Yousef Qasim made sure she saw his coveralls and the cap that said MO. No doubt he would look like any other brown-skinned maintenance worker to this woman—someone who was supposed to notice details in her profession. She was a well-known crime writer after all, and that was important for the story. A crucial detail.
“Mrs. Olsen? There is gas leak in your apartment. Someone call you from office?”
“What? Say again.”
His accent was impossibly thick, and English seemed to be torture for him. He spoke slowly, like some kind of idiot. “Gas leak. Please, missus? I can fix leak? Someone call? Tell you I come?”
“I just got home. No one called,” she said. “I don’t know anything about it. I don’t think there was a message. I suppose I can check.”
“You like me come back later? Fix gas leak then? You smelling gas?”
The woman sighed with the unconcealed exasperation of a person with too many trivial duties and not enough hired help. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said. “Come in, then. Hurry it up. Your timing is just exquisite. I have to finish getting dressed and be out of here in twenty minutes.”
At the click of the dead bolt, Yousef Qasim readied himself. The moment the woman cracked the door and he saw both her eyes, he charged forward.
Extreme force was unnecessary in this case, physically speaking, but it had great utility. Tess Olsen fell back several steps and then thumped down hard on her behind. She came right out of her high-heeled pumps, exposing bright-red toenails and long, bony feet.
Before her shock and surprise gave way to a scream, Qasim was on top of her, pressing against her chest with his full body weight. The rectangle of silver duct tape he’d stuck to his pants leg was transferred quickly to the woman’s mouth. He put the tape on hard, to show that he meant business and that she would be foolish to resist.
“I mean you no harm,” he said, the first of many lies.
Then he flipped her onto her stomach and pulled a red dog leash from his pocket, securing it around her neck. The leash was a key part of the plan. It was inexpensive nylon mesh but more than strong enough.
The leash was a clue, and just the first that he would leave here for the police and for whoever else became interested.
The woman was maybe forty, hair dyed blond, not physically strong, in spite of the fact that she seemed to work out to keep herself thin.
He showed her something now—a box cutter! Very nasty-looking tool. Convincing.
Her eyes widened.
“Get up, you weak coward,” he said close to her ear. “Or I will cut your face in ribbons.” He knew that the softness of his voice was more threatening than any shouting could be. Also, the fact that his English had suddenly improved would confuse and frighten her.
When she tried to rise, he startled her with a sharp grab at the back of her scrawny neck. He stopped her right there—still on all fours.
“That’s quite far enough, Mrs. Olsen. Don’t move, not another inch. Be very still, very still. I’m using the box cutter now.”
Her expensive black dress fell away as he cut it down the back. Now she trembled uncontrollably and tried to scream from behind her gag. She was prettier without her clothes—firm, somewhat appealing, though not to him.
“Don’t worry. I am no dog-style fucker. Now go forward on your knees. Do as I say! This won’t take much of your busy day.”
She only moaned in response. It took the heel of Yousef’s shoe at her backside to get the idea across.
Then finally she began to crawl.
“How do you like it?” he asked. “Suspense. Isn’t that what you write about? That’s why I’m here, you know. Because you write about crime in your books. Can you solve this one?”
They moved slowly through the kitchen and the dining room, and then into a spacious living room. One entire wall was books, many of them her own. Glass sliding doors at the far end led to a terrace filled with fancy garden furniture and a shiny black grill.
“Look at all your books! I’m very impressed. You wrote all of these? Foreign editions too! You do any translations yourself? Of course you don’t! Americans speak only English.”
Qasim pulled up sharply on the leash, and Mrs. Olsen fell over onto her side.
“Don’t move from there. Stay! I have work to do. Clues to plant. Even you are a clue, Mrs. Tess Olsen. Have you figured it out yet? Solved the mystery?”
He quickly set up the living room just the way he wanted it. Then he returned to the woman, who hadn’t moved and who seemed to be getting her part down now.
