Part and parcel of holding the position he had in society involved attending obnoxiously boring political fundraisers. Usually he only allowed himself to be dragged to the lame events when he had no choice but to go or to raise eyebrows.
However, today’s garden party was different. As he drove up the pretentiously long driveway toward the mansion set like a gleaming rock in the deep blue-green lawn of pure Kentucky bluegrass, he felt a sense of anticipation like nothing he’d felt in recent times. Not only was he using the name of his only male victim, he was sneaking into a crowded event with a nefarious purpose in mind.
He’d watched the house for several days, both from near and afar, before he’d committed to making this move. He hadn’t made it this far in his murderous career by being reckless, after all.
“Of all the times for my regular job to bring me to eastern Kentucky,” he mused. It felt providential that he was in the area now, and who was he to argue with God?
Earlier that month, their sob story had aired on the local news channel, waxing poetic about the ten-year anniversary of the unsolved tragic death of poor little Kiely Turner, baby sister to the wife of the most prominent local politician in a decade. Trapped in a hotel room on a rainy day with nothing better to do than jack off or sleep, he’d had the TV on low in the background when the teasers for the story came on during a commercial break.
Of course they had immediately snared his attention, those teasers, and he’d been hooked on every word as he impatiently waited for the segment to air. When it did, he wasn’t disappointed. If the hoopla and hype surrounding the report was anything to go by, he wasn’t the only one who believed the tenth anniversary of Kiely’s death should be remembered.
As he waited in the queue for the valet, he recalled the way the camera had focused on Kiely’s headstone as the narrator spoke. The memorial, next to her parents’ ostentatious stone, was a dark-pink granite, the kind of headstone that had a picture of the deceased etched into its surface. Next to her sister Amy Lynn’s grief, the marker served as a stark reminder of a life snuffed out too soon. The fake sympathy the reporter exhibited had made him laugh.
“I wonder if you realized the schmuck was sneering at you, Amy Lynn, seeing a prize or an Emmy nomination as he cajoled you into tears,” he muttered. “Or did you think his concern was sincere?”
Part of the interview had taken place in Amy Lynn’s house, a dangerous intrusion of privacy that allowed people like him to gain more knowledge than they should have. When he re-watched the segment later on his laptop, streaming it over and over as he made his plans, his heart stopped. As the camera panned around the room where Kiely’s earthly belongings now resided in a macabre shrine, he saw something he wanted. Not just wanted but was compelled to touch, to own, to smell. It would make the perfect gift to send to Amy Lynn, something she’d understand the significance of as soon as she saw it.
Seeing the sob story, then reading it again in the local papers over the following days, he’d decided he wanted to help celebrate the anniversary as well. That seemed only fair, as it wouldn’t have existed without his help. And if he was going to toy with one mouse, he might as well toy with them all, hence his decision to pull Chase into the mix.
Getting into the Bledsoe mansion to obtain the item he wanted ordinarily would have presented something of a challenge. But because of who Amy Lynn had married, it was proving ridiculously simple. Neal Bledsoe was a high-ranking state representative serving in Kentucky’s House. He was a big name on the political front in Kentucky, and he and Amy Lynn had hosted a number of events at their home throughout the years, more than once falling back on the tragedy to score points with their adoring public.
The mansion itself had been featured in numerous architectural magazines and was touted as one of the South’s finest homes. Obtaining several resources that gave him a near-exact layout had been stupidly easy.
When he discovered that he was going to be in Ashland the same week as the garden-party fundraiser, he’d immediately set up a way in. Using the identity of his only male victim, J.R. Handley, obtaining an invitation had proved to be a simple affair. He’d used the alias several times for various reasons, and it was a skin he felt comfortable slipping into.
The promise of a hefty cash donation had opened the front door widely. He’d purchased a throwaway cell phone and made calls to the pertinent people, and within a few short hours, the invitation had arrived at the hotel room he had rented for just that purpose.
Now the day of the fundraiser had arrived. As the last person in line, he finally made it to the valet, and he smiled. He was fashionably late, an intentional choice as he knew the bulk of the activities were already in progress. That would make slipping away to find Kiely’s room without being caught much easier.
Once out of sight of the crowd and the home-grown security team, he headed upstairs to the family quarters. Even though it was a large house, it didn’t take him long to find her room. After all, he literally had a map.
Inside, he closed the door. The light perfume lingering in the air took him back, and for a whimsical moment, he imagined Kiely was there with him. There had been a part of her he’d seen that night that he recognized, a cold and soulless element that in women more often came across as bitchiness.
“If we’d met under different circumstances, we’d have made a fine pair,” he whispered. “Ah, well. C’est la vie. Time to get to work.”
Glancing around, he spied a small bottle of flowery cologne on the dresser and hissed with triumph. If he hadn’t known he was in the room of a murdered woman, he would have thought he had walked into a time-warped version of reality. Amy Lynn had gone to some trouble to make sure the room was set up as though someone actually lived there.
“I suppose it’s comforting, or maybe it’s how she reminds herself to play the victim for the fans.”
He moved around the room, touching an item here or there with his gloved hands, taking it all in. As tempted as he was to stay and revel in Kiely’s ghostly presence, he was on borrowed time. Focusing on the task at hand, he searched for the keepsake he wanted, the one he’d seen in the news report. He found it hanging on a peg above a memory board full of pictures. Within seconds, he had it safely tucked away, along with a picture of Kiely that, given her expression, had to have been taken by a man.
He was on his way out the door when he happened to glimpse the contents of the bookcase beside it. He could hardly believe his eyes, and his gloved hands actually trembled as he reached for the small diary. “What have we here?”
A glance inside revealed pages filled with cramped writing, and from the few short passages he scanned, the book was a treasure trove of potentially damaging information. With no hesitation, he slipped the journal into his pocket, not even the possibility that he would get caught giving him a moment’s pause. The information it contained was simply too good to walk away from.
Grateful that he had worn a suit jacket, he tucked the journal into the inside pocket and used the mirror on the dresser to make sure it wasn’t visible. He was a little surprised to see that it fit as though the pocket had been made to hold it. He told himself that was more providence.
With quiet stealth, he opened the door and eased into the hall. He made it almost to the top of the stairs when something in a room to the left caught his attention. After making sure no one was watching, he leaned inside for two seconds and took what he needed. This discovery was possibly an even better gift for Amy Lynn than what he had come to the house for in the first place. With that treasure and the others tucked safely away, he hurried downstairs and joined the crowd. Leaving early might have drawn attention to himself, made him stand out in the valets’ minds, and he couldn’t have that.