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.”
44
* * *
THE CAPITAL GRILLE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Griffin waited until the waiter left and Delsey had eaten three bites of her spaghetti bolognaise, smothered in Parmesan cheese. He watched a moment, knew her brain was elsewhere and imagined he knew very well where. “Dels, listen to me. I need you to turn your brain back on and pay attention. I don’t enjoy telling you this, but it has to be said. I saw the look on your face when you met Rob Rasmussen Tuesday at the Hoover Building. And I know you saw him again yesterday. I really don’t want to know exactly what happened.” But it was easy to tell exactly what had happened. She glowed, and he knew why. “You didn’t get home until very late, I might add.”
Delsey blinked at him. “How do you know about yesterday?”
“A neighbor saw you, wondered who the guy was who dropped you off, described him to me. This could be a problem for you, Dels.”
“I can’t imagine why it could be. I might add that it’s none of your business, Griffin.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Dels. Rob Rasmussen is a suspect in the murder attempts on his grandmother’s life. You knew this, yet you had lunch with him Tuesday and saw him again Wednesday afternoon and evening.”
Delsey wiped her napkin over her mouth. “Listen, Griffin, Rob’s a suspect only because he happened to have come into Mrs. Rasmussen’s life at the wrong time. Rob, a suspect? That’s nuts and you know it. He loves his grandmother. He told me about how he’d missed her for the ten years they hadn’t seen each other, how much she did for him
when he screwed up. He loves her; no way would he try to kill her.
“Don’t give me that understanding-older-brother look. I know my history. So I sometimes pick the wrong guys, but not this time, Griffin. Rob is open and honest. He’s special. He has nothing to do with this. There’s no reason to warn me off him.”
“Savich has known Rob Rasmussen nearly all his life. He likes him, too. But here’s the deal, Dels. Forget he’s a suspect for a moment. Savich told me he and Sherlock met Rob’s girlfriend at the Rasmussen mansion Tuesday night. He said Rob and Marsia were tight. He and Sherlock interviewed her at her studio in Maryland yesterday while you were out with her boyfriend. It doesn’t sound to me like he’s all that honest and open. I’m sorry, Delsey, but it’s clear he’s a hound dog.”
Delsey’s face was utterly blank. Was history repeating itself? Could Griffin be right? Could her luck in men be that sucky? Was she that much of a pushover? “You said Dillon and Sherlock met his girlfriend Tuesday night? There’s got to be a mistake here, Griffin. They mistook things. They had to.”
“Marsia Gay lives in Millstock, Maryland. She’s a successful sculptor, or getting there. Savich said he and Sherlock asked her about her intentions toward Rob, if she was serious, if she was thinking about marriage. She said she hadn’t made up her mind. But they were tight, and he introduced her to his family as practically his fiancée.”
Delsey stared down her spaghetti, very carefully laid her fork on the table. She looked sick, leached of color. “There has to be an explanation.”
“I just gave it to you, straight from Savich’s mouth. You think either he or Sherlock would say that if it wasn’t true?”
“He didn’t mention her, not at all.”
“I’m really sorry, Delsey. Do you want me to bust him up?”
She hunched in on herself, shook her head. The man who’d loved her the whole afternoon and evening, shared all of himself with her, told her he’d never felt the same about another woman in his life. She’d believed him because she felt the same way. They’d sat cross-legged on the rumpled bed, room service sandwiches, potato chips, and a bottle of wine between them, talking and laughing, and touching, always touching, kissing between bites. He’d spoken so freely, with such enthusiasm, such openness, she had no doubt he’d meant it. She remembered her ex-husband’s golden tongue, how she’d believed everything out of his mouth until she’d nearly drowned in his lies. “Griffin, am I doomed to always fall for the wrong guys?”
“Stop looking pitiful, the moron’s not worth it.” He eyed her, watched her pick up a roll, look at it as if she didn’t know what it was, set it back down on her plate.
“I thought he was the one, Griffin, finally, the perfect guy for me. I never thought to ask him if he was unattached. I mean, of course he had to be or he wouldn’t have come on to me, he wouldn’t have wanted to have—” Her voice wobbled. She wet her lips. “And now you’re telling me he was cheating on his girlfriend?”
Griffin, always more cynical than his sister, said, “At least you found out before things went any further. You need to step back right now, Dels. I don’t have to bust him up, but I could have a chat with him, set him straight.”
“No, I’ll do it,” Delsey said. She looked down at her congealed spaghetti and wondered what would happen if she threw it against the wall.
“A week in Paris might be just the thing for you. You’ve still got plenty of time before your grad classes start up again at Stanislaus.”
“Yeah, it sounds lovely. All alone staring up at the Eiffel Tower.”
“There would be advantages. The Eiffel Tower’s got a great view from the top. If you happened to spot a single good-looking guy, you wouldn’t be able to get back down fast enough to catch up with him.”
* * *
Rob called her on her way out of the restaurant to ask her if he could make dinner for her that night at his apartment.
“I was thinking sushi. Do you like sushi? I miss you, Delsey, you can’t imagine how much I miss you, how much I want to see you again.”
It hurt so bad to form the words, to open her mouth. Then she thought of his girlfriend and felt a clean spray of anger. “You should invite Marsia Gay, not me.”
