“I can’t read it now. I’m late for another appointment. But I’ll call you in the morning. Do you have a cell number?” She opened her phone to contacts.
“Mark said he couldn’t wait on this long.” Sooner rattled off the number.
Charlotte typed and saved the number. “I’d bet my last dollar that Mark will wait quite a while for you.”
She grinned. “He does have a thing for me, doesn’t he?”
“He does. And you need to be careful.”
“He’s a scrawny guy.”
“Don’t underestimate him.”
Chapter 9
Thursday, October 21, 6 p.m.
He glanced out the coffee shop window to the abandoned Wharf, still blocked off with yellow crime scene tape. He had to concede that life had a strange synchronicity to it. One kill had been left here and another soon would be taken from here.
Vanquishing the witches shouldn’t have been such a thrill for him. But if he were to confess his sins to God, he would admit that th
e Hunt gave more satisfaction than the final confession.
He spent endless hours watching the witches, learning their patterns, friends and family. He studied the best places to take them. He knew traffic patterns, cameras, and choke points. In the end, he knew all there was to know about his witch and the best way to capture her.
And so it was with this next witch. He sat in the corner of the coffee shop watching her sit at a table with several of her girlfriends, laughing as they all sipped coffee and shared a large slice of chocolate cake.
She was a pretty one. Her dark hair draped over her shoulders and down her back. He knew from his research that she was in her mid-forties. She’d divorced her husband two years ago and moved out of their Arlington home to live in an Alexandria apartment. She taught women’s studies at the local university, drove a green Volvo, liked to buy organic food at the farmer’s market, and visited the library every Friday. He’d read the books he’d seen her reading and watched the movies she watched.
He’d written his final dossier on her last night and felt certain he knew her better than her friends and family.
Planning was his best defense if he never wanted the cops to discover his true work. This kind of meticulous planning had been what he’d done with the last witch and the one before and all the others before her. With each kill he’d honed his skills to razor sharpness.
Excitement bubbled and the energy that always hummed before a kill grew. He laid his fingers over his forearm and squeezed the spot where he’d made a clean cut this morning. Pain shot through him and doused the energy.
He sipped his coffee and dropped his gaze to the paper he’d picked up at the newsstand. He’d not read a word, but for a man alone to come into a coffee shop and to be seen staring at women, well, that was the kind of behavior someone noticed.
In his peripheral vision, he saw the waitress approach. This would be the second time she’d offered to warm up his coffee, and it was his cue to leave.
The waitress, a college kid with blond hair and a pink T-shirt that read Just Java?, smiled down at him. “Ready for more?”
He leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach, which he’d padded to look fuller. He’d also added gray highlights to his hair and chosen an old tweed jacket more suited for an older man. People rarely, he’d discovered, looked beyond the surface. “No thanks. I’m about done here. Thanks.”
He rose, pulled out a tip that was exactly fifteen percent. To leave more or less would stick in the waitress’s memory, and he didn’t want to stick in anyone’s mind.
As he sauntered out, he glanced back one last time at the witch. She tossed back her head and laughed as did her friends. Let her enjoy her coven a little longer. The inquisition would begin soon enough.
He noticed the hint of blood on the cuff of his shirt and frowned. He’d squeezed too hard and opened the wound. Quickly he cupped his hand over the bloodstain and hurried to his car.
He reached inside his glove box and retrieved gauze, which he always kept on hand. Carefully, he wound it around the wound. He thought back to the table in the café. Could he have left droplets of blood behind?
He couldn’t be sure.
And he had to be sure.
“Damn.”
He glanced at the café, weighing the risk of returning versus hoping that he’d not left traces of blood behind. People remembered blood.
He finished bandaging the wound and pulled the long cuff of his jacket over the bloody sleeve. He got out of the car and resisted jogging back. Instead, he moved slowly, like an older man should.
As he opened the door, the witch and her coven were walking outside. He stepped aside, nodded his head, and waited for them to pass. As they did, he got a whiff of perfume that was so sweet and pure that it caught him off guard. A witch should have a spicy scent. She shouldn’t smell like roses and flowers.
When they passed, he hurried inside to his chair. The waitress had cleared away his table and wiped it clean. He glanced toward the floor and spotted the single drop of blood. Damn. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he knelt down and wiped it up.
“Can I help you?” The waitress had spotted him and returned.
This time he found her cheerful smile and face annoying. “I dropped my handkerchief,” he said as he rose and tucked it in his pocket. “It’s a favorite, and I didn’t want to lose it.” He glanced at her name tag. “Thanks for asking, Katrina.”
She studied him closely for the first time. “Sure. No problem. And thanks for the tip.”
As she turned and walked away, he watched her and wondered if he’d just made a critical error. His return had made an impression. And impressions were a bad thing.
