Michael Prescott - Last Breath

“Nobody fucks with me,” he muttered, repeating the words that had become his credo, his mantra. “Nobody makes me their bitch.”

He caught himself pressing down on the accelerator and lifted his foot to reduce his speed. Outside his windows, the city of El Monte flashed past in a blur of lights under a moonless sky.

So, yes, he’d been prepared for that part of the interview. Walsh’s other questions had posed no difficulties either. After leaving C.J. at the coffee shop, he really had driven back to the office, working until six.

After that, however, his narrative had parted company with the truth. He had not driven to Brentwood, had not fixed a meal and watched Field of Dreams -although he had been careful to check the TV listings to see what was on.

No one could prove he hadn’t been home. His condo building featured individual enclosed garages; it was impossible for a neighbor to know whether or not a tenant’s car was parked inside. The units were soundproofed, and the rules of the condo board regarding noise were strict. No one ever heard anyone else’s TV or stereo.

Instead of heading to Brentwood, he had driven east, into C.J.’s neighborhood, parking in the alley behind her house-the house they had once shared-shortly after six. In the early January darkness he had changed out of his suit into chinos and a windbreaker, donning gloves and rubber boots that fitted easily over his shoes. The boots were two sizes too large-deliberately so. If he left any shoe prints, he wanted them to be different from his own.

He stowed his provisions in the windbreaker’s copious zippered pockets. A vial of chloroform he’d ordered from a chemical supplies firm, using a phony name and a post office box, and paying with a money order made out to cash. A ski mask, which he slipped over his head before entering the house-he knew that the bedroom was under constant surveillance, and he didn’t want his face to be caught on video. A Walther 9mm, which he had bought at a gun show in San Diego County, a private transaction conducted with the utmost discretion and without the use of any names.

He’d never had any intention of using the gun. Even so, he felt it necessary to carry one. C.J. kept an off-duty firearm in her purse. He couldn’t afford to be at a disadvantage.

Entering the house was simplicity itself. He still owned a spare set of keys, and C.J., trusting soul, had not changed the locks.

Somehow she must have heard him anyway, or maybe she’d seen his flashlight when he entered her backyard. He took cover inside the bedroom, crouching low and hoping he was out of camera range, as she came down the hall. When she checked out the laundry room, he left the bedroom and positioned himself outside the doorway, squatting low, invisible in the dark.

The phone call from her cop friend-boyfriend? Did it matter?-took him by surprise, but he handled the situation well enough. Once she was fully unconscious, gagged and taped and blindfolded, he’d carried her into the alley and put her in the trunk of his car, wrapping her in a blanket to prevent the transfer of hairs or fibers.

Of course, he’d known she would be missed before long. When she didn’t show up for her community service program, inquiries would be made. A patrol unit would visit her house, where the cops would find obvious evidence of her abduction-the knife she had dropped, the back door unlocked and ajar.

He had left those clues intentionally. He wanted the police to know it had been a kidnapping. He wanted them to search the house-something they might not have done if he had snatched her from another location.

They had to find the Webcam.

The Webcam was the key to everything. When the police found it, they would know that she had been spied on by her abductor. They would track down the Web site. They would discover that the two other women featured on the site had fallen prey to the Hourglass Killer.

To ensure that they made all the necessary corrections, he had taken two additional precautions. He sent an anonymous e-mail to the FBI’s Baltimore office, alerting them to the existence of the site. And he e-mailed C.J. herself.

He had worked it out perfectly. Nothing could go wrong. By roughly ten o’clock, he had expected to hear from the police. He would kill C.J., matching the four-hour MO of the serial killer, then speed back to LA and put on a performance for the cops.

But it hadn’t worked out that way. Things were happening too fast.

The call had come at eight-too early. Worse still, the interview at Wilshire Station had been conducted by Detective Walsh, the man in charge of the Hourglass Killer task force.

Adam knew there was no reason for Walsh to be assigned this case unless the connection to the serial killer had already been made.

His surprise must have shown on his face when Walsh introduced himself, though fortunately the detective had interpreted it as concern for C.J.’s well-being.

Then at the close of the interview, Walsh had taken a brief, urgent phone call that seemed to imply a breakthrough in the case.

Had they put the pieces together so fast? Were they already closing in on the Hourglass Killer?

It wasn’t supposed to happen that soon. He’d assumed the authorities would take hours, even a day or two, to put all the pieces together. Instead, they might have the serial killer in custody before long.

Adam wished he could call the crazy son of a bitch and warn him that the police were hard on his trail. But he didn’t know the killer’s identity. Though he had hacked into the man’s Web site, he didn’t know his name.

So there was only one thing to do. Get back to C.J. as fast as possible. Kill her, and dump her body where it was sure to be found.

He checked the dashboard clock: 9:40. He could finish the job by ten. That was a little shy of the four-hour mark, but autopsies weren’t that accurate in determining the time of death. Besides, the four-hour thing was only a theory-a rumor circulating on the Internet, which he’d picked up on a message board devoted to LA crime while researching the case.

Ten o’clock, ten forty-five-it made no difference. His plan could still work. He could kill her and never be suspected.

But only if he did it soon enough to be available when the police decided to talk with him again, either to question him or to update him on the case. By then, he had to be snug in his living room, awaiting their phone call or their visit, like any other perfectly innocent man.

Kill her by ten o’clock.

Twenty minutes to apply the tattoo.

Ten minutes to ditch the body.

Half hour to drive home.

Eleven o’clock by then. Dicey. The Hourglass Killer might be in custody by eleven, if this break in the case panned out. And once the killer was caught, Walsh or his associates would want to see C.J.’s ex-husband a second time.

He accelerated to seventy, risking a traffic ticket. His timetable was tight. No margin for error. Even so, he would make the plan work. He would get away with it. Justice and righteousness were on his side.

“Nobody makes me their bitch,” he whispered, drawing strength from the words. “Nobody.”

The tape was starting to split. C.J. could feel her wrists begin to separate as a gap opened in the lower half of the binding.

She would get herself out of this jam. And she would put Adam in a nice maximum-security state prison-New Folsom up in Sacramento, say, or maybe Pelican Bay. No, better, how about Corcoran, home to Sirhan Sirhan and Charlie Manson? A swell place for her ex-husband to hang out.

What the hell, the bastard deserved it-and not just for kidnapping her.

He had thought he owned her. There was no way she would let him get away with that.