MISSY’S COTTAGE
MALIBU
WEDNESDAY NIGHT
Cam was scrolling through page after page of auditions from hundreds of film companies on a purple laptop. Some were highlighted in red and dozens were redacted, marked through in black so she couldn’t read them. She heard her mother’s voice telling her she needed those entries covered in black ink, otherwise how could she find the killer? Some of the red letters started to bleed, covering the screen, then fountaining down, sending ribbons of blood dripping over the purple keyboard. She knew that was the key audition, the one that would give her the big clue, but she couldn’t read it now, there was so much blood. Her mother was talking behind her, telling her she’d ruined it now. The bloody page must have flown free because she heard it striking softly against the glass in the window, but then she knew it wasn’t the paper, it was something else. Someone was outside, trying to get in.
She jerked awake, her heart pounding, her breathing too fast, too hard. She started to fling off the sheet and jump to her feet when her training kicked in. She lay still and listened. She heard it again, something brushing up against the bedroom window. She’d left it cracked open to let in the warm night air and someone was looking in. He could easily push the window up and climb in. To kill her? No, not me. Missy. He was here.
The Serial was outside.
Slowly, quietly, she reached over and pulled the knob on the bedside table drawer, eased it open. She slipped her hand in, felt the comforting steel of her Glock. Easy, easy—she lifted it out of the drawer. She didn’t need to rack the slide, she kept a bullet in the chamber.
She breathed low and quiet, completely focused, and eased off the side of the bed. There was a quarter moon tonight, its light streaming in through the window. She’d see him clearly if he crawled in. She listened for the sound of the window coming up higher.
She heard him breathing, heard his sneakers thunk lightly outside the window. He thought the room was empty. Did he have his knife in his hand, his goggles already on so when he sliced Missy’s throat he wouldn’t be blinded by her blood?
If Missy were alone in the cottage, sleeping in the master bedroom, she’d never have heard a thing. Until it was too late and she was about to die.
The bastard. She was ready.
Come on, come on.
But he didn’t climb in. He stood at the window for several minutes, looking into the room, and then he turned away.
Cam came smoothly up, aimed her Glock through the window at the man’s chest. “FBI. You move and you’re dead.”
His eyes flew to her face. “What, who are you? You’re not Missy. FBI?” He jerked around and started to run, tripped and landed headfirst into the thick bougainvillea bushes. He cried out as he rolled away onto the ground. She didn’t fire because she knew she could catch him. She was out the window on the ground as he pulled himself to his knees to take off again.
She kicked him in the back before he got to the street, sending him onto his belly against the ground, not two inches from a cactus. She dropped down on top of him, laid her Glock against his neck. “Don’t you even think of moving. It’s over.”
He wasn’t wearing goggles and she didn’t find a knife when she patted him down. He twisted, managed to kick his legs against her back, knocking her sideways, and slammed his elbow against her jaw. She saw bursts of white but she held tight to her Glock, no way would she let it go.
She caught his arm, jerked him around and chopped her hand against his throat. He lurched back, gagging, his hands clutching his throat, wheezing for breath.
She kicked his legs out from under him, slammed down on top of him, and stuck her Glock into his ear. She leaned close. “That’s enough. Feel that? You want me to shoot you in the ear, splat your brains all over the ground? Calm down now, there’s a lot you and I have to talk about.”
He tried again to throw her off, but Cam grabbed him around his neck in the crook of her elbow and jerked back so he was looking up at her. “Listen, you moron, if you move again, you’re dead, you got that? I can shoot you or I can break your neck. Where’s your knife? Where are your goggles?”
“Knife? I don’t have a knife. Why would I wear any fricking goggles?”
She smacked the back of his head, slammed him down on his stomach. “So you were coming into my room to serenade me?”
“Cam! You’ve got him?” And there Missy was, leaning out the window, in boxers and a short filmy top, a Ka-Bar in her hand.
“Yes. It’s okay, Missy.”
He froze at the sound of Missy’s voice. Cam dug her Glock into his ear. “Don’t you think about moving. There’s your seventh victim, but she doesn’t look all that helpless, does she? She would have carved you up. You’re lucky I got you first.” She thrummed with rage, felt it burning deep in her throat. She felt her fingers tighten around the trigger. She could kill the monster right now, in this very second, and it would all be over. She felt Missy’s hand on her shoulder. “Cam? Are you okay?”
Missy’s voice drew her back from the chasm.
“Yes, I’m okay, Missy. Here’s our Serial. We got him. It’s over.”
