Jan Burke - Nine

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Cool. What was it like?”

“I enjoyed it.”

“So if you don’t want to be judged by your looks, maybe you should go back to work there and leave those of us in bathrooms alone.”

“I meet more people this way. Not everyone is blind-at least, not literally. But sooner or later, everyone has to-”

Spooky laughed. “Hand me Kit’s note. There’s no TP in here.”

“Come out and get it.”

Another woman entered the bathroom then, and Spooky came out of the stall. She washed her hands, then took her jacket from Meghan. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be that easy.”

“Let me see the note-please.”

Meghan handed it to her. Spooky’s eyes widened as she read it. She shot a look of pure rage at Meghan. “You didn’t tell me! He could be in trouble! You stupid bitch-”

“Spooky-”

But she evaded Meghan’s grasp and ran out of the room.

Meghan hurried after her but hadn’t taken more than two steps from the bathroom when Frederick Whitfield IV grabbed her by the arm.

“Sex with young boys in bathrooms, Meghan? Even I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

Spooky heard him and turned just in time to see Meghan move back, bend, and then twist, throwing Frederick off balance. With another quick motion, she sent him head over heels, so that he landed with a loud whump on his back. He rolled to his stomach, winded, and tried to get to his feet, but Spooky ran forward, asked, “Are you all right, sir?” and landed both knees in his back.

“Go!” Meghan shouted, and they both ran out of the restaurant.

Some restaurant patrons saw a woman and a boy run out of the Peak Experience. A few more saw the man who followed them, sometime later. The hostess, seating a couple who had just arrived, heard about it when she came back to her station and wondered if she should call the sheriff. She decided to give Mr. Logan a few more minutes to settle his problems privately.

Kit was driving up the service road to the restaurant when Meghan and Spooky came charging toward him. He braked hard, and Spooky yelled to Meghan, “Get in the front seat!

“Turn around!” Spooky shouted as she got in back, but Kit was already turning the wheel as they slammed and locked their doors. He stepped on the accelerator, leaving Frederick Whitfield IV in a cloud of dust.

The women cheered.

He slowed a little, then eased onto the main road. “What exactly did you two do back there?” Kit asked.

“Oh man!” Spooky said, laughing. “Meghan kicks ass!”

He smiled, then said, “Okay, but do I need to send a check to the Peak Experience to pay for the damage?”

“Let Freddy pay for it,” Meghan said, catching her breath.

“He’ll have a hard time doing that,” Spooky said, holding up Frederick Whitfield IV’s wallet and a set of keys to a Bronco.

“Spooky…”

“I said I wouldn’t rob anyone in the women’s room.”

“Spooky,” Meghan said, “kicks ass.”

Spooky frowned, then said, “Just because you can fight-”

“-doesn’t mean you like me. I know. Likewise, I’m sure.”

Kit sighed, then drove a little faster.

Palos Verdes Peninsula, California

Tuesday, May 20, 8:01 P.M.

Alex Brandon stood a few feet from the edge of a sheer drop to the Pacific Ocean, one member of a tight circle of coroner’s assistant, deputies, and crime lab workers who surrounded an aluminum-framed litter-and the tarp-wrapped corpse within it. After some struggle, and a climb that Alex would have envied them otherwise, the technical rescue crew had brought the body up from the cliff. They had wisely refused the earliest suggestion made to them, that they just haul it up on the rope left by the killers. It had taken a little time to rig a separate set of ropes and the litter.

Some distance away, the press and a few rubbernecking members of the public were standing at barriers closely guarded by sheriff’s department deputies. They’d get a better view of the proceedings at home-a television news crew in a helicopter had already taken footage of the litter being pulled up to its present location.

“Detective Brandon?” Alex turned to see one of the uniformed deputies approaching them. “The FBI agent is here.”

“Bring him on over,” Alex said. He turned back to the coroner’s assistant. “Can you wait for a moment, until he joins us?”

“Sure.”

The sheriff, Alex had learned, had made certain concessions to the FBI in an effort to counter some of the criticism he had received from the local press. Lieutenant Hogan believed that their fearless leader had apparently out-negotiated the director of the FBI in superb style by agreeing that until any federal jurisdiction over the cases seemed warranted, he would generously give copies of all earlier reports to the FBI and would allow an FBI liaison to work with Alex and Ciara on any new cases.

Ciara’s own take on this was that the FBI was providing the sheriff all the rope he’d need to hang himself. Alex wasn’t so sure she was wrong.

As they watched, a young man of medium height came stepping gingerly over the damp, uneven ground along the cliffs. Alex, recognizing an Armani suit and Cole Haan shoes when he saw them, wondered if every nickel the FBI paid the guy was on his back and feet. The agent had sun-bleached golden hair and a light tan. If he was over thirty, Alex thought, it wasn’t by much.

Ciara said, “What did I tell you? If that’s not a third-stringer, you can have my badge. Christ, he isn’t even shaving yet.”

Alex saw the agent blush, and turned to Ciara.

“Save the reprimand,” she said. “I’ll shut the hell up.”

“For novelty’s sake,” Alex said quietly, “give politeness a try.”

“Hi!” she said a little too brightly to the agent as he reached them. “I’m Detective Ciara Morton, Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. This is my partner, Alexander Brandon, who’s in charge of the task force.”

His brows rose higher above his dark brown eyes, then he warmly shook their extended hands, returned their smiles, and said, “Special Agent David Hamilton, FBI. I know some of you say that stands for Fan Belt Inspectors, but really, only the guys in the vehicle lab back in Virginia have earned that rank. Would you like to see my badge or my razor?”

There was an uneasy silence, then Ciara said, “Your razor, to slit my wrists.”

“Oh no,” he said. “Besides, I haven’t heard a thing. Have any of you heard anything?”

Alex glanced behind him and saw that everyone else shook their heads.

“I understand we have a true cliff-hanger,” Hamilton said.

“Yes,” Alex said. “Some boaters noticed a long, tarp-wrapped bundle hanging over the side of the cliff here. Took a look through binoculars and saw that it had feet. When our department sent a team to take a look, they saw a six painted on the canvas in blood.”

“They were kind enough to draw a little line under the six,” Ciara said, “just so we wouldn’t get confused and think it was another nine.”

Hamilton grinned at her.

Alex said, “Our officers realized there were some other similarities to the previous cases, so they called us in.” He paused, then added, “We’ve made a preliminary identification.”

Hamilton moved closer to the litter. “Another longtime resident of California?”

“Couldn’t say. But he’s been on your list for a long time.” Alex used a gloved hand to pull the canvas back from the corpse’s face.

“Victor Elliot,” Hamilton said. “You’re right. On the list for about three years.”

Alex, seeing him pat down his pockets, handed him a pair of latex gloves.