Page 32 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

In under three minutes, the switch was done.

Carmen had traded her maid’s uniform for Robin’s terrycloth robe, and Heron had done the same with James, who now wore the bellman outfit.

Carmen wasn’t thrilled at the idea of wearing only her skivvies underneath the plush terry, but the rule for working “sets”—Special Enforcement Teams—was that you looked the part to trick the bad guys. Presumably, this was true for pen testers as well.

There was, however, a major difference. The robes concealed the body armor both she and Heron had worn here. Covering front and back, it was specially designed to ward off both bullets and bladed weapons.

The memory of what had happened to Tandy was prominent in their minds.

“You should go now,” she said to the couple. “The manager has a room in the resort proper. You can stay there if you like. Or go someplace else.”

Robin said, “We’re not staying here.”

James was a little less certain. As if he was enjoying the adventure. But his new wife’s mind was made up, and Sanchez knew he’d comply.

“We can’t take anything, can we?” Robin asked.

Carmen told her, “Wallets, phones. That’s all. Whatever fits in your pockets. You have to be a maid and a bellman, returning from an errand.”

“Won’t he see we’re different? You’re taller, and I’m blonde.”

Heron said, “It’s a risk, but a small one. It’s so dark I don’t think he’ll be able to see more than your silhouettes.”

Carmen shooed them out the door and watched as they stepped onto the ferry and vanished toward the main building.

“I’m really not liking this, Heron.”

“We don’t have a choice. The best chance of catching him is on the water, when he moves in for the kill.

If Grange and the others try to hunt for him in that vegetation, he’ll spot them in a minute and vanish.

” He glanced at her with a smile. “If the plan’s going to work, we both have to be bait, me included. ”

She understood. But she didn’t like it: using a civilian to draw out a suspect. She was trained law and used to roles like this. He was not. Pen testing wasn’t in the same league.

“I’m not in any danger.” Grange and another tactical operator had a speedboat hidden at the far dock and would be on HK as soon as he showed.

She countered with: “Patterns, Heron.”

“You mean, his MO?”

“Right. What if he doesn’t stick to it? Bludgeoning and drowning. What if he gets cautious and decides he’s too vulnerable on the floating island, so he simply pulls out a sniper rifle and shoots you in the head?”

Heron shrugged. “You’re the profiler. What’re the odds of that?”

“Not likely. But . . .”

“Anyway, Sanchez, what other options do we have?”

He was correct there.

Her shoulders slumped. “All right. We go forward. Well, it’s your plan. What’s next on your agenda?”

Heron said, “We have to convince him that his scheme is working. We’ve had some of the funky champagne and chocolate he delivered earlier and we’re getting drowsy. We make him think we fell asleep.”

He opened the bottle—the one he’d brought, not the likely spiked one in the fridge—and poured two flutes. “Now, let’s go sit on the deck and let him see us.”

“And what do we do out there?”

He answered quickly as if it was obvious. “Act like newlyweds.”