Skye Cree 02: The Bones Will Tell (17 page)

He knew she shared Josh Ander’s bed, had for the last several months. But he also knew she kept her own little studio apartment where she’d lived for years before the gamer had ever appeared on the scene. It was a crappy rat hole, but he’d already made up his mind to get inside it tonight. He might even spend the night there, sleep in her bed.

Because Frank De Palo knew it was time to get back on the horse. He’d taken his supposed “cooling off” period as the experts wanted to call it. He’d relished seeing the media use those two words to describe what he knew to be false.

But now it was time to get back to work.

That’s why after leaving the Belmont Hotel early, Frank had stopped at his place to change clothes and put on his all-black outfit.

A few minutes after midnight he made his way to Skye’s fourth-floor walk-up where he
picked the lock to get into the trashy little place.

As he swung the door open, he noticed the squeak first before ever setting foot inside. He took out his penlight to shine into the one-room interior. His eyes perused the four walls to make sure he was alone before striding to what appeared to be the bathroom. After checking that out, he located the light switch. He got his first look at the layout, the arrangement of the furniture.

He removed a small bottle of lubricant from the pocket of the hoodie he wore and went back over to the door. Placing a few drops of the oil on each of the three hinges, he tried the door until he was satisfied he’d taken care of the offending creak.

Since the walls of the dump were paper-thin and so was the flooring, he made sure to keep his footsteps light as he scanned the tiny five-hundred-square-foot studio. The only place to walk was a narrow slice of pathway that led from the front door and continued past a small loveseat and back to the full-size bed in the corner. A couple of homemade quilts reminded him people of Skye Cree’s station in life set value on such outdated, ordinary accessories.

Checking out the rest of the shabby chic furniture made him wince. Someone as beautiful as Skye Cree needed to spend her time in more elegant living conditions, not some hole-in-the-wall tenement.

Which made him wonder why she would insist on keeping this tiny flat when she had access to Ander’s loft on a regular basis? A definite chink in her armor, Frank decided. Maybe she didn’t plan on staying with the man for the long term. That might explain her reluctance to give up this miniature-sized crib in the bowery section of Seattle.

He made his way around the wall–to-wall furniture arrangement to the thin strip of kitchen. Colorful dishes took up one open shelf and another held what his mother had always called useless knick-knacks.  When his eyes landed on her bookshelf he went over, picked up a copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. Why would a smart woman read such useless drivel? he wondered. After checking out the titles, she didn’t own a single book he’d even consider adding to his to-be-read list.

When a dozen intricate stained-glass designs decorating the walls caught his eye, he thought back to whether or not he’d seen an artistic side to the warrior. He decided she didn’t possess any particular tendencies toward creativity.

Although tonight she’d shown excellent tastes in her evening attire, the classy dress had set off the woman’s toned figure. He had to admit, her in that gown she’d looked like a model, someone he would consider fucking. He hadn’t even thought that possible because of the military get-up she usually wore. Now, her sense of flair had to enter into the equation.

He stared at all the plants she had lined up neatly in front of a sliding glass door. He wasn’t sure that counted in the creativity column. But a second scan had him doing a mental calculation in his head. There had to be at least fifty containers holding a variety of herbs and other types of foliage. She did seem to have a green thumb when it came to growing things. Then he remembered a day last week when he’d followed her here. From street level he’d noticed the balcony full of greenery. If given the dirt and space the damn woman could probably grow her own forest full of flowers.

Okay, so her artistic side included a bit of gardening. He didn’t like that. It reminded him too much of someone else.

About that time, Frank heard the whimsical tinkling of wind chimes coming from outside. It was then he realized this Martha Stewart side hovered at Skye’s outer edges. He would exploit that as a weakness.

But as he continued to go through her things, it became obvious she did show a wide range of interests. He pulled out a spiral notebook buried under all the hardcover books, and then found another. Apparently his Skye Cree liked to jot down interesting side notes about people. As he flipped through the pages, he became fascinated with her meticulous details about the various sexual predators she’d tracked over the years. So she liked to keep notes on people just as he often did on his potential targets. An interesting similarity, he decided. Maybe they had more in common than he’d originally thought.

But for some reason Frank kept coming back to the only other space in the little rat-hole to store anything—under the old iron bed. He decided to see what had migrated underneath with the dust bunnies. Getting down on his knees, he scanned the area—and hit the mother lode. He slid out a laptop computer from its hiding place and realized he’d just found something that would keep him occupied for the rest of the night. The bonus would be getting inside the mind of another hunter.

And what a mind it was.

Tonight he would do without sleep as he made himself comfortable here. He’d soak up everything he could since he couldn’t very well take the laptop. She would surely miss that and know someone had been here. That someone she would no doubt blame on him.

