At 1:15 a.m., the senator rolled out of bed and began to dress. All the while, Claire lay on her side, naked, watching him. She had not rolled over and gone to sleep. There had been no half asleep admonition to lock the door. Viper could see it in her eyes. She wanted him to stay. The senator finished his tie in a nice Windsor knot and walked over to the bed, leaning over and kissing her goodbye.
Mason Johnson walked out of the bedroom, turned left and headed down the stairs. A few seconds later, Viper heard the front door open and close. After a brief moment, he heard the deadbolt lock into place.
Viper turned his gaze towards Claire. She had rolled over now. He could see her back, once again making out the little vertebra of her spine. The nightstand light oddly remained on.
The spare bedroom was carpeted, which helped to cover his approach as he slithered out of the closet and to the wall, putting his back to it and sliding towards the hall. The condo was quiet. The only sound was the hum of the furnace, starting up to keep the condo’s temperature constant. It provided just enough ambient noise to cover his approach.
His watch said 1:37 a.m. Timing was important.
He sprang across the room, jumped on the bed, rolled her over and clenched her throat. Viper saw the horror in her eyes. Frantically, she reached for his hands, but he was too strong. She flailed at him, striking his face, shoulder and arms, all the while kicking her legs, wiggling her hips, trying anything to get away. She tried to scream, but only gasps and croaks made it through his grip. He coldly looked in her eyes through his mask while pressing the life out of her.
After a minute, the flailing and struggling slowed and weakened. As he tightened the vice on her throat, her eyelids fluttered, then her eyes rolled back in her head, and he felt her body go still underneath him. Removing his left hand from her neck, he checked her pulse with his right.
She was dead.
Pushing off her and standing up, he checked his watch, 1:39 a.m. He took his mask off and massaged his jaw. Daniels was strong, and he’d been hit hard, but she had been tired, and he was too quick. There had been no time for her to react or scream. She never had a chance.
Viper carefully searched the condo. He had been through it once already the previous night, but he’d been ordered to search again. For the next hour he methodically worked his way through the bedroom, sitting room, office, hallway closet, built-in buffet, and spare bedroom. Next, he moved to the main level and eventually to the basement.
The information about his employer was not to be found.
He headed back upstairs to her bedroom. Was there anyplace he hadn’t looked? He searched the television cabinet. It was stocked with CDs and DVDs, but not with what he was hunting for. The computer was ignored, already searched and now monitored from afar.
He checked his watch, 2:30 a.m., time to get moving. Viper made a last trip to the master bedroom to look at Claire. What a shame, such a beautiful woman. He flipped off the light switch and headed for the stairs, sliding his mask back on in the process. He made his way to the garage, where he found the Lexus. A quick look inside didn’t reveal the documents. How about the trunk? He triggered the latch on the driver’s side door and popped the trunk. Empty other than a flash light, a pair of boots, and a window scrapper-typical accouterments for the coming Minnesota winter. Viper shut the trunk and moved to the rear door.
“Eagle Eye, Viper. I’m at the rear door.”
“Copy Viper. Go.”
Out the back door, through the hedge and down the alley Viper went. The pickup point was a parking lot between an apartment building and the Kozlak Foodmart. Viper moved his way to the side of a garage across the alley from the parking lot.
The black van turned into the parking lot, approaching from the other side of the alley. As the van turned toward him, the sliding door opened. Viper sprang from the side of the garage, across the alley, over the guardrail and into the van while it was moving. Once inside, he asked, “How’d Bouchard come out?”
“It’s done.”
Chapter Two
Many St. Paul residents started their morning at the Grand Brew, a cup of coffee to get the workday started. For Michael McKenzie “Mac” McRyan, a fourth-generation St. Paul detective, it was his way to start the day. Not only did he love the coffee, it was making him a little dough. Two childhood friends owned the Grand Brew. Mac had invested a little money six years before in exchange for a small piece of the action. That “small piece” was turning out to be a nice, and ever-growing, supplement to his detective’s salary.
Mac grabbed his coffee and looked at his watch, 7:30 a.m.-day of paperwork ahead. He had cleared a murder the day before, a stick-up gone awry. It took Mac and his partner a week to put the case together and find the stick-up guy, a nineteen-year-old kid they identified from a surveillance camera. They hauled the kid in, and he went quickly.
Mac’s partner was Richard Lich, or better known within the department, and often to his face, as “Dick Lick.” Mac often wondered what in the world Lich’s parents had been thinking. Dick was a veteran cop with money problems; two divorces would do that to a guy. That being said, when motivated, Dick was a good detective. He had an easy manner with people and a quick wit. When he was on his game, Lich was a good compliment to Mac’s blunt, if not occasionally abrasive, approach to matters. Problem was, as of late, Lich had checked out. Mac hoped he would snap out of it soon. He could use the help.
Mac jumped into his Explorer, put his coffee in the cup holder just as his cellphone vibrated. He took a look. Just like that a seemingly slow and easy day turned busy. His captain was looking for him.
“McRyan.”
“Peters. St. Albans, between Summit and Grand, cleaning lady found a body.” Mac wrote down the address. “I called Lich. You’ll be there first. Keep me advised and keep your cell on.” Click.
Well, good morning to you too, Mac thought. Captain Marion Peters was a good guy, an old-guard cop that Mac and the rest of the McRyan clan knew well. The gruff manner had more to do with last night than the body on St. Albans. The University Avenue Strangler had struck for the fifth time.
The University Avenue Strangler. Good grief, Mac thought. It wasn’t a cop moniker. That was a media creation and cornball as hell, but that was the media. If you have a serial killer, which they did, the media had to give him a name. A name made for great headlines in the Pioneer Press and Star Tribune.
Four women, now five, had been killed, strangled, sexually assaulted and dumped into vacant lots in the vicinity of University Avenue. The signature item identifying the killer was a balloon left behind, marking the body like a buoy. The balloon was always the same-a smiley face. “Have a Nice Day.”
Of course, with a serial killer, people, including politicians and especially the media tend to go into a panic. Mac saw it on the morning news shows, the media in full glory, hyping the murder of another innocent victim for ratings, providing “Team Coverage” and “Exclusives you’ll only see on Channel 12.” City council members had already been on the tube reassuring everyone that the police would find the killer. Undoubtedly, Captain Peters’ gruff mood had something to do with the latest murder, the media swarm, and, Mac suspected, hysterical calls from city politicians demanding something be done. As if it was that easy.
Mac pulled out onto Grand and headed east to St. Albans with a murder to work on. He was thirty-two years old, six-foot-one and one-hundred ninety pounds. He was ruggedly handsome, with blond hair and icy blue eyes. His short hair formed around a taut face, with a square jaw and a dimple the size of the Grand Canyon in his chin. He had three crisscrossing scars under his chin, the result of stitches from hockey-related cuts. He worked on his wiry, strong body frequently and was proud of the fact he remained in “game” shape, no heavier than his college hockey-playing weight.