James Conway - In Cold Blonde

Blake knew a lot of agents. It was vital to a young career to be photographed at all the right movie premieres and A-list parties, so Hollywood’s ten-percenters needed coverage from Blake’s photographers. And this was definitely a you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours kind of town. “I know some people, some agents I could set you up with.”

If she hadn’t known Blake in high school, she would have been convinced by his sincerity. But Blake Hunter was a player. He’d say and do anything in high school to get laid. It had been his idea to invite her over to Colin’s house and drug and rape her. He’d been the one to email those horrible pictures of her. He might have been trying to charm her now, but in his mind, she was the antelope and he was the lion.

But if he was acting, she could act, too. So she cocked her head and looked at him suspiciously. “How do I you know you’re not a letch who just wants to get into my pants?”

She said it playfully and Blake laughed. “Well, let’s start with this simple statement of fact: I do want to get into your pants.” His eyes dropped to her bathing suit, “Or, bottoms as the case may be. But I do know a lot of agents and quite a few owe me favors. And I don’t expect anything from you. I’ll get you a meeting at CAA, WME and UTA, no strings attached.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He stepped forward, took the coffee cup out of her hands. “Can I get you some more coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Her eyes tracked him into the kitchen. She wasn’t able to bring her gun with her but Alice figured there would be knives in the house she could use to kill him. And sure enough there was a wood block filled with knives on the counter.

Her dad made her clean the deer and elk she shot as a kid, and cutting through the skin, muscle and bone hadn’t bothered her as much as she thought it would. She wasn’t crazy about the blood, but it washed off easily enough, so the prospect of sliding a butcher knife into Blake’s back or slitting his throat open with a paring knife didn’t bother her. In fact, the vision of his blood squirting onto his shiny kitchen floor thrilled her.

“You have a beautiful kitchen,” she said, following him into the kitchen. “Do you cook?”

“No,” he said, adding Splenda and milk to her mug. “But my decorator was a great chef and she insisted I have a top notch kitchen.”

Alice leaned on the counter, the set of knives behind her. She reached back, wrapped her right hand around the butcher knife. She was about to slide it out when Blake turned around with her coffee.

“Here you go,” he said. “With milk and Splenda, just like before.”

Her hand dropped off the knife, took the cup. “Thank you.”

“Are you hungry? I’ve got bananas here somewhere, and apples in the refrigerator, I think.”

“An apple would be great.”

Blake opened the Sub Zero, bent over and slid open a bottom drawer. His back was to her now, and a perfect target.

Alice silently slid the butcher knife out of the block, turned toward Blake raising the knife over her head.

Crash! The front door burst open. “Hey, Blake, we’re here!”

Alice dropped her hand, slid the knife back into the block and three guys came around the corner.

“Sorry we’re late, but…” the guy who was talking stopped when he saw Alice standing in the kitchen. A moment later Blake stood up with an apple. The guy, Joel, one of Blake’s photographers who looked like a Hell’s Angel motorcycle outlaw said, “I thought Eve was the one with the apple, but hey, I was kicked out of bible studies for wacking off to an illustration of Delilah.”

The other two men laughed. One was tall in a luau shirt and cargo shorts, the other in jeans and a torn tee shirt. All three had multiple cameras draped around their necks.

“Funny, Joel,” Blake said. “Guys, this is Dawn. Dawn, the guys.”

“Hi,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Blake said to Alice. “But we’ve got to be in Hollywood by noon. Can we drop you somewhere?”

Shit, Alice thought. Shit, shit, shit. “No, I’ve got my kayak, I’ll be fine.”

Blake took her by the arm, led her onto the deck. “Look,” he said. “I feel like we’re just getting started here and I’d love to see you again. Are you free tonight?”

Alice wasn’t sure how much time she had left before the cops found Adam and started putting all the pieces together, but she didn’t have much choice, now, did she? “I could be,” she said. “In fact, I happen to be a wonderful cook. What say I put that fancy dancy kitchen of yours to work and make us dinner?”

“That would be great,” he said. And then I’m going to fuck you silly, he thought. “Say, seven o’clock.”

“I’ll be here. In a car this time.”

Blake laughed. “Good idea.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Be safe.”

“I will. Oh, and thanks for saving my life.”

“All in a day’s work.”

Alice held his look for a long, provocative moment. “I’m happy I met you, Blake Hunter.” Then she ran down the beach toward her kayak thinking: But I’m going to be even happier to kill you.

“Look at the fingers,” Syd said. “What do you see?”

Ryan saw the index, middle and ring finger spread out, the thumb and pinkie folded into Adam Devlin’s palm. “Three fingers,” then it hit him. “3. The three fingers mean 3.”

“Her third victim. I love a worthy opponent,” Syd said. “Be a shame when we finally catch her.”

They stood in the middle of suite 1224 looking at Adam’s dead body. He was naked. There was a single bullet wound which obliterated his left eye, blew out the back of his skull and left a Rorschach-like blood spray on the wall behind him. His penis had been removed but wasn’t in his mouth.

Ramirez and his team were hard at work dusting the room for prints, vacuuming samples from the floor, taking hair and fibers from the bed.

Liz knelt at Adam’s head examining the gunshot wound. Then she moved to his mouth. “There’s blood on his lips. But no penis.” She looked at the cops spread throughout the room. “Anyone see a severed cock?”

“Okay,” Hanrahan said, a cherry Tootsie Roll Pop jammed in his mouth. “That’s something you don’t hear at every crime scene.”

“We have an ID on the victim?” Ryan asked.

“The room’s registered to Adam Devlin.” Hanrahan held up a plastic evidence bag holding Adam’s wallet. “The driver’s license confirms the ID. He’s a sports agent according to the business cards in his wallet. And, FYI, there is an empty credit card slot and no American Express.”

“And he’s somehow connected to Zachary Stone and Colin Wood,” Syd said. “Three down, how many more to go?”

“We ran Devlin’s name, and a missing person report was filed this morning by his wife. He never came home last night.” Hanrahan ripped a page out of his notebook, handed it to Ryan. “Here’s the address.”

“Brentwood,” Ryan said looking around the room. “And he rented a suite. This guy had money.”

Ramirez sidled up to Ryan. “Speaking of money, you get a chance to look over the business plan yet?”

“Hey, great meatballs, Tony,” Hanrahan said. “Give him the money, Ryan, I’d eat there.”

“I did glance at it,” Ryan said. “And frankly, I don’t know shit about business. But I’ll be setting up a foundation and hiring some experts, so I’ll give them your proposal; promise. But in return, I want a solid piece of evidence from this crime scene.”

“Tell me you’re not serious, because this babe is good. You know our problem in a hotel room is eliminating fingerprints; there are usually hundreds of them, guests, maids, bellboys. But not here. Every surface has been wiped down; doorknobs, light switches, end tables, in the bathroom she wiped the sink handles and even remembered the toilet handles. A lot of people forget that. They had sex before he killed her. There are semen stains on the bed. We’ve found pubic hair in the sheets, black and they all look identical, and they all match him.” Ramirez cut his eyes to Adam’s corpse. “And since I didn’t find any of her pubic hair, I’m guessing she shaves. So we’ve got no prints, no hair, no nothing.”