She took a right, forcing herself to proceed slowly. He wouldn’t want to park in front of a house or under a street lamp, or on a well-lit street. He’d try to blend in, parking his car in an inconspicuous but hidden place.
She felt flushed. Trickles of perspiration rolled from her temples and down her sides. A large rock had dropped in her stomach.
At the next intersection, she looked right and left, taking in the view between the wiper blades. She saw a dark-blue sedan parked at the left curb halfway down the block, punched the accelerator, and pulled up beside it.
He slipped on the hooded sweatshirt and pulled the ball cap low on his brow, walking the side street, gym bag in hand, just a guy on his way to an early morning workout, which wasn’t completely untrue. Acting was all in the presentation. He’d read half a dozen books and taken another half a dozen classes on method acting—how to use your body to convince your mind you were the character you sought to portray. The Stanislavski method was one of his favorites. He also liked Lee Strasberg. He’d once looked into applying to the Actors Studio in New York. He had the talent. He didn’t have the cash.
He felt the energy drink kicking in, though it could also have been the thrill of the anticipated performance. The second can was in his gym bag, along with the cigarettes and matches. “I should quit,” he said, smiling at the thought of it. “But tonight the urge is just too strong.” He liked the line almost as much as “He had time to kill.”
He had told himself that Gabby—that’s what he’d called Gabrielle Lizotte—would be his last for a while. He’d told himself that maybe it was time to move, as he’d done after Beth Stinson, go to a new city for a while. The scrutiny by the police had become intense. When they’d formed a task force, he knew they were serious. That’s what they’d done for Bundy and Ridgway, which was rarefied air. So was his nickname—the Cowboy. It had a certain ring to it. Not as good as Urban Cowboy or Drugstore Cowboy, but not bad. “The Cowboy,” he said.
He’d gone nine years in between Beth Stinson and Nicole Hansen, damn near a decade. Stinson had been his first. He’d never forget that experience. It was like opening night of a long-awaited new show. The thrill had been intense. The urge had been present for years, but he hadn’t acted on it until then. For one, he wasn’t sure how to meet the women. Then he’d read an article about pedophiles hanging out at places where kids went, which disgusted him but gave him the idea of working at a strip club. What better place to meet whores? What better place for them to become comfortable around him, to trust him? What better way to hide in plain sight? So he went to a new club, someplace where no one would know him, Dirty Ernie’s Nude Review, and the owner, a woman—and wasn’t that a kick in the pants—hired him. Within two months she’d made him the manager. Of course she had. He’d been punctual and hardworking. He used the time to try and determine which dancer would be his first. Then Beth Stinson and her friend started at the club. The friend didn’t last long, but Stinson was a natural—danced under the name Betty Boobs, and the name fit. Nasty figure. She packed a lot of punch on a small frame. She was also naïve, barely out of high school.
He took his time getting to know her, befriending her, gaining her confidence. He talked to her in between her sets on the stage and working the VIP rooms. After her friend quit, Stinson was looking for a confidant. Soon she became comfortable enough to tell him the intimate details of her life—like the fact that she was a whore—just as he’d predicted. Just like his mother. She’d said it was to make extra money, pay the bills. He knew better. She was a whore. That’s what whores did.
After Stinson confided in him, he had a hard time hiding his disgust, but his acting classes helped. Besides, her revelation had provided his inspiration on how to do it without getting caught. Wait until a night when she’d been with one of the men. The guy’s fingerprints would be all over the room, along with all the others she’d brought home. So would his DNA. That’s when he’d started to plan. He learned where she lived and scouted out the neighborhood, a quiet residential street with no street lamps. The neighbors seemed to keep mostly to themselves.
The only flaw in his plan was when the owner came in and told him to start looking for another job, that the city council was moving to shut them down and it would be just a matter of time before they succeeded. Not long after that Stinson came in late for a Saturday shift. When he asked her why she was late, she said she had a clogged toilet and had to wait for the Roto-Rooter man. She said the guy was in her house for hours, trying to unclog it, and had tracked dirt on the carpet.
It was now or never. In acting, he’d learned that success was when opportunity met preparation. To succeed you had to be prepared for when the perfect role came up. This was his perfect role. This was his opportunity.
He approached Stinson late in the shift and asked if he could stop by after work; what would she think of that? She gave him a flirtatious smile and said they could both get fired if their boss found out, but there was an inquisitive lilt in her voice. He said she didn’t have to worry about that. He needed the job too much to say anything. And besides, they were both going to be looking for other work anyway. And she invited him over.
A gust of wind blew rain in his face as he neared the end of the block. The motel marquee glowed red amid Aurora Avenue’s chaotic skyline of street lamps and billboards, the lights reflecting in the sheen of the water-soaked pavement. He approached the back of the motel and followed a concrete walkway through an arch that led to the parking lot.
Stinson hadn’t gone exactly as he’d planned. Opening-night performances rarely did. He’d long since perfected the noose, but he had not quite figured out a way to kill without having to actually touch the woman. He hated it when his mother touched him, knowing the disgusting things she did with the men she brought home—the way she’d touched them and they’d touched her.
