murdered. You withheld information from the police, Mr. Woodley. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“I didn’t tell the cops about Hannah Doyle because I wanted to come here and personally nail her ass. You’ve been hired to help me do that, Sherlock. I’m paying you top dollar.” Kenneth leaned forward. “If you’re too chickenshit for the job, just say the word and I’ll ship your ass back to Milwaukee and hire a private detective with some balls.”
He videotaped the private detective and his client as they stepped outside Ray’s Boathouse restaurant. The client didn’t look too happy. He was talking to the detective, stabbing the air with his finger to make a point. Frowning, the detective nodded, then retreated toward his car.
At the restaurant entrance, the client pulled out a cell phone and made a call. Meanwhile, the detective pulled out of the large parking lot. Some detective. Apparently he had no idea he was being watched.
Neither did the client, who ducked back inside the restaurant.
He waited patiently in the shadows between a parked RV and some bushes. This close to the water, the night air was cool and smelled of fish. He watched people come and go. Someone else was meeting the client. Smart money was on the blonde who arrived by taxi forty minutes after he’d made that cell-phone call.
He was right, of course. An hour after the blonde had sashayed into the joint, she was stepping out with the client. She had a passing resemblance to Hannah, sort of a cheap imitation. Her hair was pinned up in the back. She wore tight silver pants, heels, and a tiny black blouse that was open in front to show off some ample cleavage.
Obviously, the client had picked out a high-class hooker for the evening. They waited for the valet to fetch the rented sports car. The tall, brown-haired guy with the big nose was cracking these jokes, and the prostitute was laughing her head off. The client threw a few dollars at the valet; then the two of them climbed into the sleek car.
Without running any yellow lights or making any sudden moves, he followed the sports car a few miles to a marina parking lot.
Leaning outside the window of his car, he photographed the client and his hooker as they climbed out of the sports car. He could still hear the woman’s high-pitched laughter as they walked down the dock together.
The client had a medium-sized yacht—two, maybe three, rooms on board—moored at the crowded dock. All was quiet this time of night—except for the girl, who kept talking and laughing as the man helped her on the deck. Then the two of them slipped down below.
After a few minutes, he got out of his car. Video camera in tow, he skulked down the dock, past all the other boats. He approached the yacht and found a perfect spot to hide, behind a big, green-painted equipment box. From there, he had a view into the yacht’s oblong, horizontal windows. The client hadn’t bothered to pull the little shades closed.
The video camera framed them perfectly through the first window as they sat at the galley table and did some lines of cocaine together. The blonde unbuttoned her blouse, then dabbed a little bit of cocaine on her nipple and had him lick it off. She let out that loud laugh again. The client kissed her neck, and tried to kiss her on the lips, but she pulled away. Apparently she didn’t do that with her johns.
The camera caught them moving into the next room, where the man peeled off his shirt. He sat her down on the built-in sofa bed. She seemed to stumble a little, or perhaps she was resisting. It was hard to tell. But their movements were clumsy. She stepped out of her heels, then unfastened the top of her silver pants. He started pulling them off, and she gave him a playful little kick, pushing him away. He grabbed her pants again, and—almost violently—yanked them off her legs. She laughed, and quickly wriggled out of her black panties.
The camera zoomed in, lovingly moving up and down her nude body. The client advanced toward her, and she teasingly pushed him away again with her foot. She reached across the sofa for her bag, then pulled out a condom and waved it at him.
He swatted it out of her hand. She looked stunned for a second, then started to chuckle. But he reeled back and slapped her across the face.
She banged her head against the wall in back of the sofa bed. She seemed dazed. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her down to the cushions. She let out a shriek. He smacked her across the face once more—this time with the back of his hand.
The camera zoomed in again, catching her startled, horrified expression. He stopped looking through the viewer for a moment to check around him. He was certain others on the water heard her cries. But he didn’t see any lights go on inside the boats. No one came topside to look for the source of the screams. From his spot by the equipment box, he was able to keep taping for the next ten minutes.
The client never had intercourse with her. But at one point, when he had his hand on her throat and seemed to be choking the life out of her, he masturbated.
While she got dressed, he brought her some ice for her face, then pulled eight one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the money.
The last shot captured that night was of the blonde, the cheap imitation of Hannah, looking shaken and dazed. Despite the ice application, her face was already a bit swollen.
She wobbled a bit as she walked up the dock to a waiting taxi. It was a great last shot before the fade- out.
Hannah knew she had another long night ahead waiting for sleep to come. The digital clock on her nightstand read 1:49. Ben had probably nodded off already. He was on the sofa again—just down the hall. They’d said good night about forty-five minutes ago, awkwardly shaking hands.
He’d spent the day staking out Paul Gulletti. He’d watched him step out for Sunday brunch with his wife. Then, Paul went to his office at the newspaper. He emerged almost three hours later and went to a Starbucks, where he sat at a cafe table. He was met there by a younger man with long, red hair pulled back in a ponytail. The younger man carried a camera or binoculars in a case that hung from a strap over his shoulder. Paul gave him some money. Ben was too far away to see how much cash was exchanged.
He told Hannah it was the only encounter he’d witnessed today that raised his interest. “Paul could have owed this guy a couple of bucks. I don’t know,” Ben had admitted. “But those bills could have been hundreds, too. And the red-haired guy carried this camera case. Maybe he’s working for Paul. You said some stranger was videotaping you last Thursday night at about the time class started. Maybe this was the guy.” He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”
One thing they were both sure about: the video-killer wasn’t working alone. Someone else had been driving that Subaru station wagon when shots were fired from the passenger window at Ben’s apartment.
They had a long talk while she cooked a spaghetti dinner. They ate at her kitchen counter—by candlelight, no less. But the conversation was far from romantic.
Ben had never been in Paul’s office at the college. He asked her if Paul kept video equipment and cassette tapes there.
Nodding, Hannah dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Paul has all sorts of stuff in that office. Why? What are you thinking?”
“Maybe I can get in there and take a look around,” Ben said, reaching for his glass of Merlot. “In the meantime, you’re working beside Seth at the store tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes. He started there today.”
“Keep pumping him about the professor,” Ben said. “And watch out for Seth, too. There’s something I don’t like about that guy.”
“Seth?” Hannah said.
“Yeah, him and his roommate.”
She laughed. “They’re just a couple of kids.”
“So were Leopold and Loeb.”
“You saw where they live,” Hannah pointed out. “Not exactly deluxe accommodations. Whoever is behind these murders has a lot of money and leisure time. The work on that
