Page 146 of The Grave Artist

“Never guessed this, though. Man.”

She started to raise the phone again. “Now that we have probable cause that Lauren is aiding and abetting after the fact, we can pull out all the stops.”

He held up a hand to get her attention before she called the surveillance team. “They lost her.”

This was the bad news.

“No.” She lowered her head briefly.

“They were on a highway, headed south. The team figured they were making a run for the border, and would eventually hit the 5 or the 405, so they called ahead to all the checkpoints and backed off a bit.”

Sanchez groaned. “But Lauren took an exit ramp somewhere.”

He nodded. “They’ve narrowed it down to two possible roads, and they’ve split up to check both out.”

Sanchez jabbed her cell phone’s screen.

“Mouse, you’re on speaker. You heard?”

“Yeah, Lauren’s disappeared, and she may have Damon with her.”

“We’ve got probable cause on an A and B. Probably headed for Mexico, but they disappeared. Put out a BOLO and tell CHP and Border Patrol. Use the latest data from SHIT. It can’t be more than ten minutes old.”

“I’m on it.”

A moment later, Mouse added, “Done, Carmen. But I don’t get it. Why is Lauren Brock helping someone who killed her brother?”

“Oh, she’s not helping him. She’s going to murder him. I sympathize, but what she’s done? It’s premeditated. That’ll get her a life sentence.”

Chapter 71

Damon’s head was still throbbing from the blow. His thoughts were clouded, and he struggled to make sense of the whole thing.

“I don’t understand—Lauren . . . Brock?”

She peered down at him. “You didn’t go to the wedding, did you? No, you just went to the hotel and waited for a chance to find a victim—my brother, it turned out—alone after the reception ended. So you never saw the wedding party.”

True. He’d caught glimpses.

Bad music and worse toasts ...

Hadn’t paid much attention. He just wanted the bride and groom alone. He’d thought of killing the bride but decided Allison’s bereavement would be more exquisite than Anthony’s.

“I was a bit persona non grata,” she continued, “and so I wandered off—to the upper garden. I didn’t see you attack him. I didn’t even know it had happened until later. But I did see you wearing latex gloves and acting suspicious as hell. Then I heard the screams and sirens. I went down to the koi pond and saw him.” The last word was a whisper.

“And I saw you there too. In the crowd, watching. Everybody was shocked. But not you. You were almost smiling. Who the hell were you? Why had you killed him? I was about to tell the police right then, but I changed my mind. Decided I wanted you for myself. After you left, Igot your license plate and paid a private eye to give me your name and address. Then you became my project. I started following you, trying to figure out what you were about.”

“The blue car,” Damon gasped, some from the shock, some from a parched throat.

“Oh, you saw me?” She lifted an eyebrow. “It’s a junker of mine. I mostly drive a white Camry, but that day, I wanted something not connected to me.” She was sweating too and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “Damon Garr ... You were a question mark. A professor of art, solitary and pretty damn strange. I was trying to figure out your fate when I saw you again. At the funeral! I went to say goodbye to my brother—keeping some distance from Allison and the others. Non grata, remember? And there you were. Just like watching the people at the koi pond where Anthony died, you were watching the mourners. That fucking half smile on your face! Why on earth? To gloat? I had no idea.” A faint scoff. “You have me to thank for your escape, by the way.”

“What?”

“The hearse. You think it moved by divine intervention? No, it wasmyintervention. I needed you free from custody.”

He struggled to keep up with her logic. “For revenge. It was that important to you?”

She stretched and looked around the deserted farm, the shed, the broken posts and rails of the fences, the chassis of an old tractor sun-bleached from red to pink. “Revenge. You killed the man who saved my life.” Her eyes snapped back to his, the anger inflating the sorrow and dismay and fear that seized him. “I lied about killing my rapist, but the assault was real, and I never quite recovered. Therapy was bullshit, but I liked the meds, and then when the doctors wouldn’t prescribe them anymore, I went out on the street. Lost my job—and to keep myself supplied, I sold the one thing I could.”