Page 11 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

For Damon Garr, murder was always an option.

The old standby . . .

But here, at the cemetery, that Tableau would add considerable complication to his life.

Besides, the homicide was planned for later.

So this work of art would involve the thirteen-year-old girl’s destruction in a different way.

The aperitivo . . .

A look toward the wall where the urn containing the cremated remains of Anthony Brock would be set. Yes, the mourners were gathering. But a number had yet to arrive, it appeared. No minister, no priest.

He had some time.

And so he rehearsed the lines he would tell the girl.

Walking up casually, a big smile, friendly eyes.

Oh, hey, hi! A surprised look, as if he hadn’t been expecting to see her here. I’m so sorry for the loss ...

TammySammyKelli, as he dubbed her, would be confused by his familiarity and why she didn’t recognize him. And wondering too why he was, in effect, hiding out in the glen and not with the others.

But she would examine the suit, the trim hair and the beautiful tie, and deduce that he was here legitimately.

She would relax.

And he would attack.

So sad what happened, but I wasn’t surprised when your mom told me. He wasn’t a young man.

The portrait on the graveside easel was of some old codger who probably should have died ten years ago.

How’re you holding up? ... Cool, good to hear ... Anyway, I’m hanging back here because, yep, ta-da, I’m Bill.

He pictured her frowning, at which point he’d elaborate.

Bill, you know ... Your mother did tell you about me, right?

When she and I had dinner last week? At the hotel?

She said today was the day she was going to introduce us.

We’d all go out together, the three of us.

Get some drinks, well, ice cream for you, and you and I would get acquainted.

At her continued confusion, he’d widen his eyes as if alarmed. Shit, she didn’t tell you! God, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t’ve said anything. I just assumed ...

Her face would turn from confusion to troubled, perhaps to glorious horror.

Look, really, please, don’t tell her I said anything. Just have her call me, okay? On the special number. I should go now. Really, sorry. But you and me, I know we’re going to hit it off just great.

And TammySammyKelli’s life would go off the rails, now convinced that her mother was having an affair. A confrontation between parent and child would ensue and, given the girl’s age, it would be spectacular.

A smaller Tableau than one that created a herd of mourners, but not every canvas was painted on a large scale.

Serial Killing 2.0 had always been about more than just a cracked skull and water-filled lungs.

Damon Garr always thought expansively.

A glance behind him. Good, the Brock event had yet to begin.

He had time for the girl.

Damon walked up to her and gave the familiar smile he’d just planned. “Oh, hi there!”

Pausing, she looked up.

Dark-gray suit, handsome and kind face, beautiful purple tie.

He was about to deliver the tragic news about her unfaithful mom when motion caught his attention.

Wait, no . . .

What was this ?

He gasped. Police were here!

Uniformed and plainclothes. They were moving into the cemetery quickly from the two entrances—the north service entrance he’d walked through and the front gate in the south. And they were speaking to people in the Brock party. Their body language was tense.

Impossible!

He turned and walked quickly away from the confused girl.

Think, Damon raged to himself. Think!

Had they figured out that Brock’s death was not an accident and somehow linked it here?

He didn’t see how.

But maybe, despite his infinite care about cameras at the Hollywood Crest, he had been spotted.

Did this have anything to do with the dark-blue car he’d seen earlier?

He sprinted toward the line of limos and other vehicles here for the second funeral.

On the far side, using them as cover, he turned north and, staying low, returned to the back gate.

He couldn’t get through, because a young cop was stationed there, eyeing those nearby.

So he ducked into the shed, unnoticed. It smelled of fertilizer and damp earth and grease and oil.

Two backhoes were parked here. He squinted in the dimness and when his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light, he saw that there were no windows through which he could escape.

A burst of anger snapped within him.

He returned to the shed’s door and gazed out.

If there was any doubt the police had been tipped to the idea that the groom had been murdered, that was now put to rest. One man in the party was pointing to the exact spot where Damon had been standing just before making the assault on the teenage girl’s psyche.

So, yes, he had been made at the wedding.

He continued scanning the perimeter ...

Could he scale the wall? He was strong but the stone was smooth. He could get no grip. And even if he found a way to boost himself up, he’d be noticed immediately and tracked down outside, within a dozen feet of the wall.

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.