The man pressed his binoculars against the glass and stared through them, watching the dark-haired woman in the hotel room across the street say something to Senator James Ashby before they said their goodbyes. If only he could have listened in on their conversation. Then maybe he’d have answers to some of his burning questions.
The man had been following the dark-haired woman since midday, from the time she’d arrived at the coroner’s office, a building he’d been monitoring here and there to see who’d come and gone after the murders took place. So far he’d learned little about the woman he’d been following other than one distinct detail: her nasal accent was annoying. She was Canadian or American, he guessed. Either way, she was a foreigner, and he’d never cared much for foreigners.
Earlier in the day when the man pretended to stretch his legs against a tree in the park, he’d caught bits and pieces of the foreigner’s conversation with Victoria Bennett. The foreigner had been asking questions—too many questions to pass for idol curiosity, and Victoria’s mouth ran like a faucet, giving the foreigner private information, things not yet revealed to the public.
Questions littered the man’s mind.
Why was the foreigner in Cairns?
Why was she asking so many questions?
Why had she visited the coroner?
And what had she been doing with Senator Ashby in her hotel room?
The man made a few minor tweaks and adjustments to the binoculars and then brought it back up to his eyes again. The foreigner had moved closer to the window, giving him a more candid look at her. She was a little taller than the average woman and slender, but not too slender. He could tell from the shirt she wore that she had noticeable curves, and a rather large bum, considering how slender she was. He guessed her age to be somewhere around forty, or a bit older, even. She was an appealing woman, despite sporting a sassy, short haircut, but he’d seen prettier in his own country. Since he found her hairstyle to be off-putting, he’d subtracted a few points from her overall score.
The man didn’t understand the fascination for women to work so hard to be so different nowadays. Short hair. Shaved, punk-rock styles. Hair dyed every color in the rainbow. It was artificial and unattractive. Gone were the days of natural beauties like Grace Kelly. Now there was a princess who knew how to behave.
The foreigner had been leaning against the chair in her hotel room for a few minutes now. Maybe she was just tired. She certainly looked tired, and like a dog that needed to be groomed. Another minute passed, and she crossed the room, pausing to look at the alarm clock on her nightstand, before reaching down and turning it so that it faced forward, fully aligned with the lamp adjacent to it.
She’s a perfectionist. Interesting.
Now here was a characteristic trait the man could get behind.
He was a bit obsessive-compulsive himself.
The foreigner walked to the window and drew the curtains closed, shutting the man out for the night and leaving him to ponder what to do if the suspicions he had about her proved to be correct. If he was right—and to his credit he usually was—getting rid of her seemed like an easy option and a simple solution to the problem. If he did go that route, it would have to be later. At the moment something far more important impregnated his mind, something he’d put off for too long.
A steadfast follower of boundaries and rules, the man always believed in giving credit where credit was due. But giving credit where it wasn’t due? Well, that just seemed wrong, and the time had come for him to make it right.
The man walked to the small, flimsy desk in the corner of the living room and sat down, pulling a pad of paper and pen out of the drawer. He clicked the pen and was just about to jot down the perfect message when he noticed the hotel’s name embossed at the center of the bottom of the page. He flipped through the rest of the tablet. Every page was the exact same, and that simply would not do. Riffling through the other drawers in the room, he came across a phone directory and opened it. The contents page at the beginning had just enough room on the right-hand side to suit his needs if he wrote small enough. With care, he tore the page out and began writing, pausing a moment when he felt a presence behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder and said, “Oh, Petey. It’s you. I’m busy right now. We’ll talk later. Run along.”
Petey acknowledged the man with a nod and disappeared into the bedroom. The man felt a small amount of remorse for blowing Petey off like he had, but he didn’t want anyone spoiling his plans. Not when they were about to get so exciting.