Page 29 of The Grave Artist

“Wide brimmed, black veil. Oh, the shoes. They were interesting. Black, except a bright-red stripe down the back of the heels.”

“High heels?”

“No, thick. About three inches.”

“Mid heels,” Carmen said.

Heron quickly keyboarded. A moment later, looking up, he said, “Here’s the response.‘In answer to your inquiry regarding the heels of shoes captured in the screenshot at the Hollywood Crest Inn you submitted two hours and seven minutes and twenty-two seconds ago, my conclusion is that it is a 44.2 percent likelihood that the individual was wearing shoes of the sort you describe with a stripe down the heel. The variegation of shading suggests it is possible the color of the stripe is red, though that fact cannot be ascertained beyond a reasonable doubt, as would be required if the information were to be submitted for evidence at a criminal trial.’”

“Ah, Declan, what would we do without him?” Carmen mused. Then: “Okay, we’ll assume Ms. POI was here. Acting odd. And she left by the same exit our unsub did. Let’s find her. She’s hiding something. And I want to know what.”

Chapter 15

Well, they had moved fast.

Looking in his rearview mirror as he sped away from the hilltop where he’d been taking photos, Damon noted a squad car skid to a stop about a block and a half behind him.

A roadblock, looking for him, of course.

They had arbitrarily picked a mile from Cedar Hills for their perimeter, thinking they’d been fast enough to trap him.

Mistake, obviously.

But it was a calculated decision, a reasonable one. Adding to his understanding that they—the Latina and her bearded partner—were smart, and they were formidable.

And needed to be stopped.

He drove a few miles to his car-storage garage and swapped out the Mercedes for another set of wheels, an “invisible” Honda. The adjective referring to the fact that there had to be a million of them in this silver shade on the streets of LA. Nobody paid a lick of attention to Accords.

His next stop was a flea market in East Hollywood. It was a permanent one, not just set up for weekends. This was where he bought many of the things he used in his work that could never be traced back to him. The market also was camera-free. There, he bought a used hunting knife with a wickedly sharp blade. Then, reflecting, he bought a second one,deciding he might have to discard the first one after he had used it, and there might be additional people to cut.

He returned to his car.

His MO for Serial Killing 2.0 was blunt object and drowning, meant to give the appearance of accidental death.

But now the truth was known, since the police were involved: the death at the Brock wedding was murder and perhaps they had tipped to the ones in Italy as well.

Which meant subtlety was out the window.

Leisurely deaths from rock and water were out. It was time for blood.

Chapter 16

Ms. Person of Interest . . .

The silhouette woman who wore black shoes with the red-striped heels.

Who are you? Jake wondered. Just a witness? An accomplice—willing or coerced?

Where have you gone?

And then there was the big question: Had she been the one at the hotel when Brock was killed? Declan’s opinion was tepid at best.

Sanchez had taken a team along one canvass route, looking for HK and what kind of car he was driving. Big Liam Grange another. And Tandy a third.

Jake had been left out of the equation when Sanchez charged off on her mission.

Leaving him free to ... well, do what Jake Heron did best.