“Should I notify him?”
“I already did,” Officer VapoRub said. “These ladies had his cell phone number. He’s in Taiwan on a business trip. His boss confirmed his presence.”
“Ruling him out.”
“For the time being,” Branch agreed.
The manicurist began wailing.
“We loved Zee,” she sobbed. “So happy all the time, so much fun.” Her lower lip pooched out. “She wasn’t supposed to be here today.”
“Why not?” Emily asked.
“Zee had a cold. I told her to go home, I’d cover the desk. You know what she did?”
Emily shook her head.
“She patted my cheek. Like my grandma does? Then she said, ‘It’s more fun here with you guys.’” Her face crumpled, and the floodgates opened anew.
“Why don’t you take her outside for some fresh air?” Emily told the attendant. “I’ll find you when I’m ready to take your statement.”
The attendant nodded, trundled her out the door. Emily glanced at Officer VapoRub.
“I’ll keep them company,” he said.
“Thanks.”
She started to join Branch at the body, then felt a presence against her back.
“You found your clothes,” she said, reaching back to pat his leg.
“Along with a hot shower,” Marty said. “Branch, I’m gonna head to the office and write my statement. I’ll e-mail you copies when I’m done.”
Branch gave him a thumbs-up, and Marty swung his attention back to Emily. “Want to work on the house when you’re done?” he murmured.
She bumped her head “yes” against his chest. Easy to do because he was a foot taller than her five-six. “I’ll call you,” she said. “Be awfully late, though.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He rubbed her shoulders, then gently pushed away.
“Aw, Marty, tell her you wuv her,” Branch said.
“I’d better not,” Marty said. “She’d insist on smooching me, then you’d have to fire her for sexual harassment and we’d all be embarrassed . . .”
Cop humor, Emily thought as they chuckled. Like these two homicide veterans, someday she’d be an expert at whistling past the graveyard.
But not today.
Not with Zabrina Reynolds staring at her.
Marty headed out.
Emily finished scouting, then turned her attention to the corpse.
1:00 p.m.
The Executioner drove into his attached garage, heart singing at his success. When the door merged with the concrete floor, he eased his grip on the Sig and hopped out.
Plunked the bloody knife in a pail of Clorox. Donned coveralls and fresh gloves. Scrubbed the getaway Subaru top to bottom, then stem to stern. Vacuumed the interior. Removed the dust bag and stuffed it in a can of paint. Washed windows and mirrors and wiped down the interior.
Then did it again.
Satisfied the car was as clean as he could make it, he threw a nylon cover over the roof and secured it with bungee cords, snapping them with a satisfying thwack.
He added both sets of gloves to the can, along with the beard, hat, and bleached knife. He hated to lose the stabber - he’d sculpted it from a single bar of steel - but he had plenty of others. He watched it disappear in a bubble of barn-red latex.
The bulk squished the paint to just below the brim. He added a capful of drying catalyst. In twenty-four hours, the evidence would be sealed like a bug in amber. He hammered on the lid, put the can in his Land Rover, and went into the house.
“Hi, Bowie,” he greeted with a salute. “You won’t believe the day I had . . .”
He detailed the kill while eating his favorite lunch from childhood - bologna and cheese on white bread, with lettuce, Miracle Whip, and a dash of pepper. Then he showered, changed, confirmed his morning departure with the airline, and reviewed the plan again.
Airtight.
He told Bowie his schedule from now till Monday - “I probably won’t call, I don’t want anyone tracing my calls back to you” - then hugged him goodbye. He grabbed his carry-on and headed for the garage. Wished again he had eyes on top of his head so he wouldn’t strain his neck looking for police aircraft.
As he backed the Land Rover out of the garage, he debated whether to swing by the mud spa. It wasn’t smart, he knew. He should stick to the plan - drive south, pick up the interstate, get to St. Louis to start the next phase.
But the woman from the windshield beckoned. He’d realized who it was as soon as he reached Ogden Avenue, and was enormously thankful he hadn’t killed her.
Yet.
He turned north.
1:17 p.m.
Emily judged Zabrina Reynolds five-five and 120 pounds. She had a tiny waist, flared hips, and medium bust. She lay faceup, arms at her sides. She hadn’t fallen that way, Emily remembered. Marty repositioned her for the CPR.