He heaved and twisted, but Cam kept him down. “No,” he yelled, trying to turn his face to look up at Missy. “I’m not the Starlet Slasher, I’m not.”
Cam slowly rose. “Stay flat on your face or you’re a dead man.”
He was stammering, panting. “Y-you have to listen to me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t here to kill you, I wanted to see Missy, ask her to go to the movies with me, I—”
“Shut up!”
Missy stood over him, her gorgeous hair blowing in the breeze. “He looks so skinny, Cam. Without his knife, he looks like nothing at all. I want to see his face. I want to see what a serial killer looks like.”
She kicked his leg with her bare foot. “Turn over or I’ll stick my Ka-Bar in your eye.” Slowly, he turned over onto his back, his hands still rubbing his throat, and stared up at her.
Missy’s brain went blank. “Oh no.”
“Missy, what’s wrong?”
“Cam, he isn’t the serial killer. He’s my stalker. It’s Blinker.”
And that’s why he doesn’t have a knife or goggles. Cam wanted to yell and curse and weep. She’d been so close to killing him, and he wasn’t the Serial. She stared at him a moment in the dim moonlight—he was pale and skinny, his light-colored hair already thin on top. He looked terrified. “If you weren’t sneaking into the window to kill Missy, what were you planning to do?”
He blinked. “I told you, I wanted to see her one more time, it’s been so long. There’s a movie playing down the street I knew she’d like. Maybe she’d like to have dinner after at Mama Mia in Santa Monica.”
Missy hissed. “Go to the movies with you? Are you nuts? Let me cut out his tongue, Cam.”
“Just a moment, Missy. Your name is Bayley, right?”
“Yes, my friends call me Blinker, but my clients call me John, John Bayley. I’m a bond trader.”
“Mr. Bayley, you violated your restraining order, you were breaking and entering, you assaulted a federal officer. Apart from those charges that could put you away for a decade, I could have easily shot you.”
He licked his tongue over his lips. “Don’t let her stick me with that knife or I’ll sue both of you. Why didn’t the cops take that knife away from you?”
“They did. I bought another one.”
A bubble of laughter rose in Cam’s throat, nearly burst out of her mouth. Amazing. She’d gone from believing she’d caught the Serial killer to dealing with this lame idiot. “Sue her? Highly doubtful since you’d be in jail.”
He looked up at the two women, one with a gun, and Missy with her knife, long bare legs on both of them. He wheezed out, “Look, there’s no reason to make a big deal out of this. There was no harm done. I’m a respectable bond trader, as I told you. Everyone knows me. I have trouble sleeping and I usually go out and walk. I liked the looks of this house. I thought it was vacant.”
Missy kicked him again. “So now you coming into my house is a misunderstanding? There’s a freaking car parked in the driveway, how could you think it was vacant? You came to ogle me, you pathetic putz.”
Cam said, “I guess you forgot about the restraining order.”
He was still rubbing his throat. Cam let him sit up, both women standing over him. “Look, Agent, ma’am, Missy, I’ve got money. I can make it worth your while if you’ll let this go.”
Cam leaned close to his face. “So now you’re saying if you pay us money Missy should let you stare at her?”
“Well, not really, but if I had managed to get a look at her, well, why not? Maybe she’d wake up and like what she saw and we could go to the movies, like I said. Agent, ma’am, can’t we let this go?”
“I strongly suggest you shut up now, Mr. Bayley, or I’ll let Missy carve you up.”
He looked up at Missy and stopped talking.
“Missy, please get me my handcuffs. They’re in my jeans pocket, in the closet. And my cell is on the table beside the bed. We’ll let Daniel deal with Blinker. He’s got jail cells that smell like sweaty underwear.”
When Missy walked back out the front door with Cam’s handcuffs and cell, Cam rolled Blinker onto his stomach, jerked his hands back and handcuffed him. “Sit up and stay there, don’t move.”
Neither woman helped him. Finally, panting, he managed to pull himself up.
Cam punched in Daniel’s number. Two rings, then, “Cam? What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
“Both Missy and I are fine.”
He said, his voice sharp, “Missy’s okay, you’re sure?”
“Yes, Daniel, she’s fine.”
“That’s good. Okay. You woke me up from a wonderful dream. I just won the Daytona. There were so many cheers, and I was about to be crowned— Okay, what happened exactly?”
“Detective Montoya. Missy, who’s fine as am I—and thank you for asking—will give you a big congratulatory kiss if you come over to her cottage. We have a surprise for you.”
“At two o’clock in the frigging morning?”
“Don’t whine, Daniel,” Missy called out. “Get your very fine butt over here. Cam’s got my stalker for you.”