Page 53 of Sharp Force
“I’m sorry as hell for both of us.”
“At least we’re alive and well, unlike what we’re about to encounter,” I reply.
“That doesn’t make it any easier if we’re honest.” He follows me across the bedroom. “It doesn’t matter if we’re off the clock. In truth, we never are.”
“The price one pays for trying to live by the Golden Rule. Do unto others.” I step inside the bathroom to freshen up.
“Before they do it unto us.” His humor tends to cynical.
I give him the upshot of what Marino told me.
“Mercy Island,” Benton says as I turn on water in the sink. “Adding to my suspicion that the Slasher has been in and out of mental health facilities, harboring conflicted feelings about women who have cared for him. Most of all his mother. That’s who he’s targeting symbolically.”
“Or maybe his job brings him to health facilities,” I reply. “A lot of vehicles are in and out delivering food, medical supplies, you name it. Plus, the construction and landscaping and everything else going on. The last time I responded to Mercy Island, the security was pathetic.”
“That was Lucy on the phone, and based on what she was telling me, security’s no better now,” Benton says as I wash my face.“All that’s needed is a keycard to open the entrance gate. Or it can be accessed remotely by the residents, the hospital staff.”
“Has she said anything about Georgine Duvall?” I can’t imagine what Lucy must be feeling.
“Not a word. You wouldn’t know she’d ever heard of her.”
“Which is exactly how she acted way back when,” I recall.
“Georgine Duvall’s address on Mercy Island is Thirteen Shore Lane, as it turns out. How’s that for an eerie coincidence?” Benton adds.
“The property we looked at?” I dry my face with a towel, reaching for the jar of moisturizer.
“The very same.”
“Marino didn’t mention the actual street address and might not know it’s the place we toured after the Realtor twisted our arm,” I explain.
“Riverfront with huge trees and a big garden.” Benton leans against the doorframe looking at his phone, skimming through more messages. “On a point and probably the most isolated and private of the residences.”
I brush my teeth, remembering the lush rosebushes, the benches, the wooden birdhouses on poles, everything old. I envision metal fencing around the property, and the high stone wall that encircles the hospital grounds. When Benton and I were house-hunting five years ago, Mercy Island was recommended as ideal.
We were shown the former chapel repurposed into a three-story house with tall windows and high ceilings, the views spectacular. When we toured rooms and the meditation garden, we couldn’t help but think of desperate patients. The energy was depressing and oppressive. We couldn’t shake it or wait to leave.
“Unless you can access the entrance, you’d need assistance toclimb over the wall, which is a good seven or eight feet high,” I remind Benton. “Then you’d have to scale the fence around Thirteen Shore Lane. You’d need a ladder, a rope. Or a boat possibly if you come in by water. I seem to remember a dock behind the house.”
“The wall, the fence, the river wouldn’t keep out someone determined,” he agrees. “And normally an intruder would have been picked up by the home security cameras around the perimeter. Except they’re wireless. So is the alarm system, and as we know, there was no cell signal at the time of the attack. Lucy told me that like most places these days, everything at the scene is Wi-Fi-enabled.”
“Smart homes for obtuse people.” I open the medicine cabinet, finding the hair gel. “They don’t realize how vulnerable that makes them if there’s an outage or the network is overwhelmed.”
“Or if a predator shows up with a signal jammer. Which is why we have backup landlines in hard-to-find places,” Benton says. “Lucy’s not about to allow someone to do that to us.”
“Has she figured out the problem yet?”
“She and Tron discovered a homemade signal jammer like the ones used in the other three cases,” he says. “It was hidden in shrubs on the riverbank at the back of the house. They’re dealing with the provider to get the Wi-Fi back up.”
CHAPTER 18
Istudy myself in the mirror over the sink, my hair a mess. Silver at the temples, it’s more cool blond than honey gold and needs trimming. I was looking forward to a hairstylist I like in London, and I text my secretary, asking her to cancel all travel and appointments.
Another homicide that may be the work of the Slasher. Here in Alexandria,I explain to Shannon.Have to postpone travels.
Dear God, how terrible!she answers right away.
The sooner you head to the office the better,I write her back.