When he knocked on Stinson’s door, it felt like that rush of coming onstage completely in character, a totally different person, the audience having no idea who he really was. It hadn’t been a bad performance, just not his best. He desperately wanted another chance to get it right, but he knew he wasn’t ready. He knew that a bad performance could quickly kill a career, that he had to study more, improve, especially with the noose.
What had gone exactly as he’d planned was the arrest of the Roto-Rooter guy. Still, he thought it best to leave the area. Why not? When Dirty Ernie’s closed its doors, he was in need of a job anyway. And if he really wanted to be an actor, what better place to go than Los Angeles, to ply his acting trade, maybe catch his break.
In LA, fully devoted to his craft, he found it easier to ignore his urges. He went weeks at a time, sometimes months, without even thinking about Beth Stinson. He met his wife in a local performance of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He’d played McMurphy. The director called him a natural and said he was born to play the role. His wife had played Nurse Ratched. Man, they’d had some fireworks onstage. The first time they rehearsed the scene when McMurphy chokes her, he’d never felt so powerful, so alive. He almost did it, just squeezed the life out of her right there in front of everyone. The director said he’d been amazing, so believable. When the show’s run ended three months later, they got married in a civil ceremony at the downtown courthouse, and for a while they had the same kind of fireworks in the bedroom.
He got headshots made, found an agent, even did a toothpaste commercial. But the agent turned out to be a scam, a way to get you to pay to take her acting classes. He was paying her more than he was making, and when he balked at taking any more of her classes, she stopped calling him for auditions. When he pressed her, she said he wasn’t right for any roles. He grew angry with the entire scene, all the bullshit sucking-up, the backstabbing that people did to get a role. His wife had started nagging him to get a real job; they needed the money. She’d become pregnant, and she didn’t want to live in Los Angeles. So they packed up and moved to Seattle.
Everything was unravel
ing. Nothing was working out as he’d planned. He began to resent his wife, to feel the same anger toward her he’d felt for his mother. Without the acting to direct his energy, and the thrill of the performances, his urge returned and this time he couldn’t ignore it. He didn’t want to ignore it.
He rehearsed during the day, studying on S&M websites how to hog-tie a woman, how to tie the slipknot and thread the rope down the spine to her hands and ankles. He researched date rape drugs and settled on Rohypnol. When he felt prepared, he began to look for a whore for his next performance and started to hang out at a club called the Dancing Bare. He wasn’t worried about someone remembering him. Most of the people in the club were lowlifes. He settled on Nicole Hansen when one of the club regulars said she was available after hours and he was seeing her that very night. He left early and waited in his car. When the guy came out, he followed him to the motel and waited for the man to leave. Then he knocked on the door, held up a bottle of vodka, and said, “Gary said you liked to party.”
And that was all it took.
So many years had passed it felt like his first all over again—opening night, but this time without the mistakes and the kinks. He found he had no problem falling back into character. And when he’d finished, he found that he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to do it again.
The Pink Palace had a lot more women to choose from. Angela Schreiber started bringing her boyfriend to the club. She just made it too easy. Veronica Watson became his choice when her boyfriend mentioned that she was making more money at night after she left the club. That guy had almost ruined the performance, showing up at the motel room unannounced, in need of money. He’d hidden in the bathroom until the guy left. Turned out to be a stroke of luck—the boyfriend became a suspect. Like that little punk could ever be “the Cowboy.” Still, the close call had unnerved him, and he left the motel that morning thinking Watson would be his last, at least for a while. He contemplated getting back into theater, maybe trying improv or stand-up comedy. But when could he do that while working nights?
Then the opportunity with Gabby presented itself. The man the dancers called Mr. Attorney had come in and asked her for a lap dance. That was unusual. Gabby was petite. Mr. Attorney went for women with more meat on the bones. When Gabby came out of the private room, she was grinning ear to ear. He asked her if everything was okay, and she just smiled wider. He heard later that Mr. Attorney had given Gabby a fifty-dollar tip, and he suspected he wasn’t just throwing his money around. The guy expected something in return. So he played that hunch, and it turned out his instincts were dead-on. Gabby had made a date. All he had to do was get to the motel and wait for Mr. Attorney to leave the room.
After that performance, his best to date, he was no longer considering stopping. He was considering his next victim.
And again, opportunity knocked. Raina came to work. Her name was actually spelled “Rayna,” but she thought the unusual spelling would be cute—“You know, because it rains so much in Seattle.” She’d moved from a small town in Texas, and quickly became popular with the customers. They liked her small frame, gymnast’s body, and surgically enhanced breasts. She dyed her hair blonde, with gold highlights, which looked ridiculous with her dark eyebrows and reminded him of his mother, who’d worn a blonde wig but painted on her eyebrows with a dark pencil. He knew he’d kill her the first time he spoke to her.
Raina had told him she had a room at the back of the motel on the first floor—number 17. “It’s my lucky number,” she said. She had no idea. She’d said she’d text him when her date had left, but he told her instead to place one of the Pink Palace cards, which the dancers were provided to promote the club, in the window. He didn’t want any text messages to his phone. Some of the dancers weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed, but he figured if he ever knocked and the date was still present he’d simply improvise and abort the mission. No harm, no foul.
