Page 73 of Obsession in Death

Make certain ground-floor retail space is closed for the night. Excellent. Scan the two-tiered parking level—the cams were for show because kids kept zapping them anyway.

Second-floor gallery, also closed. Perfect.

Lights glinting against the privacy screens on the third-level studio, the apartment above.

But he’d be in the studio. Wouldn’t like being disturbed, especially from the outside stairs.

But this was a special delivery.

Start up, nobody watching. Shoes quiet on the iron stairs, the coat almost blending into the building. Just dark enough now, and everyone below bundled against the cold, hurrying to get someplace else, somewhere inside, in the warm.

And here we go!

Press the buzzer on the third floor. Angle the box in case any of the cams work.

Careful. Thorough.

Press it again, hold it down. Be patient. Be insistent. Just doing the job, just want to get home like everybody else. Last delivery of the day.

“What the fuck!” Dirk Hastings wrenched open the iron door. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Stupid asshole.”

He was a big man, big and burly, with beady eyes the color of mud. Fury rolled off him in hot, red waves.

Ugly man. Ugly, disrespectful man. You’ll be dead soon.

“Sorry, sir. Just delivering this package.”

“Can you read, fuckhead? Sign says No Goddamn Asshole Deliveries!”

“Sorry.” Reach into the pocket, slow, careful. “They’re closed below, and it’s stamped Urgent. Are you Dirk Hastings?”

“Fuck me!”

“You just have to sign, and I’ll be out of your way. Listen, it’s really freaking cold.”

“Then get an inside job.” Hastings started to reach for the box. The killer stepped to the side, easing over the threshold, drew the stunner.

It struck mid-body, made the muddy little eyes pop wide, and the big body shake before it fell back.

The bigger they are, ha ha.

Perfect.

Only have to drag him farther into the studio. Take that time, this time. Plenty of tape in the kit. Big guy though, strong guy. Don’t be stupid. Don’t let him come all the way back.

The killer crouched, started to grip the unconscious Hastings under the arms.

“Hey, Dirk, baby? What was that racket? Listen, I got us a bottle of—”

The tall, half-naked blonde stopped on her skip down the steps, and her perfect red mouth formed a wide O. Just before the screaming started.

Panicked, the killer swung up with the stunner, and the blonde heaved the bottle of pinot noir. The stun went wide; the bottle crashed like a thunderbolt against the wall. Glass and wine flew as the blonde turned, still screaming, and ran back upstairs with the speed of a gazelle.

“I’m calling the cops!” she shouted back. “I’ve got my ’link and I’m calling the cops. And I’ve got a knife! A really big knife! You’d better run, you bastard!”

Tears of frustration blurred the vision as the killer grabbed the box, took one quick glance at failure. And ran.

At her desk, Eve studied Yancy’s latest sketch. Like Misty Polinsky, Mason had described a narrow face. The scarf still blocked the lower part of the face, but with this one, she got the shape of the nose, the style of wraparound sunshades, and a hint of the top lip.

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