Page 42 of Dead Man's List

“My heart is broken,” she said sarcastically.

He just laughed some more.

Kit turned to Connor when Ace had closed his bedroom door. “Well?”

“He’s either getting his laptop or a gun,” Connor said dryly.

“His background check didn’t turn up any registered guns,” Kit said, moving her hand to her own service weapon—just in case.

“I can fucking hear you!” Ace shouted. “Still not deaf! Don’t own a damn gun!” He reappeared, his laptop in his hand.

He plopped on the sofa again, squinting at the laptop screen. “Fuck, I’m wasted.”

“You really are,” Kit agreed. Gingerly, she sat next to him on the sofa.

Connor approached, his eyes never leaving Ace’s hands. He still didn’t trust the young man. Which was fine. Kit didn’t completely trust him, either.

But if he had truly captured Shelley’s killer on video, unaware? That was almost too good to be true.

San Diego PD, San Diego, California

Sunday, January 8, 8:15 p.m.

“Well, shit,” Navarro said when Kit and Connor had finished playing the recording taken by Ace’s cameras. They’d all gone to Sergeant Ryland’s lab, where he had computers that he could safely use with an external drive of questionable origin.

The external hard drive belonged to Ace Diamond. He’d refused to give up his laptop, telling them to get a warrant.

Navarro pinched the bridge of his nose with a tired sigh. “Shelley Porter never had a chance. Rewind it and play it again.”

Kit complied. The video was grainy and the audio wasn’t amazing, but it was good enough to see—and hear—what had happened.

A Ford F-250 truck pulled into the parking lot of Jennifer’s Body Shop at seven thirty on Tuesday night. It idled for a minute, the driver in the very edge of the frame. He wore a hoodie, obscuring his face.

“We put out a BOLO on the license plates of the truck,” Connor said. “They were stolen last week. We’ll get security footage from the cops who took the report from the owner of the plates, but I’m betting we see a guy in a hoodie again.”

Said guy in the hoodie disappeared from the video frame for a moment, like he was reaching for something, then got out of the truck. He now wore the Halloween hockey mask he’d worn when he’d entered Munro’s home.

“He’s consistent,” Navarro commented.

Because he’d also taken a can of spray paint and thoroughly covered the camera pointing toward the garage’s extra-large door. It wasn’t quite big enough for a semi-truck trailer, but big enough for the trailer that had driven in and out of Munro’s neighborhood.

Shelley had opened the garage’s bay door, taken one look at the man, and opened her mouth to scream. But he was ready for her, a gun glinting in the overhead lights.

He shoved the gun into her side.“Give me the keys to the garage,”he said, his voice muffled behind the mask.

Shelley dropped a set of keys into the man’s hand.“Don’t hurt me. Just take the trailer and go.”

“You know too much. Sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry at all.

Shelley’s chin came up.“My mom knows I was meeting you. If I don’t come home, she’ll call the cops.”

“That is a dilemma,”the man said, his sarcasm thick.“I guess Mama has to go, too.”

The man grabbed the piece of duct tape he’d stuck to the leg of his dark pants. Not jeans, but slacks. He pressed the tape to Shelley’s mouth, then dragged the young woman to his truck, where he made quick work of restraining her wrists and ankles with zip ties.

He tossed her into the back seat of his truck, then stepped back, looking both ways to ensure he hadn’t been seen. One of his hoodie sleeves had ridden up as he’d dispatched Shelley, and he tugged at the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt before pulling the sleeve of his hoodie past the cuff.

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