Page 2 of The Grave Artist
He heaved the groom over the guardrail. A moment later, he heard a thud, then a splash. Damon moved to the edge and peered over the precipice. In the moon’s glow, he made out a figure sprawled in the shallow water among the jagged stones.
Luckily the body had landed face down. If the blow and the fall hadn’t killed him, he would soon drown. No extra effort needed on Damon’s part.
Now for the final phase.
He pulled the man’s cell phone from his pocket and checked to see if he’d use plan A or plan B. If it was a model that let you open the camera app without unlocking the unit, he’d take several pictures ofthe beautiful view, then hit the button to swap lenses, so that it was on selfie mode. If it was locked, he’d leave the phone near the cliff, as if the groom had dropped it and fallen while trying to retrieve it for the selfie.
This was part of the thrill for him. The challenge of planning what he could, but relying on sheer cunning to adapt to unexpected circumstances. He felt it was this skill, constantly honed, that made him successful.
He tapped the screen, which allowed him to access the camera. Plan A then. He got four good pictures, reversed lenses, then tossed the phone over the side. He didn’t throw it hard, making sure it landed on the rocks, not in the water.
Slipping the gloves away, Damon strolled back toward the hotel with unhurried steps.
He didn’t have to wait long—ten minutes—for the sounds of shouting, the pounding of footsteps and the wail of a siren. He joined the throng on the lower-level garden, where the koi pond was located. A shiver of pleasure ran through him when he witnessed the expressions of horror as onlookers watched rescue workers hurry to the body. Within minutes, their urgent movements became methodical. There was no need to rush.
He eavesdropped on two police officers talking nearby. They concluded that the groom had wanted to take a selfie near the edge of the cliff with the moon over the city. The guy clearly had too much to drink and leaned back too far against the guardrail. Such a shame.
Damon stayed long enough to watch the bride, nowwidow, push past the workers, drop to her knees and embrace the body, blood staining the front of the satin gown precisely as he’d imagined earlier.
Exhilarated, he walked to the parking lot to collect his car, tucked away in a spot not covered by security cameras.
Damon Garr was pleased. If there was any phrase to describe the evening, he decided, it was this: a good start.
Chapter 2
Tuesday, June 23
“Everybody, down!”
Jacoby Heron grabbed the arm of the man next to him—a twentysomething in jeans and a gray hoodie—and tugged him behind the car.
The other pedestrians on the dusty street of this working part of Santa Monica had already crouched at the sound of the bang.
Jake, in his thirties, was tall, over six feet, and he hunched to keep behind the vehicle. He had dark hair and a beard that was somewhat less dark. He wore black jeans and a dark-blue windbreaker, logo-free. His shoes, also black, were scuffed.
He darted a glance over the hood of the Jeep Wrangler and shouted, “Sanchez!”
But Carmen Sanchez remained slumped over the wheel of her Suburban, whose rear passenger window sported a large bullet hole, spidering the glass.
“No,” Jake muttered, closing his eyes briefly.
The man beside him asked in a trembling voice, “What’s ... what’s going on?”
Jake ignored the question and patted his pocket. Frowning, he looked toward the street.
His phone lay where it had fallen when he leaped to the sidewalk.
He turned to the man squatting beside him. “What’s your name?”
“Um, Tim. Tim Bancroft.”
“I need your phone, Tim,” he said urgently.
“You want me to call 9-1-1?”
“No, I’ve got a direct line to a response team.” He took a quick look at the SUV, caught another glimpse of Sanchez, still motionless, and gestured impatiently for the phone. “Now, dammit.”
Tim unlocked his mobile and handed it over.
