood gushes out on his hands.
Warm blood. That’s what got him off.
Against the wall. Tug her head back by the hair. Left hand. Slice the scalpel over her throat with the right. Left to right, slight downward path.
Blood gushes, splashes on the wall, splashes back at her face, her body, his hands.
She’s alive for a few seconds, just a few, shocked seconds when she can’t scream, and her body jerks a little as it dies.
Lay her down, head toward the opposite wall. Get out your tools.
A light, some sort of light. Can’t do that sort of precision work in the dark. Laser scalpel, use the light from the laser scalpel to guide the way.
Put what you came for in a leakproof bag, clean off your hands. Change your shirt or take off what you were wearing over it. Everything in a bag or case now. Check yourself, make sure you’ll pass on the street.
Take out the note. Smile at it, amuse yourself. Place it carefully on the body.
Walk out of the alley. Fifteen minutes, maybe. No more than fifteen, and you’re walking away. Carrying your prize back to your car. Excited, but controlled. Need to drive carefully. Can’t risk a routine stop when you smell of death and have that part of her with you.
Back home. Reset security. Shower. Dispose of your clothes.
You did it. You’ve imitated one of the great killers of the modern age, and no one’s the wiser.
She opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling. If it was one of her five current candidates, he’d have to dispose of the body part as well, or have a very secure place to keep it as a souvenir.
Would a regular household recycler handle that sort of thing, or would you need something that handled medical waste? She’d need to check on that.
Bringing up a map on-screen, she calculated time and distance from the murder site to each of the suspect’s residences. Giving fifteen minutes in the alley, the time to hunt the victim—likely scoped out at some point earlier—clean up, drive home. Any of them could have done the job in under two hours.
Straightening up, she began to type up a report, hoping inspiration would strike. When it didn’t, she read over the facts, finished it off, and filed it.
She spent another hour learning about recyclers and the availability of laser scalpels. And decided to go back to the scene.
The street did a decent business