Read Online Illusion of Luck by Robert Burton Robinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Burton Robinson
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struck her. What about the guy in
the dark green Jaguar that nearly hit her car? What if that was
Larry Luzor? Too late to chase him.
She opened the wooden gate at the side of
the house and went through. The bedroom door near the hot tub was
locked. So was the utility room door and the sliding glass door to
the den.
Rebecca peeked in the small door window of
the detached garage and saw no cars. She would break a window if
necessary to get into the house and look for evidence.
But first, she would search
for open windows. She found one. It was a high and small, in the
utility room, opened just a crack.
She put on her latex gloves, reached up to
the screen, and pulled it off. Then she raised the window, grabbed
onto the brick ledge, and pulled herself up. Her arms scraped
across the sharp edges of the bricks as she stuck her head through
the window. She hoped a neighbor wasn’t seeing her bottom half
flailing around in the air.
Her head was nearly touching the washing
machine when her legs and feet cleared the window. She fell hard on
the washer and dryer and rolled off to the tile floor. Her head was
spinning as she looked up at the dryer. She felt as if she had just
spent a few minutes tumbling in it.
One lonely tennis shoe lay upside down on
the grass outside.
She got up and began to search the house.
There was a portrait of the formerly happy couple on the mantle.
Yeah, it was the creep from the video, she thought. “You are so
dead,” she said to the picture. Then she removed it from its frame
and slipped it into her pocket.
In the study, she saw his six murder mystery
books displayed prominently on the bookshelf behind his
high-backed leather chair. In one corner were several boxes of
those same books.
There wasn’t much on the desk, other than
the computer and a 7 oz. bag of Black Night pipe tobacco.
She turned on the computer. The keyboard and
mouse had been pushed to the side. She put them in place and began
to search his files. But after a few minutes she realized
something. None of the files had been recently created or updated.
The computer had apparently not been used for weeks. But how could
that be? The guy was an author. Surely he used his computer to
write his books.
You dummy, she thought. He
had moved the keyboard and mouse out of the way to make room for
his laptop .
She checked each of the desk drawers, but
found nothing helpful. So, she pulled the trash can out from under
his desk and began to search it. There were various scribblings and
what appeared to be notes about possible characters for a book.
Or, maybe some of the names are real people,
she thought.
She typed one of the names into the Google
search box. Then she tried another. After several failures, she got
an interesting hit on ‘Barry Undermine.’ It was the name of an
author on a website called DirectFromTheAuthor.com. Mr. Undermine
was posting each chapter of his mystery novel as he wrote it. She
decided to read a few excerpts.
But when the hooker tried to escape, he
yanked the belt as hard as he could. She collapsed to the floor,
dead. Her neck was broken.
As he lay alongside her lifeless naked body,
a warm rush of satisfaction washed over him. He would tell the
world exactly what he had done.
And he would, once again, get away with
it.
Rebecca screamed at the monitor. “No, he
won’t!”
Chapter 11
“ I’ll have the French toast
with bacon—extra crispy. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
Larry loved having a mid-afternoon breakfast
at IHop. And he particularly liked this location because of its
free wireless internet access. This time of the day there were
plenty of empty tables. No need to rush.
He had to make some major decisions about
his plot. What would his readers enjoy the most? One thing he knew
for sure: the honeymoon night would end in disaster. He began to
type.
The newlyweds would feel safe in their hotel
room—their passions raging exponentially higher with each touch,
each kiss. So lost in
the dark green Jaguar that nearly hit her car? What if that was
Larry Luzor? Too late to chase him.
She opened the wooden gate at the side of
the house and went through. The bedroom door near the hot tub was
locked. So was the utility room door and the sliding glass door to
the den.
Rebecca peeked in the small door window of
the detached garage and saw no cars. She would break a window if
necessary to get into the house and look for evidence.
But first, she would search
for open windows. She found one. It was a high and small, in the
utility room, opened just a crack.
She put on her latex gloves, reached up to
the screen, and pulled it off. Then she raised the window, grabbed
onto the brick ledge, and pulled herself up. Her arms scraped
across the sharp edges of the bricks as she stuck her head through
the window. She hoped a neighbor wasn’t seeing her bottom half
flailing around in the air.
Her head was nearly touching the washing
machine when her legs and feet cleared the window. She fell hard on
the washer and dryer and rolled off to the tile floor. Her head was
spinning as she looked up at the dryer. She felt as if she had just
spent a few minutes tumbling in it.
One lonely tennis shoe lay upside down on
the grass outside.
She got up and began to search the house.
There was a portrait of the formerly happy couple on the mantle.
Yeah, it was the creep from the video, she thought. “You are so
dead,” she said to the picture. Then she removed it from its frame
and slipped it into her pocket.
In the study, she saw his six murder mystery
books displayed prominently on the bookshelf behind his
high-backed leather chair. In one corner were several boxes of
those same books.
There wasn’t much on the desk, other than
the computer and a 7 oz. bag of Black Night pipe tobacco.
She turned on the computer. The keyboard and
mouse had been pushed to the side. She put them in place and began
to search his files. But after a few minutes she realized
something. None of the files had been recently created or updated.
The computer had apparently not been used for weeks. But how could
that be? The guy was an author. Surely he used his computer to
write his books.
You dummy, she thought. He
had moved the keyboard and mouse out of the way to make room for
his laptop .
She checked each of the desk drawers, but
found nothing helpful. So, she pulled the trash can out from under
his desk and began to search it. There were various scribblings and
what appeared to be notes about possible characters for a book.
Or, maybe some of the names are real people,
she thought.
She typed one of the names into the Google
search box. Then she tried another. After several failures, she got
an interesting hit on ‘Barry Undermine.’ It was the name of an
author on a website called DirectFromTheAuthor.com. Mr. Undermine
was posting each chapter of his mystery novel as he wrote it. She
decided to read a few excerpts.
But when the hooker tried to escape, he
yanked the belt as hard as he could. She collapsed to the floor,
dead. Her neck was broken.
As he lay alongside her lifeless naked body,
a warm rush of satisfaction washed over him. He would tell the
world exactly what he had done.
And he would, once again, get away with
it.
Rebecca screamed at the monitor. “No, he
won’t!”
Chapter 11
“ I’ll have the French toast
with bacon—extra crispy. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
Larry loved having a mid-afternoon breakfast
at IHop. And he particularly liked this location because of its
free wireless internet access. This time of the day there were
plenty of empty tables. No need to rush.
He had to make some major decisions about
his plot. What would his readers enjoy the most? One thing he knew
for sure: the honeymoon night would end in disaster. He began to
type.
The newlyweds would feel safe in their hotel
room—their passions raging exponentially higher with each touch,
each kiss. So lost in
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