He pondered whether or not he really cared about her knowing. He decided to play it safe. So he pulled out his phone and snapped photos of her little sanctuary. He took screenshots of her notebooks and anything else he could think of that might come in handy for later. He even laid out each piece of her underwear and photographed that as well.

Over the next several hours, he fixed himself a plate with cheese he found in the fridge and some unopened sesame crackers in the cabinet. When he got thirsty, he drank from a carton of orange juice still in date. All the while he read through her journals. When that was done, he opened up the laptop. It took him less than fifteen minutes to crack her password and discovered she seemed to be as obsessive-compulsive as he was in keeping notes and searching websites.

When bits of sun began to stream through the only source of light, the sliding glass door, he got up from the bed to stretch his back. Tidying the mess he’d made, he felt confident he could use everything he’d found to his advantage.

But first, he had to go back to doing what he did best. He’d pinpointed his next victim. Because of that, come nightfall, his evening was already booked.

N
o doubt the residents tucked inside the gated section of Seattle known as Brittany’s Landing felt safe and secure. After all, the gate at the front of the complex was supposed to keep out the riff-raff. The eight-foot brick wall surrounding the little enclave didn’t hurt either. 

Designed to make sure the inhabitants didn’t have to put up with annoying door-to-door salesman—or the awkward face-to-face contact from people pushing their religious beliefs—or those on foot dropping off advertising flyers, in order to get past the gate, one had to enter a code into the keypad or press a handy remote for access.

Frank De Palo didn’t have either. He didn’t need them.

But he could have used a nice over-sized umbrella. By midnight the fine mist of early evening had turned into a heavy drizzle.

The rain made the barrier in the back of the neighborhood a slick mess. Slippery, but not impossible to climb and vault over. Frank stood there gauging its height. But since he’d been here before, it wasn’t a big deal.

He threw his bag over first then dropped down on the other side into a row of bushes. Strolling along the sidewalk as if he belonged there, he moved in the shadows past a common area, a clubhouse with a sparkling swimming pool and a playground for the kids.

The neighborhood had everything the residents could want within easy reach of their front doors. Everything that is, except a guard out front or surveillance cameras to keep an eye on the perimeter.

After tonight, the real estate agents might want to reconsider the advertising campaign that living behind a gate kept anyone out. Truth was
, if he wanted to get in, he found a way in, simple as that.

He made his way to the cross streets of Xavier and Allen as if he’d gone out for a breath of damp Seattle air. Because he already had mapped out his target, there was no need to scour the rows and rows of upscale homes.

As soon as he reached Kathy Monroe’s two-story Mission Revival, or rather the house that belonged to her mother, he spotted the light burning bright in a downstairs window. He veered off in the direction of the side yard. He pushed the handle on the back gate, and kept to the fence line. Moving along the side of the brick structure, he hid in a row of bushes he could use as cover.

From the backyard, he noted Kathy had left her blinds open. The little brunette would be his youngest yet. Well…except for that other one. But she didn’t count. She’d lived in another state—and was ancient history.

From his spot, he could see all the way into the kitchen and beyond into the open living area. He watched through the glass as Kathy, the just-turned twenty-year-old, fidgeted with her cell phone.

Standing as still as one of the bronze statues in Ravenna Park, Frank lifted his head to peer into the house.

As always, he waited at the fringes—and for his opportunity.

Still living at
home, Kathy Monroe poured her third glass of merlot and settled down to call her mom, Louise, who had flown out of Sea-Tac just that Sunday morning for an all-inclusive vacation to Hawaii. Maui to be exact. With the three-hour time difference between Seattle and the island, it was only a couple of minutes after nine o’clock there. Because it was still early, and because her mother had specifically left instructions for Kathy to call, she couldn’t wait until morning to hear the details of her mother’s first trip to paradise. Besides, her mother was her best friend. Kathy wouldn’t think twice about pestering a friend on her first night in one of Kaanapali’s best beachfront resorts. So why not bug her mom.

And even though Louise had only checked into the fancy hotel that afternoon, Kathy itched to get the low-down about the flight over, the accommodations, what the place had to offer. In other words, everything she was missing out on sitting back home alone in Seattle on a rainy night.

Kathy had wanted so badly to make the trip with her mother that she’d considered giving her notice at the design firm where she worked. But quitting didn't make any sense when she had a car payment due. She couldn’t put Visa off either, even if her grump of a boss was a tyrant.

She could only hope her mother would give her updates while she was on the island and take plenty of pictures. She knew, of course, that photos weren’t the same as experiencing all the pristine sandy beaches, the crystal clear water, and seeing the beauty of Maui firsthand. But it would have to do for the time being.

Just because Kathy worked as a lowly go-fer for a crabby boss known for his CD cover designs didn’t mean she shouldn’t get to take a vacation. Considering she’d only been employed there for the past ten months didn’t make a difference to Kathy. She usually got the crap jobs no one else wanted to do anyway. She felt like her boss could’ve made an exception. He could’ve let her take a holiday two months before her anniversary date. But he hadn’t done that.

