But he had originally found the place. He had supervised the renovations that turned it from merely a large, two-story Spanish-style house into a full-on Mediterranean mansion with a third floor, a rooftop pool, and views that, on clear winter days, included snow-capped Mount Baldy over sixty miles to the northeast.
He wandered from room to room, aware that every minute he stayed here put him at risk. Still, he couldn’t help but let the memories wash over him: the first night he and Irina had slept here, the rainy morning when she’d told him she had no interest in children. He recalled the first time he’d slept here with someone other than Irina, not long after discovering the credit card statement, the one she thought he didn’t know about. It showed she’d spent a weekend at a Malibu bed & breakfast, not alone, when he was working in New York.
He remembered coming back here the first time after having spent a month at the Hazelden Treatment Center in Minnesota, where they tried to help him get a handle on his OCD, his proclivity to self-medicate, and what they politely referred to as his “impulse control issues.” He remembered one night when Irina was visiting her mother, sneaking back here with an OTB intern who had been more receptive to his overtures than Annie Cole was. All the memories faded in and out, sometimes twisting into each other.
He suspected the haziness might have something to do with vodka he’d been consuming almost nonstop since crawling through the window with the faulty latch once it got dark outside. Whatever the reason, he found himself in his former bedroom, rummaging through Irina’s clothes, the ones she kept in the walk-in closet he’d had built for her, which was bigger than his first apartment in Manhattan.
He tossed dress-adorned hangers onto the floor, trying to keep track of how many of her outfits he’d designed. He opened her dresser drawer, the one that held all the OTB stockings. There were dozens—some sheer, some in colors—all created by him. Even now, though she despised him, Irina couldn’t get rid of these.
She loved them too much. Just as so many other women did. Stockings weren’t especially popular in Southern California these days. But his creation still held cachet, even if he no longer did. He’d never met a woman who’d worn them who had a critical word to say. They were his gift to the world. He wondered if that would be taken into consideration when he was finally held to account for his sins. The thought made him laugh out loud.
Your honor, my client may have strangled the life out of two innocent women. But he knew how to make a gorgeous pair of hose, don’t you think?
He laughed again, even louder this time.
*
Officer Carrie Shaw was ready to go home.
She didn’t have that much longer until her shift ended at midnight and she could feel her concentration fading in and out as she walked the length of the Manhattan Beach section of the Strand, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.
It had been an unordinary week in town and it was still only Wednesday. Already, three murders had been committed along this very stretch of homes, one a resident, one the mistress of a resident, and one a celebrated LAPD criminal profiler.
Carrie would have liked to have been involved in any of those investigations. But as the newest member of the department, she wasn’t even considered experienced enough to stand guard outside the homes that were now crime scenes. She suspected that it was her physical bearing as much as her inexperience which put her at a disadvantage. Though she was athletic and wiry, a former gymnast, she was also petite, five foot two and 110 pounds soaking wet—not exactly an intimidating presence.
So instead of guarding a crime scene or going out on calls, she was stuck walking up and down the two-mile stretch of walking path that constituted the Manhattan Beach Strand. She estimated that in the last three hours, she walked close to eight miles. She didn’t even get to take advantage of the magnificent view of the Santa Monica Bay. By the time she took over Strand Patrol from the officer one rung up above her on the seniority ladder, it was already too dark to see the ocean.
Besides, she was supposed to be looking in the other direction, at the houses of people richer than she could ever dream of being. Sometimes she felt like a bit of pervert, peeking into people’s homes, spying on private, personal moments, looking for any behavior that might seem suspect.
Just then, and seemingly in a direct rebuke to her, a woman in the house she was passing scowled down at her and dropped her blinds emphatically. Carrie shook her head with a mix of shame and annoyance.
I’m just trying to do my job, lady.
She knew she wouldn’t get any dirty looks from the next house. According to her call sheet, the homeowner was out of town for at least the next two weeks.
That must be nice.
She was about to move on when she noticed a light on in a room on the third floor, casting a dull spotlight onto the section of the walking path just ahead of her. That wasn’t terribly unusual. Lots of residents set lighting timers when they were out of town to fool potential thieves into thinking someone was home. She started to look ahead to the next house when something that she did consider unusual caught her eye.
The first floor facing the ocean was enclosed entirely in glass. Some of it was comprised of floor to ceiling panes. Other sections were populated by multiple, smaller windows. One of those windows, in the farthest corner of the deck, mostly hidden behind a lounge chair, appeared to be open.
She walked over to get a better look. Sure enough, it was open, if only slightly. She also noticed what looked like fresh footprints on the damp wood deck flooring just outside the window. She pulled out her flashlight and shined it on the panel of window glass, where she was greeted by several handprints.
She took a step back and got out her radio. Considering recent events, it seemed wiser to call it in and be accused of overreacting rather than assume it was the work of a forgetful resident and end up missing the chance to apprehend a potential killer.
She lifted the radio to her mouth and was about to start talking when she heard it. The sound was hard to identify definitively. It was somewhere between a screech and…a laugh? She couldn’t decide whether she was hearing someone cackling in pleasure or shrieking in pain. Either way, somebody was in a home that was supposed to be unoccupied.
“This is Officer Shaw on Strand Patrol. I’m hearing potential sounds of distress coming from the residence of Irina Cunningham, between Second and Third streets. My call sheet indicates she is out of town, but there’s an open window on the first floor and a light on the third floor. I’m going in. Send backup.”
She turned down her radio so as not to alert the potential intruder and scrambled through the window. Once inside, she unholstered her gun and headed for the stairs that led to the third floor, following the sound of those nearly inhuman squeals. She was halfway between the first and second floors when she lost her footing and landed hard, with a thud that echoed through the house.
*
Pierce stopped laughing.
He needed to catch his breath. But seconds later, he felt the start of another giggle fit coming on at the notion of being the first defendant ever to use the “I’m a fashion genius” defense against a double murder charge. That’s when he heard the loud thumping noise, like someone had dropped a big bag of fertilizer down the stairs.