Page 1 of The Grave Artist
Chapter 1
Saturday, June 20
The man cast his dark eyes approvingly over the bride’s white satin dress.
He thought of it as a blank canvas soon to be painted—with the vermilion hue of blood.
In his thirties and handsome in an action hero sort of way, Damon Garr stood on the back lawn of the Hollywood Crest Inn, facing the 1930s stucco structure, as he studied the newlyweds bidding farewell to the guests at their reception.
The Brock party . . .
The time was close to midnight. The musicians were stowing their instruments after playing the tired repertoire of canned romantic tunes for the five hundredth time this season. And the month was only June. Servers and bus people clattered away the dessert and coffee china.
Concealed by the sumptuous California foliage that blossomed over the property, Damon looked past the waning celebration and watched.
And waited.
His patience finally was rewarded when the couple retreated to a bench in a large, landscaped garden behind the inn to steal some time alone. The brunette bride, around thirty, was a bit older than the blond groom. She appeared slightly tipsy, throwing her head back andlaughing too loud at something her brand-new husband said. He himself was not the picture of sobriety either.
But weddings were made for indulgence, were they not?
Damon was dressed for the occasion—dark Italian suit, white shirt, burgundy tie—with perfectly barbered hair and a pear-skin smooth shave.
Inconspicuous, as always, when creating his Tableaux.
No one would have paid him any mind. He seemed like any other guest at the Brock reception, one of the three happening at the venue, which offered unreal views of Los Angeles, far below its perch in the Hollywood Hills. Still, he remained hidden in the vegetation—out of the couple’s sight and, just as important, out of security camera view—and edged close enough to overhear the groom offer to get them each another drink. His bride laughed again, saying she’d already had too much, but he waved away the insincere protest and rose, promising to return shortly with brandies.
Anticipation quickened Damon’s pulse. He’d spent two hours hidden behind plantings, listening to bad music and worse toasts, waiting for an opportunity like this.
Now . . .
He slipped a pair of blue latex gloves from a plastic bag in his back pocket. Snapping them on, he checked the distance between the bench and the bar, calculating how long it would take the groom to reach his destination, via a flagstone path overlooking a large koi pond thirty feet below.
The couple would be separated less than five minutes.
Time to act.
Damon picked up what he’d spotted earlier: a landscaping stone roughly the size and shape of a brick. Remaining behind the trees, he swiftly closed the distance to the waiting bride, noting the moonlight glinting off her dark hair. She looked ephemeral, a vision in white.
He clutched the rock tighter.
And walked past her.
The groom’s black tuxedo was hard to see when he moved into the shadows, but his steps were unhurried, and Damon had no trouble catching up to him.
This was the tricky part. Timing, as they say, was everything. Damon darted a glance around the area. No sign of anyone.
He sped up, raised the rock high and brought it down in a sweeping arc onto the top of the groom’s head.
A satisfying snap told him the skull had cracked. The groom crumpled to the ground.
Time for stage two.
After tossing the stone into the koi pond, he squatted to rifle through the unconscious groom’s clothing, found his cell phone and pocketed it.
Still hunkered down, he grasped the groom’s left hand to pull his arm around Damon’s own shoulders. Next, he wrapped his right arm around the groom’s waist and hoisted his limp body upright. Damon trudged with his burden to the iron-pipe railing separating the path from the cliff over the pond. Had he been spotted, it would appear that he was simply helping a drunken reveler too unsteady on his feet to walk.
But another quick look around assured him that there were no witnesses.