Back in his car, he did not turn on the dome light to supplement the fading afternoon light as he pulled out his notebook and turned the pages until he found a blank one. He wrote down the date, time, and the name Just Java? Under that he scribbled the waitress’s name: Katrina. He circled the name three times.
“I might just have to keep an eye on you, Katrina.”
After Charlotte left Ageless, the day moved along in a frenetic blur of meetings, calls, and briefs. It was well after eleven that evening when she finally rose from her desk, set the alarm on her building, and crossed the street to her car.
The drive home along the parkway, which snaked along the Potomac River, was particularly beautiful this evening. The sky was full of stars and the moon cast a soft, simmering glow on the water. The lights on the north bank winked like diamonds.
She was going to miss this drive. But nothing—a home, a lover, or a friendship—lasted forever. This ingrained lesson learned from her nomadic childhood was simple: attachments led only to heartache. And so she’d been careful never to fully invest in people or places. Though she couldn’t mark the day or time when she’d begun to anticipate this drive home, she realized she now did. She wasn’t going to miss the condo as much as the views of the river’s meandering waters, which had a way of washing away the day’s stresses.
She also wasn’t sure when she’d grown to anticipate Daniel Rokov’s touch. The first time she’d suggested the motel room, it had been Mariah’s thirty-sixth birthday. She’d thought a tryst was about basic sex and a need to banish Mariah from her thoughts.
Basic sex. A smile tipped the edge of her lips. Sex with Rokov hadn’t been basic at all. It had been so extraordinary that the memories had lingered through a succession of fifteen-hour days. Finally unable to resist, she’d called him and suggested another round. He’d quickly said yes.
Have dinner with me?
“So tempting. Just not so wise, detective.”
She pulled through the gated entrance of the Century high-rise complex and parked in the underground garage. She waved to the guard stationed in the lot and then moved through glass doors to the elevator. Seconds passed, and it seemed her briefcase grew heavier with each moment. Her heels dug into her feet, and her back ached. The doors dinged open, and she gladly stepped into the car, which she rode to the top floor.
She unlocked her front door, dropped her briefcase and keys by the entrance as the door clicked closed behind her. A note on a sticky dangled from a large mirror by the entryway. Robert’s card sat on the table, as did the card of a local mover. There was a note taped to the entryway mirror. Ms. W. Finished repairs on back window and molding in back bedroom. Mr. Delango. He’d also attached his business card.
Frowning, she studied the bold handwriting. Robert had vouched for him, but still she didn’t like the idea that he’d been in her space.
Shoving aside unease, she kicked off her shoes and padded into the kitchen and switched on the lights. Granite. Stainless. Italian marble floors. Custom-painted walls. She’d believed a well-designed kitchen was a matter of status. The few times she’d entertained clients here, the caterer had marveled at the equipment. Any real cook would weep if they knew she kept only frozen meals in the freezer and used the eight-burner professional stove only to heat tea.
>
She’d bought and decorated this place when she’d landed a few high-rolling clients. At the time, it seemed the money would be coming in forever. She should have known better. If Grady had taught her anything, it was that customers could love you one moment and hate you the next. Believing her own press had been her first mistake.
And then one of those high-rolling clients had seen her as a liability and sent a killer to tie up the loose ends.
It had been three years since the man had come into her office, smiled at her, and then shot her point-blank in the side. She’d managed to escape to the bathroom off her office, barricade herself, and hold on until the cops had arrived.
She rubbed her side, her fingertips feeling the scar through the threadbare shirt. It was no longer pink, angry, and raised, but the scar would always be there. It would always be a reminder to her never to let her guard down.
Charlotte dug a loaf of rye bread from the refrigerator along with fresh slices of ham, cheese, and mustard. She made a simple sandwich and took a big bite as she walked into the living room and out onto her patio. She pulled in a lungful of air and savored this moment.
Her childhood had also taught her to savor the good moments. They could be fleeting and rare, and surviving the rough patches meant savoring the days of smooth sailing. A cool breeze blew off the water. In nine days she’d be living in a rented apartment near the Arlington border. There’d be no views. No doorman. No lap pool. Just a basic roof over her head.
This downward turn annoyed but did not devastate. The firm had several big fish in the pipeline, and if she were very careful with the condo sale profits, she could cover payroll until the new clients generated income.
“Cash flow is King.” How many times had Grady said those exact words? Like it or not, the old buzzard had taught her valuable life lessons.
She finished her sandwich and then moved into her bedroom, where she carefully hung up her clothes and changed into athletic shorts and a T-shirt. Padding barefooted into the living room, she flipped on the lights and glared at the sea of unpacked moving boxes that she’d had delivered last weekend.