It amused him to take the client’s money, but the truth was he could not have cared less about the financial payoff of each commission. The extravagant fees he charged were merely a means of keeping score.
No, what he craved—what filled him with temporary ecstasy—was the thrill of the challenge and the hot satisfaction of carrying out the perfect crime, one in which murder was never suspected.
He always made it a point to attend the funeral. Knowing that he moved among the mourners without drawing so much as a second glance provided the final, exhilarating rush. He was not a wolf in sheep’s clothing, nor was he mad like the Dagger Killer. He was a modern example of the true Renaissance man, a scholar poet who was skilled in the violent arts.
The inevitable gray fog of acute ennui and the sensation of emptiness would settle on him eventually in the aftermath of completing the commission. But the prospect of a month of rising anticipation culminating in a deeply felt sense of satisfaction was irresistible.
Yes, there would be a letdown afterward but he took comfort in knowing that there would always be another project. He was the best at what he did.
He lit a cigarette and crossed the room to a painting that hung on the wall—a sensual scene of two reclining nudes by Tamara de Lempicka. It was one of the few works of art that he had brought with him when he left New York.
He took down the picture, set it aside, and opened the safe. Reaching inside, he took out the leather-bound notebook and carried it to the desk.
He switched on the lamp, sat down, and opened the notebook. The slender volume was filled with his poems. He had begun writing them after his first successful commission a few years earlier. The need to record the details of his work had become overpowering.
He understood that predictability was the greatest hazard in his work. He rarely repeated a strategy or a technique. Art was, after all, about originality and vision. He considered each project with the same care that he gave a new poem. There were rules, just as there were in writing poetry. But within those confines there was a great deal of room for creativity.
He turned to a blank page in the notebook, picked up the expensive fountain pen, and wrote the date. The new commission was somewhat different from the previous projects, but he began the poem the way he always did, with the particulars of the subject—name, occupation, address. That was all he had at the moment.
Vivian Brazier. Photographer. Number 12, Beachfront Lane, Adelina Beach, California.
He wrote it all down in the code that he had devised for the purpose. He would work on the poem as he set about observing the subject and crafting a strategy. The remaining verses would detail his impressions and observations. Inspiration would come. It always did.
Someday, perhaps when he retired, he would decode the poems and publish them. Anonymously, of course. Better yet, he might present it to a potential publisher as a work of fiction.
He even had a title: Memoirs of a Gentleman Assassin.
Chapter 10
Adelina Beach
Three weeks later . . .
Please move your left thigh a bit more to the right,” Vivian said. “Just an inch. Yes, that’s perfect. Chin angled toward the light. Head tilted. I want to emphasize your profile. Now look directly into the camera. Seduce me with your eyes, Norman.”
Norman Proctor gave her a slight smile and half lowered his very long lashes. He was posed amid a cluster of potted palms that Vivian had rented from a local nursery. Norman had explained that he wanted to look like Johnny Weissmuller. He was certainly built like Weissmuller, and at the moment he was wearing even less than Weissmuller had in the latest Tarzan film, just a very tiny loincloth. But Norman was having difficulty looking appropriately seductive.
He was another new client in a steady stream of good-looking, vigorous young men from Muscle Beach. She had already photographed some of them for her new series, Men, but after the picture of Roland Jennings capturing the Dagger Killer hit the front pages she had been inundated with requests for glamour shot portraits. That was because, twenty-four hours after the photo on the front page of the Adelina Beach Courier went national, Roland had been invited to do a screen test at a major studio. Some of his friends at the gym had begged for the name of the photographer who had captured the magic shot. Roland had provided the information. Word spread fast in the bodybuilder world. Now every strongman who spent hours exercising and showing off his well-toned body on Muscle Beach had dreams of becoming a star.
She knew that most of her new portrait clients were barely getting by working as bellhops and valets and lifeguards so she gave them a special price. She had also invested in a variety of wardrobes suitable for the images they wanted her to capture. She could pose them as rugged cowboys, swashbuckling pirates, or glamorous leading men.
Norman had opted for the most popular costume, the one that displayed the most of his undeniably attractive physique. But the picture was not yet right.
“Pretend I’m Maureen O’Sullivan,” Vivian instructed.
She got nothing but fake sensuality in response. She opened her senses and studied Norman for a moment. There was plenty of latent heat in the man. The problem was that she was using the wrong image to bring it forth for the camera.
“All right, Norman, let’s try this,” she said. “Pretend you’ve received an invitation to join Cary Grant and Randolph Scott for cocktails at Bachelor Hall.”
It was as if she had flipped a light switch. Norman sucked in a deep breath. His eyes took on a hot, sultry sheen. There was a definite fullness in the vicinity of the loincloth that had not been there a moment ago. It was a wonder he didn’t ignite the film inside the camera.
“Oh, yes,” Vivian said softly. “That’s it. That’s perfect.” She released the shutter and stepped back, triumph sparkling through her. “You’re going to love this shot, Norman.”
Norman exhaled slowly and relaxed a little. “Thanks, Miss Brazier. When can I pick it up?”
“I’ll have it ready for you next week.”
The doorbell chimed. She glanced at the clock. It was too early for her next shoot. A new client, perhaps. At the rate she was doing Muscle Beach portraits she was going to have trouble getting back to her art photography. But at least she had not had to sleep with the radio tuned to the police channel lately. There was enough money coming in now to pay the rent and keep her darkroom well stocked so that she could pursue her art.
“Excuse me,” she said. She paused at the doorway. “You can get dressed now.”
“Sure.” Norman stepped out from the fronds and reached for his swimming trunks.
Vivian swiftly averted her gaze. It was one thing to view a nearly nude man with an eye toward composition and lighting. Watching one walk around almost stark naked, even if he was more interested in the two most glamorous leading men in Hollywood than in Maureen, was another thing entirely.