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CHAPTER THREE
“T HERE’S NO SUCH THING as a perfect crime. Little things—the unexpected—stand in the way of a flawless murder.” The killer spoke the words in an undertone, although there was no one around to hear.
Erin Wycoff’s murder had made headlines. People feasted on the brutality of the crime and lapped up every gory fact. It was to be expected. Death was fascinating, especially if it wasn’t yours. The details had captured the city’s imagination. Many identified with the victim and felt lucky to have escaped her fate.
“The devil is in the details. Always has been, always will be.”
Not many people realized blow-dryers were no longer instruments of death. He certainly hadn’t. He’d been too consumed by his life’s work to read the papers or watch mindless television that might have given him the information he needed.
An enterprising manufacturer would advertise the fact. But the truth was most people didn’t recognize their potential—big corporations included. Never mind. The blow-dryer didn’t electrocute Erin, but the mission had been accomplished in spite of the unexpected development.
The killer stared out at the series of waves tumbling one after another onto the white sand, remembering and reliving the instant the blow-dryer hit the water and hissed like a cat with its tail on fire. The killer had anticipated a guttural scream, then a body collapsing into the water. Dead.
The earsplitting cry had erupted from Erin’s throat as expected. But instead of dying, she’d vaulted from the tub and streaked out of the bathroom with wild, unfocused eyes, reminding him of a rabid dog. She had to be stopped, had to be shut up before she awakened the neighbors.
Luck was always with those who planned and noticed details. The red sash for her robe had been right there on the bathroom door. She’d fought like a hellcat, but she was a small woman. Her struggle had been exhilarating but brief.
A strange twist of fate. Death was always exciting but not this thrilling—so stimulating that nothing could match the experience. It was the struggle that was so captivating. The others had died well-planned deaths—they hadn’t even been listed as murders. This time there was no mistake.
When you didn’t anticipate having to physically attack, the chance of leaving incriminating evidence grew exponentially. Still, the killer had considered the situation many times and decided there was no way the police could solve this crime. Certainly, there was no chance they could link it to the previous murders. They wouldn’t figure out the common denominator between the victims.
P AUL T ANNER WAITED in the Porsche as Madison pulled into the driveway of the Fisher Island home where she was house-sitting. She still had the golden retriever with her. He shut off the air-conditioning and got out of the car. His leg hadn’t quite healed and it was stiff from being in the small enclosure for so long. Madison’s head swung in his direction, a puzzled expression on her pretty face.
Paul had known she would be surprised to see him. No doubt she was wondering why he was here and how he’d gotten into an enclave famous for its exclusivity. The small island was linked to the mainland only by ferry service. He’d driven off the boat with a gaggle of Rollses and Bentleys. Parking valetswashed the salt spray off the overpriced cars while uniformed guards checked visitors’ credentials. He’d flashed his badge and implied this was official business even though his mission didn’t have a damn thing to do with the murder.
Madison opened her car door and tugged on Aspen’s leash. It took the dog a minute to gauge the distance from the driver’s seat to the ground. His eye problem must really be bothering him.
“How’s his eye
CHAPTER THREE
“T HERE’S NO SUCH THING as a perfect crime. Little things—the unexpected—stand in the way of a flawless murder.” The killer spoke the words in an undertone, although there was no one around to hear.
Erin Wycoff’s murder had made headlines. People feasted on the brutality of the crime and lapped up every gory fact. It was to be expected. Death was fascinating, especially if it wasn’t yours. The details had captured the city’s imagination. Many identified with the victim and felt lucky to have escaped her fate.
“The devil is in the details. Always has been, always will be.”
Not many people realized blow-dryers were no longer instruments of death. He certainly hadn’t. He’d been too consumed by his life’s work to read the papers or watch mindless television that might have given him the information he needed.
An enterprising manufacturer would advertise the fact. But the truth was most people didn’t recognize their potential—big corporations included. Never mind. The blow-dryer didn’t electrocute Erin, but the mission had been accomplished in spite of the unexpected development.
The killer stared out at the series of waves tumbling one after another onto the white sand, remembering and reliving the instant the blow-dryer hit the water and hissed like a cat with its tail on fire. The killer had anticipated a guttural scream, then a body collapsing into the water. Dead.
The earsplitting cry had erupted from Erin’s throat as expected. But instead of dying, she’d vaulted from the tub and streaked out of the bathroom with wild, unfocused eyes, reminding him of a rabid dog. She had to be stopped, had to be shut up before she awakened the neighbors.
Luck was always with those who planned and noticed details. The red sash for her robe had been right there on the bathroom door. She’d fought like a hellcat, but she was a small woman. Her struggle had been exhilarating but brief.
A strange twist of fate. Death was always exciting but not this thrilling—so stimulating that nothing could match the experience. It was the struggle that was so captivating. The others had died well-planned deaths—they hadn’t even been listed as murders. This time there was no mistake.
When you didn’t anticipate having to physically attack, the chance of leaving incriminating evidence grew exponentially. Still, the killer had considered the situation many times and decided there was no way the police could solve this crime. Certainly, there was no chance they could link it to the previous murders. They wouldn’t figure out the common denominator between the victims.
P AUL T ANNER WAITED in the Porsche as Madison pulled into the driveway of the Fisher Island home where she was house-sitting. She still had the golden retriever with her. He shut off the air-conditioning and got out of the car. His leg hadn’t quite healed and it was stiff from being in the small enclosure for so long. Madison’s head swung in his direction, a puzzled expression on her pretty face.
Paul had known she would be surprised to see him. No doubt she was wondering why he was here and how he’d gotten into an enclave famous for its exclusivity. The small island was linked to the mainland only by ferry service. He’d driven off the boat with a gaggle of Rollses and Bentleys. Parking valetswashed the salt spray off the overpriced cars while uniformed guards checked visitors’ credentials. He’d flashed his badge and implied this was official business even though his mission didn’t have a damn thing to do with the murder.
Madison opened her car door and tugged on Aspen’s leash. It took the dog a minute to gauge the distance from the driver’s seat to the ground. His eye problem must really be bothering him.
“How’s his eye
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