Page 7 of The Grave Artist
And if somebodywerefollowing, who would it be?
Some young detective who became suspicious about the death at the inn in the Hollywood Hills Saturday night? Or, he supposed, someone private could have connected him with the murder and scored his license plate. And, with a grand or two to a PI, got his name and address. But to what end? Blackmail? He would have heard by now. And he hadn’t seen anyone at the inn following the murder, and his car had come and gone out of view of the security cameras—he’d checked. Also, at the moment, he was in another car, his silver Mercedes, one of several vehicles he owned and kept in a storage garage.
It was four days after the delightful night of the reception. Media outlets were covering the death as accidental, which meant that was how the authorities were treating it. Had there been even the slightestsuspicion of a murder, they would have made an announcement asking for anyone with information to come forward.
And the reporters would be all over the story like rooting pigs.
No, he was just feeling a little paranoid.
Being cautious, nonetheless, Damon drove past his house and took several meandering roads through Malibu before he finally decided it was his imagination.
He returned home, pulled into the carport and parked. Few garages here. It was Southern California. No need, given that only seven snowfalls have resulted in accumulation in the past hundred years.
Climbing from the Mercedes, he retrieved two shopping bags from the back seat. Presently he was dressed casually but, as always, in quality clothing, a size and cut to accentuate his athletic build. The path to the front door wound serpentine through dense vegetation in varieties of green, the verdant monotony broken with dozens of yellow and red and blue floral accents. He noted footsteps in the sand dusting the tile, coming and going, but there was no worry. It was just a delivery.
His heart tapped a bit faster as he saw the small package left on the porch.
Damon’s house, custom built to his specifications, was typical of dwellings in Malibu, a beach town on the Pacific Ocean about thirty miles west of LA. It certainly had its share of sprawling, luxurious estates owned by nine-figure businesspeople and A-list celebrities, but most were like Damon’s, gorgeous places certainly, but on a more modest scale: medium-size lots with manicured gardens in which nestled ranch houses.
One difference: everyone else wanted more windows than walls—so they might peer at floralscapes and the placid ocean. But Damon had ordered only a few small panes installed, much to the builder’s surprise. He didn’t explain that not only might sunlight be a problem, considering what he planned to fill the house with, but, most importantly, privacy was paramount.
If one can look out, others can look in.
The crash of surf sounded from the beach about three hundred yards west. The original inhabitants of the area, the Chumash, called the settlement Humaliwo, which meant “where the surf sounds loudly.” Over time, the native word had morphed into Malibu, where the ocean still roared.
Damon had no more interest in the sound than in the view. Or in the beach. He’d picked the spot and the architecture of his home because it was the exact opposite of the columned colonial estate in Brentwood where he’d grown up. Such specifics in his choice of housing might be the kind of thing he’d discuss with a therapist, but he no longer saw one. Shrinks wanted you to dish and, in Damon Garr’s case, sharing was not wise.
He slid an electric key fob from his pocket and tapped it on the lock to unlatch the front door. Inside, he entered a code to deactivate the alarm. The house was clean and neat and ordered. The four dark-haired, short women who descended onto the property weekly, always when he was present to make sure they did not go where they should not go, worked with energy and apparent devotion to their tasks.
They were not, of course, Miss Spalding, but then no one wouldeverbe Miss Spalding.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the smoky mirror that dominated one wall of the entryway. Damon was big, six two, weighing around 210. His square face and precision-cut sandy hair would be considered handsome by most. The adjective had been first offered by Miss Spalding, when he was about ten, and she reiterated the assessment often enough that he’d come to believe it. Certainly, that seemed to be the view of the women in the community college classes he taught (art history not being a big draw for men).
He spent four days a week working out. All the best serial killers were strong as sin. The Bind, Torture, Kill murderer easily overpowered his victims, using ligatures to restrain and eventually suffocate them. The Boston Strangler needed a strong upper body based purely on his MO. And Ted Bundy whacked his victims heartily with blunt objects,rearranging their features in horrible ways, thanks to his toned muscles. Damon hated gyms and used free weights in his bedroom and ran along the sandy jogging trails in and around Malibu. And even on nonworkout days, his push-ups numbered two hundred, his sit-ups twice that.
Damon put away the groceries he’d bought—cold cuts and frozen dinners, along with Little Debbie and Hostess snack cakes. Miss Spalding had frequently indulged him when he was young, and the habit remained.
A sudden thought, cloned with a memory, occurred—possibly because of his Hollywood Crest wedding night adventure on Saturday: Felicia would have put him on a diet of greens and lean, steamed entrées after they got married.
But, of course, that never came to be.
He poured a glass of 2 percent milk and drank it down. He then washed his hands, dried them thoroughly and, with eager anticipation, opened the small box that had been delivered earlier.
He looked at the contents, razor blades, each one wrapped in clear plastic. They were German and hard to find in America, but Damon had located a source. There is nothing magic about the sharpness of razor blades. They are honed like any other metal edge: stone first, then finally leather. The trick is the alloy. You could, in theory, make a razor-blade dagger, but the edge would not last, and it would be so brittle it would probably break when it struck bone as you were exploring the torso of someone writhing on the ground before you.
But Damon Garr had no need for a knife. These blades did the job just fine.
A glance at the box of blue latex gloves nearby, the razor blades and, finally, the secret door, disguised as a mirror in the living room wall, leading to his den.
He pictured Her inside.
The downcast eyes, the troubled mouth.
Her smooth arms.
In particular the nape of Her neck, prominent because Her back was bent in misery.
He rattled the box of double-edge blades like a smoker from the 1930s might to see how many matches remained.
