Page 16 of Broken Hearts

I smiled genially. “I’m bringing them back.” And leaving zero prints.

Mere minutes later, we were cruising along the winding road which led away from his property. “Turn on to Wexford Road and then get on Pearce Mill,” George said. “Gorgeous scenery along there, right through the park, and it’s quiet enough to really get this thing going without being bothered too much.”

“All right. She drives like a dream.”

“That she does. Shame to let her go, really, but I know whoever buys her will appreciate her more than I can at my age.” George peered at me. “So what do you do, anyway? Finance?”

His question was a thinly-veiled code for: how does someone your age have enough to afford this car?

“I’m a journalist,” I replied smoothly. “But my family have made a lot of good investments.”

He nodded. “I suppose that security takes some of the pressure off so you can work on good stories.”

“It does indeed. Right now I’m working on an investigative piece about the Heartbreaker. You know, that murderer running around the city?”

If he was nervous about the subject, he didn’t show it. “Ah, yes. Shame they haven’t caught him yet. It’s been long enough.”

It certainly has. Christ, I couldn’t wait to slice and dice him.

I smiled and nodded. “The first part of my article is actually about the police incompetence with the case, not to mention the shambling idiots at the FBI. Then it goes on to outline some new theories as to who he targets and why.”

George sat up straight when he heard that. I knew it would pique his interest. “What theories? I was under the impression he only stalks law enforcement and the like?”

“Well, sort of. There was that police chief years ago, and a couple of high-ranking detectives along with the lawyers, the judge, and the prison warden. But the latest victim… he was just a security guard for some private firm, apparently.”

“That could still count as law-related, I suppose.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps. But the theory I’ve been told by my sources goes more along the lines of throwing that old idea out entirely. Apparently, the killer could actually be targeting these men for another reason entirely, and it’s just a coincidence that the ones he’s gotten so far happen to be lawyers or whatnot. They might belong to some elite, secret organization, and the Heartbreaker is targeting them because of that.”

George shifted slightly and rubbed his chin. Now he was nervous. About time. “Really? Where did you hear that from?”

I winked. “A journalist never reveals his sources.”

He feigned an amiable smile. “Oh, of course.”

I reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “Gives you less to worry about, huh? Before now, you might’ve worried about being a target, seeing as you’re a judge. But now you have nothing to worry about. Not unless you’re a member of this secret cabal, with their little tattoos and penchant for young girls and boys. That’s the rumor, anyway.”

“I see.” A tremor crept into his voice, though he tried to maintain his composure. “What else do you know about this… this so-called cabal?”

I swerved farther to the right and pulled over on a shoulder across the road from a large lake, the key still in the ignition and the car purring around us as I reached into my pocket. “Enough to know that if I pull up your sleeve and take a peek at your left arm, you’ll have a teeny tiny circle tattoo there, seeing as you’re actually a member of the ‘so-called’ cabal. Right, George?”

His eyes widened. I always loved this moment with my victims; loved when the tiny, unseen cogs in their minds finally shifted and registered what was happening. “W-what? What is this?”

He tried his door, but I was the one with the key and the central locking button. I was the one in control, as always.

“You’ve all known for years that you have targets painted on your backs, surely. And yet, despite that, you weren’t careful enough to stop yourself from getting into a car with a complete fucking stranger.” I laughed briskly, humorlessly, then made a tsk-tsk sound as I jammed a needle into his neck. “I thought you said you could read people, George.”

He struggled, but his old body couldn’t handle it for long, and soon he was out cold beside me. I pulled him up straight and put a pair of dark sunglasses on him so any passersby would think he was just sitting next to me, enjoying a nice weekend drive through North Park with a quick stop to check out the gorgeous lake view. It was all so very Weekend at Bernie’s.

I drove back to where I’d hidden my car, then pulled up alongside in the Porsche. After checking to make sure no one was coming in any direction, I quickly dragged George out of the passenger seat and stuffed him in my trunk. After I’d had Celeste in there a few weeks ago, I’d taken the liberty of adding soundproofed padding around the edges of it, just in case the drugs wore off sooner than expected.

After the trunk was locked, I got back in the Porsche, drove it to George’s place, and parked it in the garage, exactly where it was when I arrived. I gave the seat a quick wipe-down to make sure I hadn’t left any stray hairs, then stepped out of the garage and clicked the little button on the fob, closing the door.

I tossed the keys into the front hedges, thick with snowflakes. Someone would find them eventually, but not anytime soon.

I made the short trek back uphill to my car and took off for the long drive home, my latest catch curled up in the trunk.

This should make Celeste very happy.

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