“Hey, if money gets tight, I can always send over a few of my sexual sadists,” Meredith offered. “Technically, they could be classified as violent.”
“You know, I think I’m good.” I squatted and looked through the collection of plastic containers. “How old is this spaghetti?”
“It’s still good,” Meredith assured me, fishing the remote out of the basket in the middle of the table. “Two days old, max. There should be a date on it somewhere.” She turned on the ancient TV that sat on the counter and flipped to the grainy news channel. “Any word from your sexy attorney?”
“Complete silence.” I pried the lid off the leftover pasta and placed it in the microwave. “If cops get off the elevator, flash them your boobs so I can slip out the back.”
“I hate to break it to you, drama queen, but they can’t arrest you for not reporting someone’s emotional deliberations.”
I squinted at her. “Uh, yeah, they can. Emotional deliberations are called premeditation.”
“If only we had an attorney to ask,” she intoned, pushing to her feet. She cracked her back, then sighed. “Honestly, I can’t decide if he was a gentleman or an asshole to unload the accusations postpenetration.”
I considered the options. “Both.” Definitely both. The one thing I hadn’t needed was that reminder of what good sex and intimacy felt like. Curled against Robert’s side last night, there had been a solid period of time when I had thought that maybe he and I were something. Something with a future.
Stupid of me. I hadn’t been so stupid since tenth grade, when I believed Mick Gentry when he told me that having sex proved we were in love.
“What do you think he’s going to do?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “I’m so confused by the entire thing. Why hire me at all? Why not just confront me, right then, when he read John’s file?”
“Maybe he liked you,” Meredith mused, flipping on the faucet and washing her hands. “Like, liked you, liked you.”
I made a face. “Remind me again, how old are you?”
Meredith turned off the faucet and ripped a piece of paper towel off the roll. “Okay, I know you’re trying not to think about the case, but I haven’t spoken to you since the news broke about the fake escape story. So can I just say how weird it is that the killer just let this kid go?” She dried her hands, then balled up the towel. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Scott was the only victim from Beverly High. If the killer was Randall Thompson and he was going to let someone go, it doesn’t make sense for him to release a victim who could ID him. Randall’s not a genius, but he also isn’t stupid. The more I’m finding out, the more convinced I am that he’s not the BH Killer. And there’s a chance Scott Harden isn’t a BH victim at all.”
“Are you writing this stuff down?” Meredith asked. “This could be your book-deal moment. How awesome would it be if Scott Harden isn’t a BH victim? Seriously.” She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Totally awesome,” I deadpanned, pulling open the microwave door and testing the temperature of the food with my finger.
I needed a vacation, I decided. Somewhere far away from the LA traffic, the smog, and clients who might cut my throat if I missed an appointment. Somewhere I could take an entire week and not think about the Bloody Heart Killer or Robert Kavin or dead wives of horrible clients. Maybe Hawaii. Or Costa Rica. Actually, screw the heat. Alaska. I’d always wanted to see a whale.
I turned to Meredith to ask if she’d been to Alaska and paused; her attention was glued to the TV above the bar.
“Are you watching this?” she hissed, reaching over and jabbing her finger on the volume-control button.
I left the microwave open and moved beside her, concentrating on the wobbly news headline.
SEX PRISON FOUND IN ATTIC—IS IT THE BLOODY HEART KILLER?
An aerial shot zoomed in, past a partitioned-off street and a dozen uniformed officers who filed in and out of a white brick home. The newscaster spoke, and I had to grip Meredith’s arm to stay upright.
“. . . six pinkie fingers have been found, and our sources are confirming that this is, in fact, the lair of Los Angeles’s most notorious killers of this decade . . .”
So much for not thinking about death. Randall Thompson was, in fact, innocent, and the names now displayed below the newscaster’s face were heartbreakingly familiar.
John and Brooke Abbott.
CHAPTER 38
I drove home, speeding down La Cienega and cutting through the back of my neighborhood. I parked in the carport and missed the key slot twice, my hands shaking as I finally got the key in the side door lock and turned. Clem mewed at me from the windowsill, and I ignored her, dropping my purse and keys on the counter and practically jogging to my office. Flipping on the light switch on the wall, I sat at my desk and pulled John Abbott’s file to the center of the desk. It had only been a week since I’d opened it, a week since I combed the section that Robert had seen, fearful of what he’d read.
Now, I had an entirely different reason for opening the file. I reached forward, my fingers trembling over the top of the manila cover, then stopped. Pulling open my drawer, I flipped through the tabs and found the second item I needed. I pulled it out and placed it beside John’s file.
THE BLOODY HEART KILLER: A PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE AND ANALYSIS
DR. GWEN MOORE, MD
I didn’t know where to start. John’s file would take me a full day to properly review, but it would give me a deeper look. The psychological profile could be wrong. After all, I’d written it, and if the last twelve hours had proved anything, it was that Dr. Gwen Moore was a horrific judge of character. Still, right now, I needed to organize my thoughts and really explore this possibility. I took a deep breath and opened the psychological profile. Selecting a gold Cross pen and fresh notepad from the drawer, I wrote along the top of the page:
Is John Abbott the Bloody Heart Killer?
I stared at the line, unwilling to believe it could be true. All this time, as I watched the news reports and worked up possible scenarios and motivations—could he have been right there? Sitting across from me. Sharing.
I flipped past the introductory pages of the report, past the bullshit disclosures and history of the crimes, and slowed when I got to the first real meat.
The killer will research and stalk his victims prior to taking them. He will know their schedules and social life. He will be ultra-cautious in his selection of when to take the victims, and plan it down to every detail.
Detective Saxe had shared the Peeping Tom citations. John had been caught several times. All wealthy women. At the time, I hadn’t believed the news, certain that John Abbott wasn’t sexually interested in any women other than his wife, and maybe I’d been right. The police had assumed the most likely scenario, but John hadn’t been interested in the rich middle-aged women. Even without knowing the women’s information, I’d be willing to bet that they were mothers. He’d been spying on their teenage sons.
I read farther down the page, to my section on BH’s personality traits.
Fastidious in his appearance and grooming. Neat and analytical in nature. Has a job that requires attention to detail. Precise in his lifestyle. Conscious of what other people think.