The morning air was damp and thick with fog. A good day to die.
He waited until the judge left the house for his morning walk, then tinkered with a radar encoder until his universal remote unit signals meshed with those of the main controller of the garage door opener. Next, he put on a double pair of latex gloves.
Checking carefully that no one was near, no one could see him, he aimed the remote at the garage door and clicked. The door unlocked. He sprang toward it, stopping it before it lifted more than a couple of feet off the ground. Then he dropped to the ground and rolled under it into the garage.
Quickly hitting the release, he pulled the door to a closed position again, then lay still and waited for sounds of neighbors or passersby who might have seen or heard him.
He listened, too, for sounds from the living quarters overhead, trying to hear them over the sound of his own heavy breathing.
All was quiet. He started to stand.
“Luke?”
He froze, his heart hammering at the sound of a woman’s voice. “Luke, is that you?”
Sharp-eared old bat. There were stairs in the back of the garage leading up to a door to the house—probably to the kitchen. He darted to the bottom of the stairs and crouched down, expecting the wife to open the inside door to investigate further. But there was no sound of footsteps. No sound at all from upstairs.
She must have decided she was mistaken.
He crept up the stairs slowly, ready with each step for a loud creak to give him away.
The stairs were solid. Quiet.
At the door that led to the house proper, he twisted the knob, praying the door wasn’t locked. His prayer was answered.
Slowly, he pushed the door open. The kitchen was large, yellow, with two walls of cabinetry and, over the sink, a window box filled with tiny plants in four-inch pots. The room was empty.
Where had the woman gone?
He shut the door behind him, holding the knob until the last moment. The latch made a tiny click. He pushed in the button in the center. If the old man came back that way, he’d find the door locked.
Not that it would matter. He’d be too late to save his wife, anyway.
She was in the house somewhere. From the kitchen door, he could see a hallway. The way these San Francisco houses were built, he knew it led to a living room and dining room in the front of the house and to the bedrooms in the back. Quietly, he moved toward the door, half-expecting her to appear in the doorway with each step he took.
A loud whistle sounded. He snapped his head toward the stove. A teakettle.
Hurling himself behind the kitchen door, his heart racing, he waited. But despite the noise the kettle made, he didn’t hear the woman hurrying down the hall to turn it off.
She would come eventually, though. He could wait right here for her.
The loud kettle jangled his nerves. Perspiration formed on his forehead. He tried to remain there, without moving, to wait for her. It’d be so much easier that way. He covered his ears, needing to cut off the kettle’s shrill scream. No! That wouldn’t be safe. He had to listen for her.
Where was she? Could she be hard of hearing? She had heard noises in the garage, though, had called out her husband’s name. What in the hell could she be doing that was more important than turning off her goddamn teakettle?
Control. He needed control. He flexed his hands, his fingers. But the noise grew louder, shriller. Steam shot from the spout. It squeezed the air, choking him. He clawed at his throat. If he shut the flame under the kettle, would she notice? Would it alert her?
Where the hell was the bitch?
He’d have to find her, kill her, then turn it off himself. That was the only way to stop the noise that was making his head split, making it hard for him to think.
His hand against the frame of the kitchen door, he darted his head out into the long hallway. She wasn’t there.
Keeping his back against the wall, he sidled along the hallway toward the living room. The room was empty, as was the dining area between it and the kitchen.
That meant she had to be in the back of the house, in one of the bedrooms.
Suddenly, he didn’t mind the loud whistling of the teakettle. It masked his footsteps as he eased his way, once more, down the hall.
He reached the bedroom without her seeing him and peered inside.
She stood beside the bed, her back to him, wearing only a slip, hose, and brown, low-heeled shoes. Her clothes had been neatly laid out before her on the bed. She picked up a pink blouse and put it on. He watched, mesmerized, as she proceeded to fasten the many buttons that lined the front of it. Next, she reached for a brown skirt and stepped into it, hiking it up to her waist, then spending a considerable amount of time smoothing the blouse and slip once more. Such a pity, he thought, so much trouble for no reason.
She buttoned the skirt. As she worked the side zipper, looking down, giving it her full attention, she began to turn in his direction.
He pounced. She opened her mouth to scream, but his hand covered it, muffling her cries and forcing her back on the bed. He lay atop her, crushing her with his weight. She fought, kicked, tried to get away, to scream, but she was no match for him.
His blood pounded. His temples throbbed and a fiery redness built against his eyes. The incessant whistle in the background, the squirming of her body beneath him on the bed, heated him. He backed off a bit, closing his eyes as he let her struggle, enjoying the feel of her, remembering what it was like to have a woman writhe beneath him. Helpless. Captive. He opened his eyes.
But instead of young, beautiful Heather or Angelina, beneath him was this old hag. Disgust raged at her. Filthy slut, tempting him that way, making his body do things he didn’t want it to do with someone ugly like her. He pulled the combat knife from his back pocket. She’d never tempt him again.
He took the rose from the back pocket of his jeans and placed it on her pillow. It was smashed and dark, and most of the petals had fallen off, but he didn’t think the police would care. They’d get the message.
He wiped off the knife on the blood-soaked bedspread, then took off his shoes. He didn’t want to track bloody shoe prints onto the carpet—that’d give the police too clear a picture. But he’d never heard of tracking sock prints before. Especially heavy woolen socks.
In the kitchen, he shut the gas off under the shrieking teapot, then went to the hall closet and took out the judge’s trench coat and felt hat. Putting on his shoes once more, he walked out the front door, down the stairs, and up the street to his car.
Paavo sat in the living room with Judge St. Clair. The judge was hunched in the center of the sofa, his hands covering his face. His trembling had stopped, but the slump of his shoulders, his bowed head, created about him an immutable sense of defeat and pain.
“Tell me exactly what you did after you found her,” Paavo said gently.
The judge lowered his hands. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks blotched from earlier tears. His mouth worked awhile before he could get the words past a tightened throat. “I didn’t even have to touch her. I knew. I knew she was…But I did touch her. Her hand, her face. They were already cold, and her eyes…” He swallowed and waited a moment or two. His hands shook. “I took a bath towel from the linen closet and covered her with it. I know I shouldn’t have, but the way he’d left her…She was always such a proper lady. I couldn’t let her be found that way. I just couldn’t. I’m sorry!”
Paavo put his hand on St. Clair’s shoulder. “It’s all right. Anyone of us would have done the same.”
The judge nodded, and tried to hold back his tears.
Paavo left him and went back into the bedroom. Homicide Inspectors Rebecca Mayfield and her partner, Bill Sutter, were the on-call team this week. But one look at the crime scene and Rebecca contacted Paavo. It looked frighteningly similar to the way he and Yosh had described Tiffany Rogers’s murder.
“Did the judge know anything that might help?” Rebecca asked.
“It’s hard to tell. He’s in a bad way,” Paavo answered.
“You’re pretty sure it’s the same guy, though?”
“It’s got to be. The way he’s stabbed them, the rose on the pillow. Just one difference. This one was even more brutal.”