photos. The pretty blonde in the pictures seemed unaware that she was being photographed. The snapshots were all taken on the street, most likely at a distance, then blown up.
Hannah passed the batch of photos to Ben. “Is this Rae?” she whispered.
He stared at the snapshots and the stabbing scene from the movie. “Yes, that’s Rae,” he said, his voice strained. “And that’s how he killed her, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, Ben.” Hannah squeezed his arm. Then she glanced down at the next “murder sequence” in the folder.
Again, the first page showed a series of images photographed from a TV screen. This time, Marilyn Monroe was being chased up a stairwell in a dark, austere-looking building. One photo revealed that the location was an institutional bell tower of some sort. On the second page, Marilyn’s stalker caught up with her. There was a close- up of Joseph Cotton as he put his hands around her throat. The last shot showed Marilyn, dead on the cement floor.
Attached to the Marilyn death sequence were two photos of a striking redhead in her late twenties. Again, the woman didn’t seem aware of anyone taking her picture.
“This must be Angela Bramford,” Hannah murmured, giving the photos to Ben. “The pictures of Marilyn are from
“I don’t get the connection,” Ben whispered. “Wasn’t Angela Bramford found strangled somewhere around the Convention Center?”
“The bells,” Hannah whispered. “The Convention Center has bells by the stairway to the second-floor terrace. He strangled her under the bells, like Marilyn in the movie.”
Hannah glanced in the folder. Nothing but a blank piece of typing paper.
“Shouldn’t he have something about Rae’s friend, Joe?” Ben asked. “And the girl, what’s her name? The Floating Flower…”
“Lily Abrams,” Hannah said. She looked in the drawer. There weren’t any other folders. “I don’t know.”
There should have been photographs of those two rude customers, and Ronald Craig, and Britt. Baffled, Hannah gazed down at the class lists that Ben had left on the floor. Then she stared at the two separate batches of murder montage photos and candids.
“It’s only the two women who took his class,” she said. “Maybe the others don’t matter to him. Maybe he only cares about these two women—the way he now cares about me.”
“I don’t understand,” Ben said.
“First Angela Bramford, then Rae, and now he’s working on me. The seduction, the intimidation, pulling the strings and putting them through the paces until the death scene is carried out.”
Hannah slipped the photos back in the folder and closed it. “I think I know what he’s doing,” she whispered. “One after another, he’s made each one of us his leading lady.”
Seventeen
“Well, hello there, Hannah, you sorry bitch,” Kenneth Woodley muttered. He studied the photograph taken the day before by his private detective, Walt Kirkabee. It was clearly
“That’s in front of the place she works,” Kirkabee said. “Emerald City Video, it’s called.”
Nodding, Kenneth looked up from the photo long enough to grab the plastic coffee pitcher and refill Kirkabee’s cup for him. “Nice job,” he said.
They shared a corner booth in Denny’s, where the bar wasn’t yet open, so the waitress wouldn’t give him a Bloody Mary. Kenneth had to settle for coffee. Kirkabee was picking at his Grand Slam breakfast.
From the picture, it looked as if Hannah had lightened her hair a bit. She’d lost some weight, too.
“Have you seen the kid yet?” he asked.
Kirkabee shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve been watching that place for the last four days, and I haven’t laid eyes on him. There’s a fat old broad who comes and goes every morning and night. I’m guessing she’s the baby- sitter.”
Kenneth shifted in the booth, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It’s kind of a cheap-ass apartment complex, isn’t it? I mean, it wouldn’t be too tough breaking in there and grabbing the kid.”
Kirkabee put down his fork; it clanked against his plate. “Hey, I don’t do that kind of thing.”
“I know, I know, relax.” Kenneth chuckled. “I’m just thinking out loud. I mean, if we stole the kid right from under her, she couldn’t do a damn thing, could she? Would serve her right.”
“So—you want to break into her apartment and abduct your own kid?”
He smiled. “I’m not getting my hands dirty. You don’t have to be involved, either. I’ll hire a couple of guys to do it—while she’s there.”
Kirkabee was shaking his head. “Hey, a million things could go wrong. Do you really want to entrust a couple of baby-snatchers-for-hire with the life of your son? You have the law on your side. You’ll get him back. Why take stupid chances? Is it really worth the risks involved—just to stick it to your wife?”
Kenneth nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It sure as hell is.”
“Can I take your coat?” Britt’s older sister asked.
“Thank you very much,” Hannah said. It was stuffy in the funeral home. Hannah quickly took off her trench coat and handed it to the thin brunette who looked like a conservative, slightly homelier version of Britt.
Hannah started to explain that she was a coworker of Britt’s, but the sister was called away.
There were two distinct camps of mourners at Britt’s service: her estranged, white-bread, upper-class family; and her current friends, most of whom resembled homeless drug addicts. The family members seemed uncomfortable with the unabashed display of emotions from the pierced-and-tattooed gothic types mingling among them.
“You’re Hannah,” said a pale, tiny young woman with dyed jet-black hair, gobs of mascara, and a ring pierced through her lower lip. She wore a black hooded sweatshirt and army fatigue pants.
“Hello,” Hannah said, managing a smile. She remembered seeing the girl in the store a few times. “How are you holding up?”
The girl embraced her. She stank of cigarette smoke. “Britt was fuckin’ crazy about you, Hannah,” she said. “You were like—her personal goddess. She thought you were so fuckin’ cool. She said you got her through a lot of shit.”
“Oh, well, um, thanks a lot,” Hannah replied, at a loss for anything else to say.
The girl went to talk to one of her pals. Hannah glanced towards the other side of the room. The closed casket was on display between two potted palms. It was hard to imagine her friend Britt in that mahogany box. Hannah felt such a sadness swell within her that she ached. She pulled a handkerchief from her purse, then ducked back into the cloakroom.
She kept thinking she could have prevented Britt’s death. Trying to warn her hadn’t been enough. She could have done more. If she’d taken her chances and gone to the police, there wouldn’t be a funeral for Britt today.
Tish had given her the day off to attend the service. Hannah didn’t plan on going to the cemetery. She was tired and emotionally drained. She’d hardly slept at all last night.
After they’d left the college, she and Ben had returned to her apartment with the stack of videotapes from Paul’s coat closet. Bleary-eyed, they watched the videos—mostly at fast-forward speed—until two in the morning. The tapes were indeed film lectures, just as they’d been labeled.