When he arrived at room 17, he saw the card in the window. He knocked softly. She answered wearing a sheer pink camisole that did little to hide the shape of her breasts or the darkness of her nipples and patch of hair. “Hi,” she said.
He set his duffel bag on the bed.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked, with a slight Texas twang.
“Change of clothes,” he said. “And a couple of toys.”
“Ooh,” she cooed. “Can I look?”
She reached for the bag, but he grabbed her hand. He’d have to remember that he’d touched her. He already felt the need to wash his hands. “I’d rather it be a surprise. Don’t worry, nothing too kinky, no whips and chains. I’m going to use the head.”
Ordinarily he’d ask them to be undressed when he returned. It saved him the time. But she was already practically naked. He looked to the television in the corner with the built-in VCR and DVD player. “Can you turn on the TV? I brought a movie.” He unzipped the bag and handed her the tape. “You can put it in, but don’t start it yet. I want to be here to watch the whole thing with you.”
He pulled out a bottle of wine. “How about a drink?”
She smiled. “I like that idea.”
“I’ll wash out the glasses while I’m in there. You never know who’s been in these rooms.”
He brought the bag into the bathroom and set it on the floor, careful not to touch any of the surfaces. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and removed the bottle of Rohypnol. He slipped a pill into one of the two plastic glasses and poured the wine. Then he checked his reflection in the mirror, shut his eyes, and took several deep breaths, allowing himself to get into character. Just about at that place, he heard voices coming from inside the room. His heart rate spiked. Then he recognized the music—the prelude. The overture. And he felt a rush of adrenaline.
She’d started the tape.
He grabbed the knife from his bag, quickly pulled open the door, and rushed out.
She turned and looked at him with disgust. She was standing near the television, remote in hand. “What the hell is this?” she said. Then her gaze dropped to his hands, and her eyes went wide. She threw the remote control at him and ran for the door, but he ducked the remote and barreled into her, overpowering her. He clasped a hand over her mouth, muting her scream, and put the knife to her throat.
“You’re going to do exactly what I say,” he said. “It can be a fun night, or the last night of your life. Do we understand each other?”
She nodded.
“Good. I’d hate to have to cut your throat.”
The overture had ended.
Time for the show.
CHAPTER 58
Tracy slapped the steering wheel, realizing even before she saw the logo on the grille that the car was not a Lexus. She punched the gas and sped to the intersection, about to cross, when she saw a large yellow sign indicating a dead end. She considered the street more closely. A lone street lamp. Homes on one side of the street. A cyclone fence, the kind with wood slats in the chain link to provide some measure of privacy, on the other. She drove forward, looking between the slats at the back of a stucco strip mall and blue Dumpsters overflowing with cardboard boxes.
And the Lexus.
She’d found the car.
He had to be close; he wouldn’t risk walking far, not at that hour.
She made a U-turn, drove back to the intersection, and made a left onto Aurora. The nearest motel was at the corner. She pulled into the lot, jumped down from the cab, and hurried into the office. Her mending collarbone ached from the exertion.
The clerk was behind the counter watching television. An obese man, he had trouble getting up from his chair. “Help you?”
She flashed her shield. “Did a woman come in alone to rent a room in the last hour?”
The man adjusted the bill of a red hat advertising an auto repair shop. “No.”
“That woman’s life is in danger. If she came in, I need to know.”
“No one’s come in,” the man said, looking suddenly more concerned. “Had a family check
in just after midnight, but it’s been quiet otherwise. What does she look like?”
Tracy didn’t know. She was already looking out the glass doors at the motel across the street. “Thanks,” she said, leaving.
She swung the truck around the parking lot and gunned it across the street. A car in the northbound lanes blasted its horn as she shot in front of it, her truck’s front left tire bouncing over the curb. Tracy corrected and drove into the motel’s parking lot. A sign for the office pointed to the back of the building.
A heavyset woman missing one of her teeth greeted her at the counter. Tracy flashed her shield. “I’m looking for a woman, maybe came in alone about an hour ago. She might have asked for a room at the back of the building—quiet, needed privacy.”
“Yeah. A woman came in about forty-five minutes ago.” The clerk spoke with an Eastern European accent.
“What room?”
“27.”
“I need to get in that room.”
The woman grabbed a plastic card key hanging from a hook by a lanyard. “Come, I will show you.”
Tracy followed her out of the office. The woman moved well for her size. They quickly climbed the outdoor staircase and turned left at the second-floor landing. Tracy focused on the numbers on the doors: 24, 25, 26. When they reached 27, the woman knocked, probably out of habit, just before Tracy had the chance to stop her.
Tracy took the card and swiped it in the lock. The light glowed red. She flipped the card and tried again. Again the light glowed red.
“Slowly. Slowly.” The clerk took the card and swiped it. The sensor glowed green.
“Stand behind the wall,” Tracy said. With her one good arm, she shoved the door open, then reached for her gun.
A woman was sitting up in the bed, a sheet tucked under her chin, eyes wide. On the bed beside her was a bag and an assortment of sex toys. “Where is he?”
Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) Page 32