She heard him groan. “How did you find out about Marsia? Oh, I see, Savich told you about her. Delsey, it isn’t what it seems. I know that sounds lame. But listen, I was planning on clearing things up with her this weekend. Really, Delsey, she’s been more than a friend, I’ll admit that, but there’s always been something missing. It won’t go any further. Now it can’t. I only took her to my grandmother’s mansion Tuesday night so I wouldn’t have to face the family alone. She helped me by running interference. You and I, it happened so quickly, I haven’t had time to speak to her, but I will.”
She said clearly, “I’m not going to start another relationship with someone who lies to me, Rob. I don’t want to hear from you again.” She punched off her cell. Sometimes, she thought as she walked the three miles back to Griffin’s condo, life smacks you in the head.
45
* * *
LOST HILLS SHERIFF’S STATION
CALABASAS, CALIFORNIA
THURSDAY MORNING
Cam and Daniel sat across a scarred table from John Bayley, aka Blinker, in the only interview room at the Lost Hills station, Chief Dreyfus Murray watching and listening behind a two-way mirror. Daniel had processed Blinker at 3:00 a.m. into one of Sheriff Murray’s jail cells, and they’d all gone home for a few hours’ sleep.
Blinker looked pathetic this morning, his chinos and shirt wrinkled and dirty from his face-plant in Missy’s yard. It was obvious he hadn’t slept, and he looked scared, his eyes darting back and forth between them. It was odd, but he looked even scrawnier this morning than he had lying in Missy’s yard.
Daniel said, “Mr. Bayley, you’ve had ample time to think of a better story than the lame one you told last night. So tell us exactly why you were at Missy Devereaux’s house after dark, well after midnight in fact, when it was obvious she’d be asleep?”
“I told you when you were shoving me into a cell last night, Detective Montoya, that I occasionally have insomnia and I’ve found that walking around helps. I like Malibu at night, it’s quiet and smells nice, you know? And all the movie stars are sound asleep and I can picture how it must feel to live like that.” He shot Cam a look. “Don’t you ever wonder what the movie stars look like without makeup?”
“No,” Cam said.
“Okay, okay, just a little joke. Listen, I thought the house was empty and I liked it. My lease is coming due and I’ve been thinking about maybe renting something in Malibu. I didn’t know it was her house, I didn’t. It’s a weird coincidence.” Blinker fanned his hands in front of him and went hopefully silent.
Cam said, “But you didn’t walk far, did you? We found your car parked a block from Ms. Devereaux’s house.”
“I live in Santa Monica—you know that. It’s way too far to walk, so I drove to Malibu, then I began walking.”
“So you decided to climb in through a window to see if you’d like to rent this house?”
“No, no, you know I never went inside. Yeah, I did look inside, maybe, but that’s all. I just wanted to get a feel for the house, you know? I was ready to leave because I didn’t want to disturb anyone when you jumped out the window in your underwear and attacked me. You started pounding on me and I was only trying to defend myself, and then this blonde jumped out and attacked me, too. I couldn’t believe it—it was the same woman in Las Vegas, the one who accused me of stalking her. She even got a restraining order. That’s the truth. Look, I was a gentleman in Las Vegas. I agreed not to sue her for attacking me with a knife.”
Cam said, “You really want us to believe you didn’t know it was Missy Devereaux’s house?”
“Of course I didn’t know! I told you, I never break the law, I believe in the law. Sure, the restraining order is humiliating, but I wouldn’t have gone near that house if I’
d known it was hers.”
Daniel said, “Apart from being ridiculous, what you’re saying doesn’t matter, Mr. Bayley. You violated the restraining order whether you knew it or not, and you assaulted a federal agent. I’m wondering how you could be so stupid as to show up at Missy Devereaux’s house in the middle of the night? Did you forget there’s a serial killer out there? And Missy Devereaux is a young actress? And just maybe you’re the serial killer.”
“Me? No, that’s crazy! That’s nuts!”
“Mr. Bayley,” Cam said, “we know you were in Las Vegas last Saturday, and that night Molly Harbinger was murdered. You’ve already admitted to the little dustup with Missy Devereaux in the Wynn hotel garage.”
“No, no, I flew home to L.A. that afternoon. You can check with Sunset Airlines, my plane left McCarran airport at five in the afternoon. I wasn’t there!”
Daniel sat forward, pinned Blinker. “And where were you Tuesday night, Blinker?”
“Tuesday night? Why? Okay, I was at the movies, over in Century City. I saw Scarlett Johansson in something, I don’t remember the name of the movie. Wait, wait, I still have the ticket stub,” and he shoved his hand into his empty pockets. “You took all my stuff away from me last night. The stub has to be with my stuff. You have to look.”
Daniel left the interview room. He was back shortly with Blinker’s envelope in his hand. He poured his personal effects onto the table. And there was the ticket stub, for Tuesday night, the late show.
Given time of death, it was very unlikely Blinker could have driven to Santa Monica to Deborah Connelly’s house to kill her. He wasn’t the Serial, although neither Cam nor Daniel had ever seriously believed he could be. At least now he could be formally eliminated.
Blinker sat forward, his hands clasped, his look earnest. “I couldn’t hurt anybody, really. I’m a bond trader. I’m responsible, except this morning. I need to call my supervisor.” At their stony looks, he cleared his throat, straightened. “I want a lawyer.”
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