Page 34 of The Perfect People

She recalled the gangly guy from earlier this afternoon at the beach, who’d stared at their group unusually long, and kept watch for anyone behaving similarly this evening. But there was no one. Everybody seemed involved in their own activity, focused on enjoying their own Friday night, just as she was supposed to be doing.

Mildly annoyed with her sister for putting the anxiety in her head but aware that it was likely a good thing, she returned her own focus to her friends and the fun they had in store for her the rest of the night.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Three-quarters of a mile north of Hannah, Mark Haddonfield stood in the darkness outside the beach house, studying it, reviewing his plan of attack.

He knew that, while the place had a security system, it hadn’t been activated for this weekend. With all the chaos of moving in, it apparently just wasn’t a priority, which was understandable. But it also worked to Mark’s advantage.

It meant that he’d be able to slip inside to scope the place out and determine the best place for the attack. Would an open space like the kitchen or living room be the best choice? That would make quite a statement, but it came with obvious risks, the most noteworthy of which was that he might be seen during the big moment.

He could always do the job in the bedroom. That was the most logical spot for any number of reasons. It was more secluded, of course. But it was also more in keeping with the spirit of the exercise. This victim was special after all, and the circumstances of the death needed to be treated with the appropriate reverence. If he was going to honor the purpose of the endeavor, The Strategy required that the mission be completed there.

Mark picked the lock of the side door and entered the house. He pulled out his digital camera and began taking photos. He could have used his phone for the task, but that would have geo-tagged his location and cost him an alibi. That’s why his phone was currently hidden in a movie theater in the Santa Monica Place mall a mile south of here.

He’d bought a ticket to the movie, hidden his phone in the theater, then left through a back exit, leaving the door slightly ajar, and caught a cab here. Now he snapped as many pictures as he could, well aware that he was on a tight timeline. He had to get back to the movie theater before the film ended, collect his phone, and be seen walking out, preferably by doing something memorable, maybe tripping into someone holding a bucket of popcorn.

But that could only happen if the first part of the plan went off without a hitch. He knew his intended victim was out to dinner tonight. But the restaurant was just up the road, and without his phone, there was no way for Mark to be sure they were still there.

What if there was a problem with the reservation? What if there was an upset stomach or a simple change of heart and a desire for homemade grilled cheese sandwiches instead of an overpriced meal? He would never know until the car pulled up in the driveway, leaving him no time to escape.

Mark put those thoughts out of his head. He couldn’t control what happened outside of this beach house. All he could do was take his photos, get out of here, retrieve his phone, and go back to his hotel to prepare for what was to come. The rest was out of his hands.

He had to believe that justice and destiny were on his side. If they weren’t, he would have been caught by now. If they weren’t, Jessie Hunt would have discovered his identity. If they weren’t, Hannah Dorsey would have pulled out her phone this afternoon and snapped a photo of him. But none of that happened.

Those were all signs—signs that fate was on his side; signs that the vengeance he sought was justified, even necessary. Blood would be spilled. The city would turn on Jessie Hunt. And she would regret not giving him a chance, not taking him seriously, not recognizing his brilliance.

“You had your chance,” he scolded. “But you were more interested in glory-hunting than in actually doing the hard work of educating the next generation of criminal profilers. You wanted to be adored by the news anchors—another day, another report calling you the Angel of the City of Angels. It’s your sustenance, isn’t it. You can’t live without it!”

He stopped, realizing he was yelling. His voice echoed through the cavernous house. For a moment, he feared that someone outside might have heard him. But then he calmed down. The house had thick walls and it was set far apart from any others. He actually liked how he sounded, like a professor calling out a lackluster student in front of the entire class.

It was unfortunate that another innocent would have to pay for her to learn the lesson. But education comes at a price. Hers would be steep.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

This party wasn’t quite as big as last night’s, but that didn’t matter, at least not for his purposes.

In fact, because Nicole Boyce’s house wasn’t as spread out as Shasta Mallory’s mansion, the event still felt vital. People were more tightly packed together, and it was harder to move around, giving the festivities a sense of size and energy, even if he guessed that there were no more than half the people here than he’d had to navigate last night. It was still only 10 p.m. He suspected that the crowd might reach 300 in another hour.

He was glad that he’d chosen a different outfit for tonight. The white tuxedo and fat suit would have been extra challenging in tonight’s close spaces. This evening, he’d gone with a dramatically different look.

He had on a sparkly black leather jumpsuit, open midway down his chest, along with black boots and black gloves. His scruffy, longish black wig went past his shoulders in the back and covered his forehead in the front. He wore large sunglasses and had a press-on mustache, along with a spray-tan that he worried might start to drip off in the combined heat of the evening and the crowded house. He thought he looked a little like late-era Elvis, only tanner, in better shape, and with facial hair.

He easily slid past chattering pockets of people until he found Nicole in a corner of the living room, having an animated conversation with a group of friends. They had to shout to be heard over the music pounding through the overhead speakers.

Clearly tipsy, she was holding court, animatedly waving her muscular arms to make her point. Even though she was retired now, she still looked like she could go out right now, hop on her board, and ride a big wave. She had on a pink bikini top and a sheer, white sarong over the bottoms. In between, her washboard abs rippled as she moved. He knew that she was the same age as him, thirty-six, and he was jealous that he couldn’t maintain that level of abdominal firmness. Then again, he couldn’t afford to spend all day staying in shape.

Much like others he passed by earlier, Nicole and her friends were discussing Shasta Mallory’s murder, how she’d been found dead in her bedroom this morning. But infuriatingly, just as in those other exchanges he’d overheard, no one was mentioning the attack that Shasta had suffered earlier in the evening. It was as if that hadn’t even registered with people.

As usual, all they wanted to talk about was the rich person who’d been wronged. Once again, he was being dismissed, ignored. No one acknowledged the unusual-looking man who’d accosted Shasta on the dance floor earlier in the evening. It was like he didn’t exist. Only the rich, powerful woman was worth their time. It was typical. They were so self-involved that not even a fat man in a white tuxedo and top hat choking the party hostess could earn a moment’s notice. Well, maybe they’d remember this.

He stepped over so that he was right behind Nicole and reached up, putting his gloved hands on her shoulders. He began gently massaging them as he said, using his best Elvis impression, “You look like you need a hunka hunk of burning massage love.”

One of the women across from him and Nicole put her hands to her open mouth in shock and another started giggling as a third asked, “Did you hire Elvis to do massages and why does he have a mustache?”

“No,” Nicole said, glancing over her shoulder with a mix of surprise and amusement, “but I can’t say I’m upset.”

“What would Lachlan say?” another friend asked.

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