“How about if I come by for the first half?”
He snorted. “Your date won’t mind?”
“No need to be snide, David.”
“Ouch. You must be pissed to call me David.”
“Later. I have an arsonist to interview.”
“The West Sac warehouse fire?”
“Yep.”
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
She hung up and pulled off the freeway, then turned into an upscale development in Roseville, a sprawling suburban city with over one hundred thousand residents, halfway between Sacramento and the quaint Gold Country town of Auburn.
Before walking up to pound the final nail in Ben Holman’s proverbial coffin, she dialed Mitch’s cell phone number. Though she didn’t have time to talk, she hoped he’d answer. She loved his voice. No matter what mood she was in, talking to Mitch always made her feel good.
Voice mail picked up.
“This is Mitch Bianchi. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
He sounded far more formal on tape than in person. She said, “Hi, Mitch. It’s Claire. Slight change of plans. I need to make a stop tonight and it’ll take me awhile. I’ll meet you at the Fox amp; Goose about nine. Sorry. Call me if there’s a problem or. .” if you just want to talk. That would sound stupid. “Or whatever,” she finished lamely. “ ’Bye.”
She pulled together her file and clipboard, checked her weapon, and walked up to interview Holman.
SEVEN
The assassin was anxious and excited. He’d be seeing Claire tonight. In the flesh.
When he came off duty he rushed home to shower and change. He didn’t want to be too early, so he tried to calm himself. He poured a glass of wine and sat on the edge of his bed, a towel around his waist. He turned on the television via remote.
The TV in his bedroom wasn’t connected to cable or an antenna; instead, it was hooked up only to his DVD player where he had one special disk. A compilation of the secret tapes he’d made of Claire. A “Best of Claire” movie.
He savored every moment. Every movement Claire made was burned into his mind; her every sigh, every word vibrated between his ears. It didn’t matter what she was doing as she lay in her bed. As long as he could see her, he was happy.
He’d had to be careful, play it cool, make sure that if the camera was found, it couldn’t be traced back to him.
When she’d been living in the apartment downtown, it had been much easier to tape her. It had been an old apartment with high, ornate ceilings. He’d planted the camera in the attic, a small hole drilled through an edge in the molding. It was perfect: virtually undetectable. The camera equipment had been expensive, but well worth it-and he had the money, considering he killed annually for the blackmailers.
But he’d been taping her since long before she moved out on her own.
The disk’s first scene was of Claire undressing. She’d been sixteen at the time. Perfect in every way.
She came out of her private bathroom wrapped in a white towel, black hair wet, slicked back. Her hair had been long then, very long and lustrous.
She sat on the edge of her bed, brush in hand, combing through her thick hair. She was looking off into a corner, and he’d always wondered what she was thinking about just at that moment. She’d looked so wistful.
When her hair was tangle free, she braided it down her back, as she often did before she went to bed.
“I really should cut my hair,” she said to her reflection in the mirror.
“No,” he said out loud, thirteen years after the tape had been made. She ended up cutting her hair short when she was twenty, never letting it grow past her shoulders.
She dropped the towel and stood naked in the middle of her room.
Perfect.
Her skin was white, with very faint tan lines from the bikini she had worn the summer past. Her brown nipples tilted up slightly, her breasts round and heavy. He loved those breasts, how he longed to touch them. She was slim and curved, a faint hourglass figure on her petite frame. She was a hair over five foot three, though she’d put five foot four on her new driver’s license.
Then she turned and he saw her magnificent backside, her beautiful shoulders, shapely hips. She bent over to pull underwear from a basket in the corner. One foot in, the other, sliding lacy panties over her hips. She grabbed a shirt out of the same pile, pulling it over her head, her body twitching, unknowingly seductive as she slid it down. A little shirt, it ended at the top of her panties. She sat at her desk and opened a book. Homework.
The disk cut to a scene in the same room, except that Claire was nineteen and not alone.
She was with a boyfriend. Because the assassin had watched her closely for years, he knew that this was the first time she’d had sex.
He hated it and loved it. He pictured himself in the role of Ian Clark, the asshole who’d taken Claire’s virginity.
Kissing her lips.
Licking her breasts.
Spreading her legs.
It was him, only him.
As he watched the disk, he pulled the towel off and took his hard cock in hand. He’d had the camera perfectly aligned with her bed, so he saw everything. The look on her face when the dipshit put his mouth on her breasts. She looked both nervous and excited.
Because she was Claire, she ended up taking over. She let the fool start, then she positioned him beneath her and controlled her own deflowering.
The assassin couldn’t see her face, so he closed his eyes. Listened. Claire’s moans. Gasps. Her “awww” as she controlled entry. Her “ummms” as she enjoyed new sensations.
He pictured himself taking Claire’s virginity. Felt himself entering her-but he would be on top. He would be in charge. He pummeled her, over and over, making her his, making her want him.
Closing his eyes, he watched Claire beneath him. Her black hair, long and silky, just like Bridget’s. Her eyes looked into his, so blue, so bottomless, so expressive.
It’s always been you.
With Claire, he never had problems with release. In his mind, he climaxed into her, then opened his eyes as the image that sent him over flashed in his head.
His hands around her neck. Her bloody eyes bulged, her hands clasped around his wrists in a death grip, her mouth open, lips blue.
No!
He didn’t want to kill her. Unlike the others, Claire was meant to be with him forever. But he wasn’t ready for her yet because he would kill her, and he didn’t want to, which is why he had to practice on others.
He wanted to protect Claire. The runaways died so she could live.
He opened his eyes, turned the DVD off, whipped the wet and sticky towel from his waist and tossed it in the hamper. He needed another shower.
He turned the water on cold. Dammit, he didn’t want it to be like this. He didn’t want to have to kill Claire. He wouldn’t. That’s why he hadn’t touched her in fifteen years. He’d had opportunities, but he never touched her inappropriately.
Fifteen years ago fate had stepped in and saved him. He’d never admit that to the blackmailers, but sending him to assassinate Chase Taverton had changed his life for the better.
* * *
He’d followed Chase Taverton three days to get a feel for his routine. Taverton didn’t have one, other than working long hours at the district attorney’s office. He’d considered taking him out that first day, but the blackmailers were concerned about the circumstances of Taverton’s death.
It was Judge Hamilton Drake who had proposed he should frame someone. Drake knew Taverton was having an affair with a married woman. He didn’t know who, but it was a not-so-secret secret in the building.