PROLOGUE

1982

Threatening rain clouds darkened Key West on this blustery afternoon. An eerie half-light honed the palm trees behind her apartment into dark skeletons that did a grotesque dance in the rising wind. Some Christmas Eve this was going to be! Heat from my excitement felt like a hot band binding my chest like a rope so I could hardly breathe. Why didn’t that warmth reach my hands? Dyanne Darby. The cold metal of the gun and the silencer in my jacket pocket chilled my fingers. Dyanne Darby.

Today Dyanne Darby would regret giving me the brush-off. Today Dyanne Darby would regret her Christmas Eve date with Randy Jackson.

Today Dyanne Darby would regret making me grovel for her affection.

Today Dyanne Darby would be beyond all regretting. The stench of boiled cabbage hung in the air as I climbed the outside steps to Dyanne’s dingy apartment behind Sloppy Joe’s. Boiled cabbage on Christmas Eve! Dyanne Darby wasn’t the boiled cabbage type. I couldn’t imagine her eating anything so common. Maybe lobster. Maybe caviar. The odor must be coming from someone else’s kitchen. Maybe her friend, Nicole’s. Maybe from Sloppy Joe’s.

At the top of the steps, I tugged a rope that rang an old-fashioned ship’s bell to announce guests. No response. I jerked the rope again.

“Who’s there?” she called. “Randy? Is that you? You’re way early.”

I yanked the rope again. This time she opened the door a narrow crack. A crack. That’s all I needed. Using an elbow, I pushed my way inside before she could slam the door in my face.

“Good afternoon, Dyanne.” I let my voice grow soft. I undressed her with my eyes. “You’re looking well today.”

“How dare you barge in here like this!” She stepped closer to me, trying to strong-arm me out the door.

“Just stopped by to wish you a merry Christmas and make a date for tonight. How would you like dinner and an evening of dancing at the Rooftop Café?”

She laughed at me. “Don’t try to play me for a fool. Surely you don’t think you can show up at the last minute and find me waiting for you. Besides, you can’t get reservations at the Rooftop at the last minute. I’ve had a Christmas Eve date with Randy for ages.”

“A date you’ll never keep, Dyanne. I don’t like broads who play hard to get and laugh at me.”

Fear flashed in her eyes and I felt the satin of her wine-colored negligee brush my hand as she tried to wedge her body around mine and escape down the stairs. I blocked that maneuver with my shoulders and hips, grabbed her arm, and flung her across the room onto the shabby couch.

“You’re drunk!” she shouted. “Get out of here.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Dyanne. Not for a long time. We’re going to have a cozy time together—a real holiday time.” I sat down beside her on the couch. She jumped up, screaming.

“Help! Help! Nicole! Call the police!”

She kept on screaming and it was my turn to laugh. “Who do you think’s going to hear you above all that wind and street noise?”

When she stopped screaming and I stopped talking, we could hear the rattle of the Conch Train making its rounds, the amplified voice of the driver pointing out the historic must-return-to-see spots on the island. And right below her window a Salvation Army guy rang a hand bell and bellowed requests for donations. She screamed again, but the sound blended in with the din below.

If she hadn’t looked at her phone before she made a grab for it, I might have missed seeing it sitting on an end table behind a vase holding a single hibiscus blossom. I beat her to the phone and snapped the cord from the wall.

“Who you thinking of calling? Nicole? Police? Or maybe your loverboy, Randy. Where do you suppose he is now when you need him?”

She made another break for the door, but I tripped her and she fell flat. Gentleman that I am, I helped her to her feet. She stood, trying to regain her balance when I pulled the gun from my pocket.

“We’re going to have some fun, then one sure shot’s going to make you very sorry you ever heard of Randy Jackson.”

“Stop!” she shouted. “Think what you’re doing, you idiot! Nicole’s just down the hall. She’s going to stop by any minute now to show me her new Christmas dress.”

I pointed the gun at her head and she broke into a run, zig-zagging around the room. I didn’t try to catch her—just followed her with my eyes and my gun. Then she fooled me and dashed into her bedroom, slammed the door. I felt the vibration of the sturdy pine through the soles of my shoes and heard the click of the lock. Ha! Did she think a door could stop me! Even though I had a silencer on the gun, I waited until the Salvation Army guy was ringing at high speed before I shot and shattered the door lock, kicked the door open.

Empty room. I rushed to the open window. Must be fifteen feet to the ground. I expected to see her sprawled on the concrete below. But no. She hadn’t jumped. I looked around the room for a moment. The closet. The only place she could be. I eased the closet door open inch by inch to heighten her suspense and fear.

A furry creature skittered across the room. Sensing her rising terror, I took my time poking my gun along the rod of hanging clothes—waitress uniforms, dresses, robes. No Dyanne. Kicking a row of shoes aside, I stepped into the closet for a better look. That’s when I heard her. Whirling around, I saw her sliding from under the bed.

“Thought you could fool me? Give up, Dyanne. Nothing can save you now.”

I prodded her to her feet with the gun barrel. Even then, she didn’t give up. She ran back to the living room and headed for the door before I grabbed her arm and swung her around to face me. “I never shoot people in the back, Dyanne. Choose the spot where you want to die.”

“You mean you’ve shot other people?”

“So now you’re going to try the old keep-him-talking ploy?” I laughed at her. “Be real, Dyanne. You’ve had your chance to please me. I can’t count the number of times you’ve refused my calls. So now you’re going to pay for making me play the fool. You’re going to pay big. Do you think a few dates with Randy Jackson are worth your life? Think about it. Tell me you’re sorry. I want to hear it from your own lips.”

She said nothing. Fear leaked from her eyes. Or maybe it was anger. Or hatred. “I want to hear you talk, Dyanne. I want to hear you beg me for mercy.”

She jerked her arm free from my grip and dropped onto the couch. “You coward!” She lifted her chin and said it again. “You rotten coward.”

I squeezed the trigger. One bullet shattered her neck. The next two sent blood spewing down her chest. After that, I didn’t need to check for a pulse. Her body slumped to the floor and I knew she lay dead. The cabbage odor disappeared into the stench of blood and death.

I knelt beside her and readied myself before I jerked her negligee aside. What she had denied me in life, I took in death.

After I finished, I was too smart to retreat down the outdoor steps where I had entered. Still breathing hard, I forced myself to calm down and ease across the room. I opened the door to the inner hallway. Walking along a carpeted runner and then down the inside stairs, I paused before I let myself out onto the street.

Smiling, I dropped a buck into the Salvation Army kettle.