Page 26 of The Grave Artist

He looked at the front gate. Eight, ten squad cars and other official vehicles.

At the rear, nearby, there was no car, but that youthful officer continued to guard the exit with the alertness of a Secret Service agent on the lookout for an assassin.

Glancing back to the main grounds, he could see a dozen tactical officers slowly moving through the brush and around trees and cars and past mausoleums, hunting, hunting ...

Here, in the shed, anything he might use to escape? A row of hooks against one wall held workers’ uniforms, vests ... and one other thing.

An idea formed.

Despite his anger and frustration at this turn of events, Damon actually smiled.

Yes, it might work. Depending, of course, on the amount of blood, and the volume of the screaming.

Chapter 12

Jake Heron was not a small man—over six feet and fit from his physically demanding work as a pen tester breaking into corporate facilities like a cat burglar. But Special Agent Liam Grange was enough to make anyone feel inadequate.

Six feet four, clocking in at around 250, 260 pounds, the wall of a man was sporting a brown buzz cut and full beard. With aviator sunglasses seemingly permanently attached, the head of HSI’s Long Beach field office tactical team put his former Special Forces training to good use arresting terrorists, bombers, human traffickers and anyone else who showed disregard for Title 18 of the US Code—like Dim Tim, just the other day on the streets of Santa Monica.

He was presently directing his tac operators through the cemetery to the spot where a possible suspect in the Brock killing had been spotted.

The agents were complemented by LAPD uniforms requested by Frank Tandy.

Jake stood with Sanchez and the detective near the front entrance of the place, which to Jake had an eerie, Gothic look, with imposing iron gates, dark stone walls and moss-covered statues and effigies.

The best man, Ben Sutton, had introduced them to Evan, a slim balding man, who looked troubled.

Evan said uncertainly, “I saw a man hanging around in the garden before Anthony died, and I’m not sure, but I think the same guy is here at the service.” He mopped his brow with the back of his hand. “But what if I’m wrong? I’ve screwed up the whole ceremony.”

Allison Brock was not, in fact, very pleased by the guest’s news. The short, intense woman was looking at the witness and muttering, “Are you sure, Evan? Absolutely sure? Because look what’s happening.” Her plans for a respectful, stately memorial had gone down in flames.

“After the reception, I went back to get my wife’s purse,” Evan began. “In the upper garden, there was this guy. In the bushes. He was kind of crouching, and I thought he was being sick. You know, from drinking. Anyway we left and drove back to Santa Barbara. Then I heard from Ben what happened andwhereit happened. And now I see the same guy again, I’m pretty sure. I’m sorry,” he finished sheepishly.

When Allison’s cold stare showed no signs of thawing, Ben tried to placate her. “Alli, you asked about leads. This might be one.”

“I was just trying to do the right thing,” Evan said.

Allison’s tone then shifted. She looked around at the dozen officers and her eyes settled on Sanchez. “I want to pay respects to Anthony properly. Of course I do. But if that son of a bitch is here, get him.” The last two words were a growl.

“We will, Mrs. Brock,” Sanchez reassured her, then asked Evan, “Wearing?”

“What every other man here is. Dark suit, white shirt. Tie. Purple, I think.”

Grange radioed the description to the agents conducting the canvass. He added, “Be courteous. And not obvious.”

The radio clattered back with a “Yes, sir, Agent Grange.”

Tandy did the same with the LAPD uniforms present.

Sanchez and Tandy joined the searching officers.

Jake added the details to the murder board on his tablet and wandered off in a different direction, looking for video cameras. And finding none. Not surprising. The eight-foot walls were a deterrent to vandals,trespassers and thieves, although he guessed grave robbery went out of fashion in the nineteenth century.

And then a scream came from somewhere behind him.

Spinning about, he saw that the hearse from the other funeral had rolled onto the grass and was aimed toward the front gate, driving through the plantings and directly toward the Brock mourners.

The long black vehicle gathered speed as it trundled over freshly laid flowers and knocked over funeral wreaths, and the rows of chairs, while people shouted and scattered.