Read Online Cut and Run by Ridley Pearson - Free Book Online Page B

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    He saw it. The adjacent office building held a fire escape on the alley side that led to the building’s roof. This office building physically connected to the apartment building, which had a similar fire escape, but one that used a weighted drop mechanism and was therefore impossible for Paolo to reach. It was an indirect route, but one that would serve his purpose.
    Broad daylight
, he thought.
Who expects to die in the morning?
Hollywood had conditioned the public into believing murder only happened at night. He had them to thank for the ease with which he could surprise his victims.
    He climbed strongly, his light frame moved effortlessly by a taut, lean musculature. He made no hurry of it, counting again on the public’s conditioning. He climbed with confidence, a maintenance man perhaps, or a roofer making an inspection.
    He crossed to the four-story apartment building, descended an exterior steel ladder, and worked his way down one level to the catwalk that fronted a string of eight large windows. Studying the top floor as he climbed down, he made it out to be two apartments, four windows each: kitchen, living room, and probably a pair of bedrooms.
    From a distance no one would see the Tru-Feel surgical gloves. With his back turned to the alley it would be difficult, if not impossible, to make out the reflective sunglasses he now donned. They served the same purpose as the black box strung across eyes in photographs, effecting anonymity.
    He had “Alice’s” face committed to memory. Her body as well—what the photo showed of it. He made a point of slipping past the windows swiftly—a blur, a shadow.
    He had the recent heat wave to thank for four of the six windows being either ajar or fully open. Two contained fans that spun noisily, helping to conceal his actions.
    Apartment 3D would occupy the three right-hand windows. The first of these was open four inches and looked in on an empty galley kitchen. Paolo heard a woman’s voice as well as synthesized New Age background music.
Not a human voice
, he discerned.
Electronic. A CD or television.
He hesitated just long enough to hear the instructions and realize it was yoga. “Tighten your abdomen, firm up the buttocks, and rock like a rocking horse . . .”
    The next window was shut. Without exposing himself, he studied it from the side more closely:
locked.
But the third window—the bedroom—was also open.
    He peered around the window frame, just far enough to see her. Facing away from him, and toward a television where an instructor went through the motions, “Alice” wore a black swimsuit or leotard that fit her lean frame tightly and was currently wedged up her buttocks and crotch as she rocked per instruction. She was damp with perspiration and some pubic hair escaped the edges. Paolo again felt the twinges of arousal.
    He slipped the razor out from behind his belt buckle and sliced the nylon screen on the kitchen window.
    A calculated risk. Nothing came without a price. If his diversion failed, things could get messy. Noisy. He might be forced to work incredibly fast. Nothing new in this world. The most promising situations often turned bad.
    He reached through the slice in the screen and pushed a warm coffee mug off the counter. To his delight, it crashed to the tile floor.
    His eye was to the second window by the time she came out of her pose, pulled her feet in front of her, and stood.
    â€œHello?” she called out.
    She marched into the kitchen, pulling down on the backside of the leotard, her buttocks flexing nicely.
    Paolo slipped past this window, cut the screen to the bedroom, and was fully inside within a matter of seconds. His heart beat wildly in his chest.
    She was neat and tidy.
And dead before she knows it
, he thought.
    He heard her picking up the pieces of the cup and dumping them into the trash. She ran water, probably for a sponge. She wouldn’t see the cut in the screen, for his