“Is that you? In this picture?” he asked suddenly, with surprise in his voice. “It is you.”
Qasim prodded her chin with his foot to get her to look. A large oil portrait hung above the ornately scrolled sofa. It showed Tess Olsen in a long silver gown, her hand resting on a polished round table with an elaborate floral arrangement. The face was austere, full of unearned pride.
“It doesn’t look like you. You’re prettier in real life. Sexier without any clothes,” he said. “Now, outside! Onto the terrace. You’re going to be a very famous lady. I promise. Your fans are waiting.”
Chapter 5
AFTER QUASIM GAVE ANOTHER STRONG PULL on the leash, Tess Olsen struggled to her feet, then put her arms out, finally gaining some balance so that she could walk, at least.
Everything about this felt so unreal. Trembling, she backed her way onto the terrace—until the iron railing caught the small of her back.
Her whole body shivered. Twelve stories below, rush-hour traffic was crawling along Connecticut Avenue. Pedestrians, hundreds of them, navigated the sidewalks, most of them with their heads down, unaware of what was happening up in the Riverwalk tower. It was perfect symbolism for life in Washington, DC.
Yousef Qasim reached out and tore the tape off the woman’s mouth.
“Now, scream,” he said. “Scream like you mean it! Scream like you are terrified out of your mind! I want them to hear you in Virginia. In Ohio! In California!”
But the woman spoke to him instead, spoke in a barely intelligible rush. “Please. You don’t have to do this. I can help you. I have a lot of money. You can take anything you want from the apartment. I have a safe inside, in the second bedroom. Please, just tell me—”
“What I want, Mrs. Tess Olsen,” Qasim said, and held the barrel of a gun up to one of the diamond studs in her ears, “is for you to scream. Very, very loud. Right now! On cue, as it were. Do you follow me? It’s a simple instruction—scream!”
But her scream came out as little more than a sob, a pitiful whimper that was swallowed up in the wind.
“Fine,” Qasim said, and grabbed the woman’s bare legs. “We’ll do it your way!” With one powerful hoist, he had her over the railing, hanging upside down.
Now the screams came, high and clear as a security alarm going off. And Tess Olsen clawed at the air for a handhold that simply didn’t exist.
The red leash at her neck blew free in the wind like a stream of blood from her jugular. A nice effect, cinematic, Qasim thought. Just what he was looking for. All part of the plan.
Immediately, a crowd began to gather below. People stopped and pointed upward. Some began making cell-phone calls. Others used the phones to snap pictures—pornographic ones, if they stopped to think about it.
Finally Qasim reeled Tess Olsen back in and set her down on the terrace.
“You did very well,” he told her, his voice softening. “Beautiful work, and I mean that. Can you believe those people with their cameras? Some world we live in.”
Her next words came out in a torrent. “Oh, dear God, please, I don’t want to die like this. There has to be something you want. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. I don’t understand any of this! Please . . . stop.”
“We’ll see. Don’t lose hope. Do exactly as you are told. That’s the best thing.”
“I will. I promise. I’ll do what you say.”
He leaned over to better see Connecticut
Avenue, and all the people.
Even in the last few seconds, the crowd down below had grown, and grown again. He wondered if those on their cell phones were calling the police—or maybe just someone they wanted to impress or titillate. You won’t believe what I’m seeing right now. Here, look for yourself!
The audience wouldn’t believe what they were about to see either. No one would, which was why millions would watch these images on television, again and again.
Until he topped this murder with his next.
“In your honor,” he whispered. “All in your honor.”
Chapter 6
“YOU START THE FIRE,” Bree suggested. “I’ll gussy up the suite.”
I shrugged, then I winked at her. “I think the, um, fire’s ready,” I said. “I know it is.”
“Patience,” Bree said. “It’ll be worth it. I’m worth it, Alex. For the moment, though, let’s remember the scoutmaster’s motto—if you fail to plan, then you plan to fail.”
