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I had a picture to paint. Still Life with Dead Asshat. And I had to get every brushstroke just exactly right. I started with the lifeless body. When I let it go, Michael’s head flopped forward and thumped onto the computer’s keyboard. I took one step back, looked him over. Something was a little off; it looked like I had dropped him. I mean, I had—but I didn’t want it to look like that. I readjusted one arm so it looked like he had raised the arm to defend himself and then dropped it when he died. Much better picture. Next, I took a small Ziploc bag from my jacket pocket. Inside was a short piece of what looked like ordinary Scotch tape. It wasn’t. It was a specialty item, well-known to forensics geeks, designed to lift fingerprints. I took the tape out of the bag carefully. Then laid it onto the handle of the blade sticking out of Michael Hobson’s back. Gently, steadily, I rubbed the back of the tape. Then, just as carefully, I peeled up the tape and took a look.
A clear set of finger
prints in a light brown powder now stood out on the handle of the blade. Right where they should be. I put the tape back in the bag and the bag back in my pocket.
From a different pocket, I took out a second plastic bag. I opened it and took out a few thin fibers, too small and light to be wire—hairs. Human hairs, belonging to somebody very specific. I put one beside the knife’s handle, one on the floor beside the desk, and a couple more on the dead guy’s hand and shirtfront.
I stepped back again and looked; so far, it was perfect. Now for the kill shot.
I pulled out a file drawer from the left side of the desk. Taped to the back of the drawer was a flash drive. I held it up and looked to be sure. Yup. This was the Money. In block letters, the flash drive was labeled “TRUE MENTOR.” This was something Michael hid, in a place where nobody would find it but where he could get at it quick and easy when he wanted a peek. Which he did a lot. This was the real Michael Hobson.
“Bastard,” I said softly. Just holding it in my hand made me want to kill him all over again. But there was still work to do. So before I could puke and ruin the picture, I pushed the flash drive into a USB port on Michael’s computer. Using the keyboard was a little awkward. I had to work around the lifeless head lying there. But I managed. In a few seconds, images came up on the screen. I didn’t want to look, but I had to be sure.
They were the right pictures, all right. “Fucking bastard,” I whispered again. Couldn’t help it. And anyway, Michael Hobson wasn’t going to hear me. I turned away from the pictures. If I looked any longer, I really would puke. I didn’t want to see them, even by accident. But Michael Hobson did. Or he had.
Almost done. I stepped back and looked the scene over. It was close to perfect—but “close” is never enough. It needed one more dramatic touch. My eyes fell on Michael’s briefcase. Yup, that was it. I knocked it onto the floor and scattered a few pages from inside it onto the carpet. Now the scene told it all: dramatic struggle ending in tragic death. The body sprawled across the desk, obviously murdered. A very small drip of blood had made a stain on the carpet—a true fucking tragedy, because it was beautiful Persian, probably seventeenth-century and therefore worth a great deal of money. Unfortunately the bloodstain would lower the price. A shame, but unavoidable—and worth it in any case.
One last thing: From the desk beside the dead asshole, I picked up his cell phone. I took out a small electronic box I’d bought from a guy in Atlanta. A truly handy tool—everybody should have one. I plugged it into the phone and waited. In just a few seconds the phone’s security code ticked into place. I unplugged the little device and started typing a quick text message. I read it through twice to be sure it sounded right. Then I hit SEND, replaced the phone, and stepped back to look over my work.
It looked right. More than that, it made me smile. I couldn’t help it.
Like I said, I don’t love killing, and I don’t get off on dead bodies. No, it was the picture that made me smile. Why not? I bet Leonardo smiled when he looked at the finished Mona Lisa.
My picture, in its own way, was just as good. I’d stabbed Michael with his own letter opener. Like most of his stuff, it was a rare and valuable antique. Turkish, sixteenth-century. The blade was filigreed silver, which was lovely to see, and razor sharp. But the real joy of the piece was the handle. It was ivory, and it was carved to look like a large penis.
And now, stuck into Michael’s back with my last hearty stab, that handle stuck straight up in the air. It looked exactly like Michael’s spine had somehow sprouted an erection.
I kept the smile for a minute. It wasn’t just funny by itself. Considering what was on that thumb drive, it was very close to poetic justice. The miserable shit got just what he deserved.
I looked around a last time, checking for any small item out of place, anything that might contradict the story I wanted to tell, anything I might have dropped. There was nothing, not even a scuff mark from my feet.
Good. The scene was perfect. It said exactly what I wanted it to say. I turned away and left as quietly as I’d entered, pausing in the hall just long enough to turn the security system back on.
