was actually a misnomer. Her hair was auburn, faded a bit now. And really no longer auburn, except for what her hairdresser coaxed from it. Her real name was Lorraine, but nobody had called her that since college. She moved her face closer to the mirror. She was thirty-nine and felt great. Still had her looks. Hadn’t allowed her body to get sloppy. She thought about Bill Murchie and smiled into the mirror. Bill was her secret lover. They were planning to get away for some heavy-duty sex on Saltspring Island this weekend while Lance attended a software conference in San Francisco.
She’d met Bill in the elevator one afternoon riding down from her office on the top floor to the coffee shop on the ground. He was a handsome “suit” who got in at the fifteenth. With the elevator to themselves, he had smiled and introduced himself. He was with the firm of McBay and Katz. Had seen her around and thought she looked like an interesting woman. Could he buy her a coffee?
Soon it was, “Why don’t you stop by my place for a drink on the way home?”
His luxury apartment on Beach Avenue had a fine view of English Bay. Soon she found herself dropping in for a drink on the way home once a week, usually on a Friday, to relax and unwind.
She didn’t love Bill, but he was the best thing to happen to her love life in a long while. This weekend she planned to turn the tables and tie him up for a change. Having all that power over him-what a total turn-on!
She headed for the elevator. With only a few cars in the parking garage, it was deserted and quiet. She slid in behind the wheel, started the car and drove out of the garage. The rain and wind were worse. The street was empty, with the Denman traffic lights swinging wildly in the high wind. She drove into the back lane that led to Lagoon Drive. Almost home.
The lane was dark.
“Stop here!”
The shock of the man’s voice and his breath in her ear caused her to slam her foot on the brake. At the same time she felt, and saw in the rearview mirror, the long blade of a knife at her throat. She swooned with fright. A volcano erupted in her belly covering her thighs in a stream of urine.
“Drive slowly till I tell you to turn.”
She couldn’t move her head without being cut with the knife. There was nobody in the lane. She took her foot off the brake, and the car rolled forward.
The West End killer.
The rain was slanting into the clunking wiper blades, and she was going to die.
No, she wasn’t! Not without a fight. What if she floored the accelerator and sideswiped the concrete wall of an apartment building and then flung herself out the car door? She might be killed, but it was a chance, a risk. She could even race the car, slam it head-on into the side of a building and kill them both. Not a mere risk but almost certain death, ridding the world of a monster.
“Don’t even think of it!” growled the voice behind her.
Her insides turned to custard.
“Drive into the park.”
She did as he ordered, driving slowly past the golf course, thinking furiously. The curb here was high. Beyond the curb there was a wire fence surrounding the golf course. Beyond that was a parking lot. Beyond the parking lot, there was a strip of forest before the drop onto the seawall. If she were going to do something, it would have to be here and now. If she drove into the deserted parking lot, he would tell her to stop and it would be all over for her.
She gathered her courage and stabbed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The powerful BMW leaped forward like an unleashed hound. She jerked the steering wheel. The tires hit the curb hard, but the car kept going, leaping over the curb and crashing into the fence with a scream of tortured metal. The BMW continued forward on the sidewalk, bucking and plunging, dragging chain-link fencing along with it into the parking lot.
The lot was empty. She hung onto the wheel, keeping her foot down on the gas pedal. The car crashed into a concrete divider and came to an abrupt stop. The seat belt held her. Fingers scrabbling, she couldn’t get her door open, couldn’t release the seat belt.
The wind howled.
She turned her head painfully and saw him coming over the seat at her.
The rain drummed steadily on the roof of the car like a dirge.
CHAPTER TEN
“Another body this morning.” Jack Wexler’s mournful tones sounded even more mournful over the phone.
“Where?”
“Stanley Park golf course.”
“Jaysus! That’s four.” Casey, just back from his run in the park, was beginning to cool down and couldn’t wait to soak in a hot shower.
“Body discovered at six this morning. Old man out walking his dog on the golf course. His dog was sniffing around something. He went to look. Same as usual, naked torso. Except the animals had been at it. Bit of a mess.”
“How’d you hear so soon, Jack?”
“Fraser called me.”
Detective Sergeant Fraser, Wexler’s old buddy.
“You call Ozeroff?”
“Not yet.” Wexler grunted and hung up.
Casey was no sooner out of the shower than his phone rang again. It was Ozeroff.
She was angry.
“Did you hear, Casey?”
“Yeah, Deb, I heard.”
“Goddamn maniac! Four women slaughtered and we can’t do a thing about it!”
“Everyone feels helpless, Deb.”
“I’m supposed to write a piece on tonight’s concert. I can’t go out. I’m terrified. Vera’s away at an acupuncture conference in Seattle.”
“Won’t be another killing for thirteen days, Deb. You’re safe.”
“Makes no difference. No woman is safe. I can’t risk it.”
“Stay home, Deb. I’ll cover for you. What kind of concert is it?”
“Vancouver Symphony. All Debussy. Orpheum Theater, eight o’clock.”
Casey groaned. “Any chance there’s two seats? We could go together.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. You sure you don’t mind?”
“It’ll raise my cultural quotient.”
“You’re a pal, Casey. I’m just sick about this latest killing.”
“Everyone’s sick, Deb.”
Casey and Ozeroff were working in their cramped office when Wexler arrived from Cop Shop.
“They got a make on number four,” he said. “Cops didn’t even need to call Victoria for id. Her insurance papers were in the glove compartment of her car.”
“Who was she, Jack?” asked Casey.
“Lorraine Carlson, thirty-nine, magazine publisher, married, no kids, lived on Lagoon Drive, fitness center member. Car was swimming in blood.” Wexler sounded tired. “I tried to get a statement from the husband, but he’s in a state of shock. Couldn’t talk to me.”