“I was never a scout,” I said. “I’m too horny to be a scout.”
“Patience. If you must know, I’m horny too.”
While I went and looked for kindling, Bree unpacked the rest of the back of the car. The equipment I’d pulled from the attic at home looked like relics next to her gear. She quickly put up an ultralight tent and proceeded to fill it with an air mattress, a thermal blanket, and a couple of Coleman lanterns. She even had a water-filtration system, just in case we wanted to drink from a stream. Finally she hung a little wind chime in the flap. Nice touch.
For my part, I had a pair of lobster tails and two nicely marbled Delmonico steaks marinating in the cooler, ready for grilling. Black bears could be a fear factor here, but dehydrated food wasn’t an option for us.
“You need a hand there?” I asked once the fire was going pretty good, blowing sparks skyward. Bree had just pulled a sailcloth out of the backseat, presumably to use as a shade of some kind.
“Yeah, open that cabernet. Please, Alex. We’re almost there.”
By the time the wine was breathing, Bree had strung the tarp up onto three branches overhead, with looping knots she could use to raise or lower the corners from right there on the ground.
“We have to be careful with the food,” she said. “Bobcats and bears, you know. There are bears in these parts.”
“So I’ve heard.” I handed her a glass. “You know, you’re pretty handy around the house.”
“And you’re a good little cook, I’ll bet.”
Sometimes I missed what Bree said because I was too busy with those enchanting hazel eyes of hers. They were the first thing I had ever noticed about her. Some people just have great eyes. Of course, it wasn’t just the eyes that were distracting me. Not right now, anyway. She’d already shucked her shoes and was unbuttoning her cutoffs. And her blouse. Then she was standing there in pale-blue bra and panties. I had forgotten about her eyes for the moment, glorious as they might be.
She handed her glass back to me. “You know the very best thing about this spot?”
“Not really sure, but I think I’m going to find out. Am I?”
“Yes, you most definitely are.”
Chapter 7
I HAVE ALWAYS FELT that life was on the borderline of being absurd and meaningless, but it can still be pretty, if you look at it in the right light.
And so the rest of the early evening was perfect for us. Bree and I hurried, hand in hand, down to the very inviting Big Hunting Creek. We took off the rest of our clothes and waded in. After an uncomfortable minute or so, the water felt like a second skin on our bodies.
At that point, I didn’t know if I could ever get out again. And I didn’t want to. We kissed and held each other, then swam and splashed around like a couple of kids on vacation. Somewhere nearby, bullfrogs were attempting to serenade us with a steady glunk, glunk, glunk.
“You think this is funny?” Bree called to the frogs. “Well, actually, I guess it is. Glunk! Glunk!”
We kissed some more, and one very good thing led to another, which is where the old-time movies used to cut to the scene of the speeding, steaming train racing through the tunnel. Except that Bree and I weren’t in any kind of hurry to get in and out of that tunnel. She whispered to me that I had the gentlest hands and asked for light tickling all over, and don’t stop. I liked what I was doing, and I told her she had the softest body, which was strange considering how buff she was. That kind of sensual exploration had to lead to trouble, and it did.
We took a few steps back until we were in water up to our chests. Then Bree floated upward and wrapped her legs around me as I went inside of her. Being in the water like that made everything last longer, but all good things must come to an end. Bree screamed, so did I, and even the damn bullfrogs shut up for a minute.
Afterward, we lay on a blanket on the grassy beach, where the late-day sun dried us off, and we did things that maybe could have gotten us into trouble again. Eventually we took our sweet time getting dressed and then fixed some dinner. “I could get used to this,” I told Bree. “In fact, I’m already used to it.”
After the steak and lobster, and my semifamous tossed salad, there was a batch of killer brownies for dessert, compliments of Nana, who highly approved of Bree. At this point I was about ready to try out the tent with my companion.
By the time it was dark, we were feeling pretty relaxed and happy. Work was just a memory. The bears and bobcats were only mild concerns.