CHAPTER
16
Katrina woke slowly, from a sleep deeper and more deadening than she could ever remember having before. Light showed around the edges of the heavy drapes; it was morning. Katrina closed her eyes again, just for a moment. Her brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton, and her whole body was in a state of the most delicious numbness. She thought she could just lie there with her eyes closed forever. She felt good all over—and of course, that made her feel guilty. She was committing adultery. The phrase echoed down at her from her childhood, part of her family’s strict moral tradition, and a very strong and deeply rooted voice told Katrina that adultery was bad. And so it really shouldn’t feel good.
But it did; it really, really did. It made her feel young again—young and, astonishingly, innocent. That made no sense at all to Katrina, but she couldn’t argue with it. She felt rejuvenated—emotionally, spiritually, and, of course, physically. Not just because the sex was great—and it was—but something more, something that would have filled her with elation even with mediocre sex. It had to be the relationship itself. It seemed right somehow, as if this man was the one she should have been with all along, and not stuck in the cold and empty marriage with her husband, Michael.
Michael, who never had time for her; Michael, who was always away on business; Michael, who had made love to her perhaps four times in the last six months—each time hurriedly and distantly, as if he were dutifully performing some chore.
No, this was very, very different. This was fun, fulfilling, and if it was adultery, well, so be it. Because it was also the best anybody had made her feel in a long time. She stretched slowly, reveling in the sensation of feeling good all over, inside and out.
Beside her, Randall mumbled something in his sleep and then she felt him twitch, take a deep breath, and turn over, and in a few seconds his breathing steadied into the deep and regular pattern of someone still deep asleep. Katrina couldn’t help herself; she opened her eyes and rolled over onto one elbow to look at him. The sight of him made her smile. The affair was still new, still delightfully fresh—and, well, wrong. And she still got a little thrill out of seeing him stretched out beside her, his lean, hard body relaxed in slumber, his beard tousled from their lovemaking, and his lovely sensitive face looking so much younger and more innocent as he slept.
Katrina sat up. She remembered most of the previous evening. It had seemed like they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and they’d stopped fighting off the urgent need and gone to bed early—very early. But she’d had a little more to drink than usual. A lot more, actually; two cocktails at dinner, and then most of the bottle of wine they’d brought upstairs with them—an excellent Château Margaux—because Randall only sipped at his and kept saying it was a shame to waste it as he refilled her glass. The bottle and the glasses were gone now, and she smiled again. It was so very like him to get out of bed and tidy things up. She was absolutely certain that when she went downstairs she would find the two wineglasses washed and put away, and the bottle tucked neatly into the recycle bin. That was Randall: neat, thoughtful, and absolutely delightful.
But he’d left the half-empty dish of cocoa-powdered almonds on the bedside table. He’d been very funny about the almonds, insisting she try them. She thought they were a very odd choice, especially with red wine. But he told her that she had supplied the wine, so it was only fair that she let him provide the accompanying snack, and in any case he said chocolate went extremely well with red wine, and he’d practically forced her hand into the bowl. And he’d been right, oddly enough. Chocolate did go with red wine, even the Margaux.
Katrina shook her head, marveling at how quickly this new relationship had become important. Because suddenly it seemed like one of the most significant things in her life, and that was impossible, foolish, dangerous—because she was committing adultery.
With her decorator, for God’s sake. A man she hardly knew. Granted, he was a very good-looking man, and his taste was exquisite. And she felt like she knew him—they laughed at the same things, and often. And he was so good at what he did; somehow, he managed to locate some absolutely amazing pieces, and at reasonable prices. But not even the gorgeous new furniture and artwork could possibly explain or excuse sleeping with the man. She was married, and she’d never before even thought of cheating on Michael. She was well aware that many in her social circle had affairs—perhaps even most of them. But she did not, nor did anyone in her family. It was just unthinkable for an Eberhardt, part of the Victorian code of behavior instilled in all Eberhardts as they grew up. But here she was, sunk into the quicksand of infidelity and, worse, absolutely loving it. And although the details of how it had started were a little fuzzy, she was quite sure Randall Miller had not forced himself on her.
Since the night she met him, Katrina had found Randall attractive. Physically he was lean and very fit, and his shaved head and neat beard gave him a dashing look. But more than that, he had a sense of humor that matched her own perfectly. He made her laugh, and that is far more important to a woman than any bulging biceps. Lord knows Michael didn’t give her many laughs—or anything else, except an open checkbook. And since Katrina had inherited a great deal of money of her own, that was one thing she did not need from her husband. What she needed was a little attention, some affection, a few smiles—and yes, damn it! A little bit of sex now and then! Katrina was a young and healthy woman, with normal healthy appetites, and Michael was not feeding them.
And Randall was.
