J Robb - Imitation in Death

He brushed her back, turned to the caddy. “Gimme the seven iron,Tony.”

She watched him set, sight, then smack the ball into a pretty arch. It bounced on the green and rolled to within about five feet of the cup.

FromHawthorne ’s wide grin, she assumed it was a good shot.

“I’d like to speak with your wife.”

He shrugged, handed the club back to the caddy. “Go ahead. She’s over at the courts. Got a tennis lesson today.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

DarlaHawthornewas dancing around on a shaded court in a candy-pink romper with a flippy skirt. She was doing more dancing than actual connecting with the ball, but she looked damn good doing so. She was built like a teenager’s wet dream, lots of soft, jiggling breast barely contained, and long, long legs shown off by the little skirt and matching pink shoes.

She was so evenly tanned, she might have been painted.

Her hair, which must have hit her waist when unrestrained, was tied back in a ribbon-pink, natch-and scooped through the hole in her little pink visor. It swung happily back and forth as she pranced over the court and missed the bright yellow ball.

When she bent over to retrieve it,Eve was treated to the sight of her heart-shaped butt in tight, high-cut panties under the skirt.

Her instructor, a hunky guy with lots of streaky hair and white teeth, called out direction and encouragement.

At one point, he came over to stand behind her, nuzzling her back against him as he adjusted her swing. She sent him a big, lash-fluttering smile over her shoulder.

“Mrs.Hawthorne?” Before the balls could start flying again,Eve stepped onto the court.

Tennis guy immediately rushed forward. “Boots! You can’t walk on this surface without the proper foot attire.”

“I’m not here to whack balls.” She held up her badge. “I need a moment withMrs.Hawthorne.”

“Well, you have to take those off, or stand on the sidelines. We have rules.”

“What’s the problem, Hank?”

“There’s a policewoman here,Mrs.H. ”

“Oh.”Darla bit her lip, and patting her heart walked over to the end of the net. “If this is about that speeding ticket, I’m going to pay it. I just-”

“I’m not Traffic. Can I have a minute?”

“Oh, sure. Hank, I could use a break anyway. Getting all sweaty.” She walked, with a lot of swinging hip, to a bench, opened a pink bag and took out a bottle of designer water.

“Could you tell me where you were night before last? Betweenmidnight and three.”

“What?” Beneath the glow on her perfect oval face,Darla paled. “Why?”

“It’s just a routine stop in a matter I’m investigating.”

“Sweetie knows I was home.” Her eyes, mermaid-green, began to swim. “I don’t know why he’d have you investigating me.”

“I’m not investigating you,Mrs.Hawthorne.”

Hank walked over, handed her a small towel. “Any problem, Mrs. H?”

“No problem here, go flex your muscles someplace else.” Dismissing him,Eve sat besideDarla. “Midnightand three, night before last.”

“I was home in bed.” She shotEve a defiant look now. “With Sweetie. Where else would I be?”

Good question,Eve thought.

She asked about the writing paper, butDarla shrugged it off. Yes, they’d been inEurope in August, and she bought a lot of things. Why shouldn’t she? How was she supposed to remember everything she’d bought or that Sweetie bought for her?

Dallascircled around for another few minutes, then stood soDarla could walk back, and be comforted by Hank. He shotEve a nasty look before leading his student toward whatEve assumed was the clubhouse.

“Interesting,”Eve stated aloud. “Looks like ourDarla was out, practicing on Hank’s balls during at least part of the time in question.”

“Definitely getting more than instruction on her backswing,”Peabody agreed. “Poor Sweetie.”

“If Sweetie knows his wife’s playing singles with her tennis pro, he could’ve used the time she was out pulling his racket to get downtown, do Wooton. You got a wife’s running cross-court on you, it pisses you off. So you not only kill a whore-and what’s your young, unfaithful wife but a whore-but you use the cheating bitch as your alibi. Game, set, match. Very neat.”

“Yeah, and I liked your tennis metaphors, too.”

“We do what we can. Anyway, it’s a theory. Let’s go see what else we can dig up onHawthorne.”

– -«»--«»--«»--

He’d been married three times, as Roarke had stated, with each successive spouse younger than the preceding one. He’d divorced both formerMrs.Hawthornes, and had nipped them off with the lowest possible financial package, as arranged through a premarital agreement. An iron-clad one from the results,Eve mused.

The man was no fool.

Would such a careful and canny man be oblivious to his current wife’s activities?

He had no criminal record, though he’d been sued a number of times in civil court for various financial deals. A quick scan told her most of them were nuisance suits, brought by unhappy and unlucky investors.

He owned four homes, and six vehicles, including a yacht, and was associated with numerous charities. His reported worth was just under a billion.

Golf, according to the various media articles and features she scanned through, appeared to be his god.

Every name on her list had an alibi corroborated by a spouse or partner or employee. Which meant none of them held much weight.

Sitting back,Eve propped her feet on her desk, closed her eyes, and took herself back into theChinatown alley.

She walks in ahead of him. She leads theJohn. Her feet hurt. She’s got a bunion. Shoes are killing her. Two in the morning. Hot, airless. Not much business tonight. Only two hundred in her cash bag.

Gives her four, maybe fiveJohns on this circuit, depending what they wanted.

Been in the game a long time, knows to get payment up-front. Did he take it back, or didn’t he give her a chance to take it? No chance, she decided. He’d want to move fast. Spins her around. Wants her facing the wall.

Does he touch her? Run his hand over her breast, her ass, slide it over her crotch?

No, no time for that. Not interested in that. Especially after the blood gushes out on his hands.

Warm blood. That’s what got him off.

Against the wall. Tug her head back by the hair. Left hand. Slice the scalpel over her throat with the right. Left to right, slight downward path.

Blood gushes, splashes on the wall, splashes back at her face, her body, his hands.

She’s alive for a few seconds, just a few, shocked seconds when she can’t scream, and her body jerks a little as it dies.

Lay her down, head toward the opposite wall. Get out your tools.

A light, some sort of light. Can’t do that sort of precision work in the dark. Laser scalpel, use the light from the laser scalpel to guide the way.

Put what you came for in a leak-proof bag, clean off your hands. Change your shirt or take off what you were wearing over it. Everything in a bag or case now. Check yourself, make sure you’ll pass on the street.

Take out the note. Smile at it, amuse yourself. Place it carefully on the body.

Walk out of the alley. Fifteen minutes, maybe. No more than fifteen, and you’re walking away. Carrying your prize back to your car. Excited, but controlled. Need to drive carefully. Can’t risk a routine stop when you smell of death and have that part of her with you.

Back home. Reset security. Shower. Dispose of your clothes.

You did it. You’ve imitated one of the great killers of the modern age, and no one’s the wiser.

She opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling. If it was one of her five current candidates, he’d have to dispose of the body part as well, or have a very secure place to keep it as a souvenir.