I looked down at her, nestled in the curve of my body by the fire. She seemed as soft and vulnerable now as she was strong and unflappable at her job.
“You’re amazing,” I whispered. “This whole day has been like a dream. Don’t wake me, okay?”
“I love you,” she said. Then she quickly added, “Whoops.”
Chapter 8
BREE’S WORDS HUNG IN the air for the next few seconds, which was a first—the first time I’d ever been at a loss for words with her.
“It just kind of slipped out. Who said that, anyway? Sorry. Sorry,” she said.
“Bree, I . . . why sorry?” I asked.
“Alex, you don’t need to say anything more. Neither of us does. Wow. Would you look at those stars!”
I reached and took Bree’s hand. “It’s okay. This is just happening a little faster than probably both of us are used to. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
Bree answered me with kisses, and then laughter, and more laughter. The whole thing could have been uncomfortable, but somehow it was just the opposite. I hugged her close, and we started to kiss again. I stared into her eyes. “Wow back at you,” I said.
And so the fact that her pager went off at that moment was . . . what? Poetic justice, I guess. Classic irony? The not-so-funny part was that I’d always been the one getting the cell-phone call at just the wrong time.
The pager inside the tent buzzed again. Bree looked over at me without moving.
“Go ahead,” I told her. “It’s yours. You have to answer it. I know the drill.”
“Let me just see who it is.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “See who it is.”
Somebody’s dead. We have to go back to DC.
She ducked inside. A few seconds later, I heard her talking on the phone. “This is Bree Stone. What’s going on?”
I was kind of glad for Bree that she was so much in demand. Kind of glad. I’d heard from my friend Detective John Sampson that her future with the department was as bright as she wanted to make it. Meanwhile, this call could mean only one thing. I looked at my watch. We could probably be back in the city by ten thirty or so. Depending on whether she wanted me to push it, something the R350 could certainly deliver on.
When Bree came out of the tent again, she had already traded in her shorts for jeans, and she was zipping up a hooded Georgia Tech sweatshirt.
“You don’t have to come. I’ll be as quick as I can. Back by breakfast, if not before then.”
I’d already begun gathering up
our things. “And the check’s in the mail, and it’s only a cold sore.”
She laughed, sort of. “I’m really sorry about this. Shit, Alex. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. And pissed off.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “This was the perfect day.” And then, because I couldn’t help myself, and because I knew Bree wouldn’t be insulted by the change of subject, I asked, “So what’s the case?”
Chapter 9
TALK ABOUT A DISORIENTING change of pace and venue, and definitely not a pleasing one, to put it mildly. We reached the Riverwalk apartment building at 10:50 that night, which made the murder scene about six hours cold. Bree had offered to drop me at home on Fifth Street, but I knew she was eager to get here. This was a headline case, that much we knew for sure.
Things were still very busy, and eerie. There were about as many reporters and news vans as I’d expected. The case already had feeding frenzy written all over it: a wealthy victim, a bestselling author, killed in a supposedly safe neighborhood, in a most horrifying way.
Bree’s ID got us as far as curbside, where the tall building’s U-shaped driveway was cordoned off. Technically, it was part of the crime scene, given that the murder victim had actually landed there after she’d been thrown from her terrace in full view of dozens of witnesses.
A team of white-suited techs was still going over the ruined van where she’d landed. It was parked near the entrance. To my eye, the technicians looked like ghosts in the bright lights. Across the street, well over a hundred people stood crowded behind a double line of police barriers. None of the faces jumped out at me, but that didn’t mean anything. This isn’t your case, I reminded myself.
Bree got out of the car and walked around to my side. “Why don’t you go sleep at my place? Please go, Alex. No one’s expecting you home, anyway, right? Maybe we can pick up later where we left off.”
“Or I could wait here and get you back ASAP,” I said, and reclined the driver’s seat for her benefit. “See? Nice and comfortable, sleeps five. I’ll be fine here in the car.”