With all the work she had piled up on her desk, Kathy didn’t stand a chance of seeing anything tropical unless it was a pineapple in the produce section at Safeway.

When the call to her mother went to voicemail, Kathy sighed into the phone. She left a long message about how she wanted to hear each and every perk, all the amenities that came with the resort package Louise had booked.

Knowing her mother was more than likely out having a blast, sitting around a fire at the first-night, get-together luau with the rest of the group members, didn’t help Kathy’s mood any.

Draining her glass of wine and setting it in the sink, she decided it was time to head to bed. Kathy snatched up her cell phone just in case her mother decided to return the call whenever the luau ended.

With thoughts of hula dancers and bare-chested hunks flitting through her head, Kathy climbed the stairs to the second floor. She couldn’t help but wonder if Louise, right at that moment, was sitting on a sandy beach sampling her first taste of poi. She knew her mother wouldn’t dare pass up a nice Mai Tai either.

Heading into the bathroom to take off her makeup, the same makeup she’d painstakingly applied to drop off her mother twelve hours ago at the airport. Which was silly she thought now, she’d never even left the car.

As she lathered up her face she realized in less than eight hours she’d have to put the stuff back on when she got up to go to work the next morning.

It was then Kathy decided life was too short to sit on the sidelines. She smoothed face cream onto her cheeks and forehead and realized she hated her job. She spent eight long hours every day working for a man she didn’t like very much.

As she pulled back the covers on her bed, she came to a decision. If she ever got the chance to see Hawaii again, she was ditching her asshole of a boss and taking the trip anyway.

Unfortunately for Kathy
Monroe, Frank De Palo had other plans for the woman’s future and a vacation didn’t enter into play.

Like any good cat burglar, he waited until he saw the lights go out in Kathy’s upstairs bedroom before he made his move.

Instead of walking back around to the front door and coming in that way, which he’d done on numerous occasions to other houses, Frank decided tonight he would use the roof. Maybe because the French doors on the second-floor balcony made a perfect entry point. Not only was it the darkest part of the backyard, but on one of his previous visits he’d fixed the lock there to where it would easily stay open. That is, if no one else had tampered with it.

He pulled on a pair of gloves from his bag then went over to pick up a deck chair from the back terrace that he thought would easily hold his weight. He carried the furniture over to the lowest roof point and positioned it so that he could reach the overhang.

He went back for his tool bag, grabbed the mask and stretched it over his head. He zipped the bag closed then hurled it up and over the railing where it landed with a slight thud on the concrete.

Hoisting himself up to the eaves, he grabbed on to the drainpipe, shimmied along the rim until he could throw his leg onto the roof. Balancing like an acrobat on the narrow ledge, he finished his climb the rest of the way across, edged his way around, no more than five feet, and dropped onto the balcony where his satchel already sat.

He checked the double doors and found the latch just as he’d left it. A simple piece of Scotch tape over the mechanism had prevented it from locking. He loved homeowners who didn’t bother securing every door in their house before going to bed.

He picked up his bag, turned the handle and stepped into the master bedroom where Kathy’s mother, Louise, normally slept. But since Frank had done his homework he knew Louise was three thousand miles away and that Kathy was alone.

The carpeted floor muffled his footsteps as he narrowed his eyes, scanning the already familiar surroundings. Since this would act as his staging area, he began to shed his clothes. He stripped down to skin. From the bag he took out his knife and this time, a Beretta. 

He left the mother’s bedroom and walked down the hall to Kathy’s.

Kathy had left her door open. And she wasn’t asleep yet.

Kathy thought she
heard a scraping sound outside, and then a thud. She tried to get comfortable again. But when she heard the same noise again, she lifted her head to try to pick up where the bump-in-the-night came from. It sounded like someone walking on the roof—which was impossible. Kathy knew that. But then she heard what sounded like the floor creak, maybe down the hallway. Once again, she convinced herself she had to be imagining things. Her mother wasn’t home so it had be the house settling. She rolled to her back.

And that’s when she spotted him.

She blinked and tried to focus on something other than the dark figure looming in the doorway. Her eyes locked onto a man wearing a mask over his head. The knife he held in his fist glinted silver.

She panicked and grabbed for the phone on the nightstand.

But Kathy wasn’t quick enough.

The man had already closed the distance. With his gloved hand, he brought the blade down, slicing a gash into Kathy’s arm. Blood flowed from the wound which seemed to piss him off.

“Damn it! Look what you made me do!” Frank screamed as he yanked the charger from the outlet along with the cell phone and threw both up against the wall.

By this time, Kathy realized her attacker was naked—and fully erect. Even with what little light the bedroom offered, she noticed the deep brown of his eyes—and how empty they were.