Page 13 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Damon was striding quickly along a jogging path that ran through the park north of the cemetery.

He listened for screams from his booby trap in the shed.

Didn’t hear any.

But then the hedge shears might have struck the falling victim in the throat, in which case there would be only a gurgle.

In any event, his plan to draw the LAPD officer away from the back gate to tend to a wounded colleague turned out to be unnecessary, because apparently a hearse driver had panicked at the sight of so many police, thinking it was a terror attack or something.

Leaving the vehicle in gear, he’d climbed from the front seat, Damon speculated, and the vehicle had begun to roll into the cemetery grounds, drawing everyone’s attention.

Including that of the young cop guarding the back. He ran forward to look for the fleeing suspect, leaving the north service exit completely clear for Damon, in Carhartt overalls and matching cap, to waltz right through.

An atheist, Damon nonetheless whispered to the copper angels on the back gate, “Thank you.”

As he walked quickly along the path through this forested area of the park—though not so fast as to draw attention—he reflected on his newfound enemies.

By the time he made it to his car, he’d formed a plan.

He drove to the top of a nearby hillcrest overlooking the cemetery, set his phone camera to telephoto and took some pictures while he watched the cops work.

Three people seemed to be in charge, all in plain clothes.

One was a Latina with a badge and a gun on her hip.

The second, who seemed to be her partner, was a man of a serious demeanor in dark clothing, but with no visible weapon.

The third was a handsome but slightly disheveled man in similar dark clothing, but he had a sidearm.

Damon assessed the first two of the trio were the biggest threat. They appeared driven and intense. Unlike the third cop, who seemed more jaded, they were wholly focused on the task of finding him.

He zoomed in and took more photos capturing the pair’s expressions, the way they caught each other’s gazes. Their nods of agreement. A familiarity that transcended a working relationship.

Now he wanted their identities.

And he would do whatever he could to find out who they were.

Serial Killing 2.0 was his mission in life. Nothing, and no one, could interfere with it.

And that would mean murdering one of these two pursuers, who were clearly determined to stop him.

One or the other, but not both.

This was the better strategy. The death would eliminate half the threat right off the bat, but more than that, having observed their connection, it could very well paralyze the other with grief.

He would wait until the excitement at the cemetery had dissipated some and then go on the offensive.

The only question: Should he eliminate the man or the woman?

No answer occurred just yet. Maybe he’d simply flip a coin.