Chapter Six
It was a sunny July Saturday morning, the skies clear after three days of sullen gray. According to the weatherman, no rain was expected until the first of the week.
Sitting at the pretty little round oak table in the kitchen of her duplex apartment, Val sipped a cup of strong French roast coffee and read theSeattle Timeson her iPad. Snoozie curled up in her lap, purring as she scratched behind his ears.
When her cell phone started playing a string of soft jazz notes, the cat leaped down and sauntered haughtily off to the living room, irritated at being disturbed.
Val grabbed the phone off the breakfast table and smiled as she recognized the number. “Hey, good morning, Samantha.”
“Hey, Val, I’m sorry to bother you. I know you must be busy getting ready for the show and all, but—”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve got a problem with one of the dogs and I’m hoping you can help.”
“Sure. I don’t have to be at the theater till this afternoon, and I hate sitting here trying to make the hands move faster on the clock. This week, I’ve had a manicure, a pedicure, a facial, a massage, and two appointments at the hair salon. I am sooo ready to do something besides look at myself in the mirror.”
“Great, because Mrs. Murphy’s poodle has something wrong with its paw, and I was wondering if you could take a look. Mrs. Murphy’s almost eighty. She barely gets by on her Social Security. She can’t afford to pay a vet bill.”
“Hey, it’s not a problem. Just hang on, I’m on my way.” Hair up in a ponytail, dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a bright-blue Seattle Seahawks T-shirt, Val hung up the phone and grabbed her car keys and purse.
She saved most of the money she was earning as a model for college, but she had indulged herself in a slightly used snazzy little red Nissan 370Z sports car. Decent mileage, fun to drive, and not too expensive, at least in the pre-owned model she had purchased.
A few minutes later, she was driving the 520, crossing Lake Washington, making the ten-mile drive to Samantha’s pet-grooming parlor in Bellevue.
With her nerves already on edge because of the show tonight, she couldn’t think of a better way to calm down than spending time with one of her best friends.
Ethan got the phone call at ten thirty A.M. Since he didn’t have to be at the theater until noon, he sat at the computer in his apartment, Googling the ten women in the show who’d received the threatening note. He had already read their personnel files but decided to see what might turn up on an Internet search. So far, he’d finished the first five without anything jumping out at him.
He sat back in his chair and looked out the window. His furnished twelfth-floor apartment had a balcony off the living room and great views over the city. It wasn’t fancy, but with two bedrooms and two-and-a-half baths, he had plenty of room, and he liked living in Belltown, being where the action was in Seattle. A remnant, he supposed, of his cop days in Dallas.
His cell had signaled twice before he pulled it out of the pocket of his jeans and pressed it against his ear. “Brodie.”
“We’ve got a problem, Ethan.” Matthew Carlyle’s voice vibrated with tension.
“What’s going on?”
“An hour ago, Delilah Larsen was found dead in her condo. She was strangled.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“What’re the circumstances?”
“Could be a break-in. The cops think maybe a burglary gone wrong.”
He thought of the note Delilah and nine other women had received. “Or not.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem.”
“Have you given the police the info on the notes?” Ethan asked.
“Met with the lead detective on the case this morning, guy named Bruce Hoover. He wasn’t happy we hadn’t reported the letters.”
“I’ll bet. What about the rest of the girls? Are they all accounted for?”
“We’re in the process. We’re putting a man on every woman in Seattle who got a note and placing guards on every floor of the Fairmont.”
