rr ell, a tall woman, lean, athletic, gentle eyes, a. face that wa s more often described as good rather than pretty, left Ca rl a to wait for the bags and went di rectly to the Avis desk where she signed the rental agreement on a blue midsize sedan.
Carla, left to that task, would have rented a Porsche or a Mercedes. There was no real reason not to, Molly sup posed. No need to avoid attention. It was more force of habit. As Carla had argued, not without merit, that in this town a plain blue Chevrolet would stand out more than a Porsche. Most of the late-model Chevrolets, she said, were probably unmarked police cars.
Nor would Molly, given the choice, have reserved a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Too much people- watching there. Too many eyes wondering who you are and whether you're famous. But Susan had made the reser vations. Paul didn't correct her. He probably decided that there's no harm in that either. It's centrally located be tween Lisa's apartment and her father's house. And it's pleasant enough that it might take some of the edge off of Carla's gloom.
Molly drove, heading north along the San Diego Freeway. Ten minutes later, approaching Santa Monica Boulevard, she signaled a right turn. She could see Century City, on the edge of Beverly Hills, stil l glowing red in reflection of the western horizon.
“ No ,” Car l a pointed. “ Go straight .”
Molly hesitated. “ Sherman Oaks ?” Where he r father lived.
“ And Woodland Hills ,” she said.
Where her sister was found. “ Wouldn't you rather get some rest first? It's after midnight, our time .”
Carla shook her head. “ Let ' s get it over with .”
Approaching the exit ramp for Sherman Oaks, Molly signaled again. And once more, Carla waved her forward. “ Take the Ventura Freeway westbound ,” she said.
“ It will only hurt you ,” Molly said gently. “ And there won't be anything lef t to see .”
Carla realized that. And that it would hurt. But she wanted, however irrationally, to feel the presence of her sister. Perhaps she was still alive when the killer brought her there. Perhaps there was still something of her in the air. “ It's the third exit ,” she said.
Carla saw the place at once. A highway patrolman had been stationed there, with his car, hazard lights blinking. Farther down the slope she saw an area marked off with yellow tape. Amber utility lights blinked at either end. Molly pulled off the shoulder of the exit ramp, stopping behind the patrol car. She had barely placed the car in park when the young patrolman in his early twenties, stepped from his car and began to wave them on. Carla was out her door almost as quickly, her wallet in hand. Molly watched as the patrolman s h ined his light on her Connecticut driver's license and on a cropped snapshot hat identified her as the sister of the Campus Killer's seventh victim.
The young patrolman did not know quite what to do. He seemed, to Molly, to be trying to reason with her, perhaps repeating what she herself had said, that it could only hurt. But in the end he turned with her, shining his light toward the crime scene, walking slowly. Molly watched.
The beam washed over a system of squares, marked off with string, where forensic specialists had done a grid search. It settled on a particular spot. There was nothing there now . No outline of a body. But Molly could see where an oblong ring had been flattened by the shoes of policemen, an ambulance crew, a photographer, a coroner . She could see the tire tracks of several vehicles.
They were coming back now, the patrolman ' s light marking Carla's path. Suddenly she stopped, looking down. She bent over, her fingers brushing something in the grass. She stayed, for a long moment, then stood erect and touched the young man's arm in thanks. He took her hand, gripping it as if to comfort her. He watched her go.
Seven victims, thought Molly. She wondered what the young man would have thought if he knew that the woma n h
Carla, left to that task, would have rented a Porsche or a Mercedes. There was no real reason not to, Molly sup posed. No need to avoid attention. It was more force of habit. As Carla had argued, not without merit, that in this town a plain blue Chevrolet would stand out more than a Porsche. Most of the late-model Chevrolets, she said, were probably unmarked police cars.
Nor would Molly, given the choice, have reserved a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Too much people- watching there. Too many eyes wondering who you are and whether you're famous. But Susan had made the reser vations. Paul didn't correct her. He probably decided that there's no harm in that either. It's centrally located be tween Lisa's apartment and her father's house. And it's pleasant enough that it might take some of the edge off of Carla's gloom.
Molly drove, heading north along the San Diego Freeway. Ten minutes later, approaching Santa Monica Boulevard, she signaled a right turn. She could see Century City, on the edge of Beverly Hills, stil l glowing red in reflection of the western horizon.
“ No ,” Car l a pointed. “ Go straight .”
Molly hesitated. “ Sherman Oaks ?” Where he r father lived.
“ And Woodland Hills ,” she said.
Where her sister was found. “ Wouldn't you rather get some rest first? It's after midnight, our time .”
Carla shook her head. “ Let ' s get it over with .”
Approaching the exit ramp for Sherman Oaks, Molly signaled again. And once more, Carla waved her forward. “ Take the Ventura Freeway westbound ,” she said.
“ It will only hurt you ,” Molly said gently. “ And there won't be anything lef t to see .”
Carla realized that. And that it would hurt. But she wanted, however irrationally, to feel the presence of her sister. Perhaps she was still alive when the killer brought her there. Perhaps there was still something of her in the air. “ It's the third exit ,” she said.
Carla saw the place at once. A highway patrolman had been stationed there, with his car, hazard lights blinking. Farther down the slope she saw an area marked off with yellow tape. Amber utility lights blinked at either end. Molly pulled off the shoulder of the exit ramp, stopping behind the patrol car. She had barely placed the car in park when the young patrolman in his early twenties, stepped from his car and began to wave them on. Carla was out her door almost as quickly, her wallet in hand. Molly watched as the patrolman s h ined his light on her Connecticut driver's license and on a cropped snapshot hat identified her as the sister of the Campus Killer's seventh victim.
The young patrolman did not know quite what to do. He seemed, to Molly, to be trying to reason with her, perhaps repeating what she herself had said, that it could only hurt. But in the end he turned with her, shining his light toward the crime scene, walking slowly. Molly watched.
The beam washed over a system of squares, marked off with string, where forensic specialists had done a grid search. It settled on a particular spot. There was nothing there now . No outline of a body. But Molly could see where an oblong ring had been flattened by the shoes of policemen, an ambulance crew, a photographer, a coroner . She could see the tire tracks of several vehicles.
They were coming back now, the patrolman ' s light marking Carla's path. Suddenly she stopped, looking down. She bent over, her fingers brushing something in the grass. She stayed, for a long moment, then stood erect and touched the young man's arm in thanks. He took her hand, gripping it as if to comfort her. He watched her go.
Seven victims, thought Molly. She wondered what the young man would have thought if he knew that the woma n h
Similar Books
![Carter's Tryck [Brac Pack 17]](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/474078/thumbs/152x264/carters-tryck-brac-pack-17.jpg)
