Текст книги "Fair Game "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Four

The argument didn’t end there, of course.

They argued all the way back to the ferry—Tucker choosing to drive with Elliot rather than Detectives Anderson and Pine—they argued on the ferry crossing and they argued on the drive back to Tucker’s apartment.

By the time Tucker had locked his front door and poured the whisky, they had talked themselves hoarse and were no longer speaking. The first glass of Laphroaig went down like water, the second received more thoughtful appreciation and by the third Elliot was starting to feel almost conciliatory.

He broke the silence at last, putting his empty glass on the coffee table. “I understand everything you’ve said. I’m not underestimating the risk. I know that’s what you think. I’m just asking you to understand why I can’t put my life on hold.”

“Why?” Tucker bit out. He continued to glare out the windows at the mostly dark buildings across the street.

“It’s not ego. It’s not because I want to match wits with some murdering sociopath to prove that I’m still—that I can still—” Elliot stopped. This was harder than he’d expected. He wasn’t much for soul-baring. Not without significant pharmaceutical reinforcement.

Tucker gave him a long, unspeaking look. A look Elliot had no idea how to interpret. Tucker was angry, yes, that much he understood, but the rest of it? That mute bleakness? What did that mean?

He made himself explain further, made himself admit the things he would have rather not confessed. “It took me too long to get to this point. To build this life. You don’t understand…how much I wanted to give up after I got hit.”

Tucker’s frown deepened. He put his glass down and came to join Elliot on the sofa. “We’re not talking about the Witness Protection Program, Elliot. And it wouldn’t be forever.”

“You have no idea how long it will be. We both know there’s no way to foretell something like that.”

Tucker actually smiled. “I don’t think you realize how much the work you’ve put in has helped shape this case. We already know that we’re looking for someone closely connected to the university, possibly a graduate student or even an employee. And we’ve identified the Unsub’s victim type. Both those things are major. We’re closing in on this guy. And tonight’s attack brings us that much closer. Right this minute we’ve got people checking the ferry boat records. He didn’t fly over to the island.”

Elliot said wearily, “Great. But we both know how long, even after a suspect has been identified, it can take to catch him red-handed.”

“We don’t need to catch him red-handed. We just need to put him at the right place and time, and the rest of the pieces are going to fall into place. He’s unraveling fast, as his approaching you indicates. I think we’re dealing with a visionary type of killer, someone who thinks he’s fulfilling his destiny, and when we finally arrest him, I believe he’s going to be only too happy to explain to us what he’s doing—and why we should let him continue.”

Elliot restlessly dialed his empty glass first one way, then the other on the coffee table. Strictly speaking, what Tucker was saying made sense. The Unsub was deteriorating, as indicated by his changing MO and his contact with Elliot. It wasn’t that he wanted to be caught. It was that he was convinced he couldn’t be caught.

“If you would just hear me out, I think we can find a compromise on this,” Tucker said.

“Which is what?”

“You stay here.”

“Here?”

“Why not? It’s not a luxury cabin in the woods, but it’s not bad.”

“Here with you?”

Tucker said exasperatedly, “Well, I guess I could go to a hotel, but…yes, with me.”

Elliot didn’t know what to say. And seeing that he was at a loss, Tucker changed tack, nudging Elliot’s thigh with his knee and coaxing, “Come on, admit it. You felt it Saturday too. Aren’t you curious as to how we’d do spending more time together?”

“I assumed we were going to try to spend more time together.”

Tucker said bluntly, “I mean living together.”

“Living together?”

Well, that was easy enough. They’d probably kill each other within a week.

Elliot started to say so, but Tucker didn’t appear to be kidding. He was smiling but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. In fact, something about that dogged defensiveness made Elliot wonder what Tucker’s formative years had been like. Unlike Elliot, Tucker never talked about his childhood or his family.

So Elliot swallowed his rejection. The fact was, crazy though it was, the idea did sort of appeal. It wasn’t like he and Tucker didn’t already know they were attracted and wanted to see more of each other. Maybe in a way it was sort of logical.

When he didn’t immediately refuse, Tucker seemed to grow more confident. “We could give it a trial run. Try it for a week. You can’t go home until your place is cleared as a crime scene anyway. True?”

“True,” Elliot said reluctantly.

Tucker’s smile broadened, very white in his freckled face. “You’re crazy about me, Elliot. Why not admit it?”

Elliot shook his head. “You’re nuts.”

“Nah. You can’t kid a kidder.” He wrapped a muscular arm around Elliot and tugged him over. Elliot went with it, but he was still shaking his head over the sad state of Tucker’s sanity. Tucker’s mouth covered his. Elliot tasted the bite of the whisky as Tucker kissed him with those warm, almost tender lips. He closed his eyes, gave himself to the sweetness of the kiss.

Regardless of everything else, he wasn’t planning to give this up anytime soon. So maybe there was a bright side. He had feared he wouldn’t see anything of Tucker while his investigation was in full swing, but if he was staying with Tucker, he was bound to see more of him than he otherwise would.

He sighed and Tucker pulled him closer still, settling Elliot’s head against his shoulder, which wasn’t easy given that Elliot was nearly as tall as he was. He said softly, “You know how I know, Elliot?”

“You’ve got a wild imagination?”

Tucker shook his head. “No. I know how you feel because I feel the same way.”

*  *  *

Monday set the pattern for the rest of the week.

Elliot went to work in the morning wearing a shoulder holster—his permit for concealed carry rushed through in record time thanks to the cooperation of Tacoma PD—for the first time in nearly two years. Other than wearing a weapon again, his day was perfectly ordinary. As agreed, he checked in with Tucker at regular intervals. After his workday ended, he went for his massage therapy, and then drove back to Seattle.

On Monday and Tuesday he ate supper by himself, but Tucker was home and in bed by midnight every night, and Elliot found he liked being there to welcome him.

If he was strictly honest, Tucker’s version of “protective custody” wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared. Tucker didn’t try to keep him out of the loop. He discussed the case with Elliot as though they were still equals.

“The background check came back on your boy Ray Mandat,” Tucker said Wednesday morning as they both shared his small bathroom, trying to get ready for work. “He’s ex-military and lives with his mom.”

“You may as well lock him up now.” Elliot spoke over the buzz of his electric shaver.

Tucker was grinning, his eyes meeting Elliot’s in the mirror. “He claims to have an alibi for the night Baker was grabbed, but it’s not watertight. He says he was at the movies.”

Elliot grunted.

“Get this. He used to work for Tacoma Animal Care and Control. They let him go when they discovered he was appropriating dead animal carcasses for his own personal use.”

“I’m glad we decided to forgo breakfast.”

Tucker slipped an arm around Elliot, pulling him close. “Is that the only reason you’re glad we decided to forgo breakfast?”

“You’ve got a one-track mind,” Elliot informed him.

“And you’ve got a ticket to ride.”

Elliot groaned, switching off the razor, but he let himself be kissed and even entered into the spirit of things despite the fact that they were running quite late.

Later he said, “You never finished explaining what Ray was doing with the dead animals.”

“Oh. He was skinning them, tanning their hides and selling them. Apparently he had a nice little sideline going.”

*  *  *

Elliot and Tucker turned out to be pretty compatible when it came to such things as meals and housekeeping. Or as compatible as two people could be who were almost never in the same place at the same time.

The problem was, they were living in limbo.

Tucker’s team was working relentlessly to capture the PSU Killer as the media (to Charlotte Oppenheimer’s horror) had labeled the Unsub, but they all knew in order to catch their man they needed him to strike again—even as they worked to prevent it from happening.

Security was keeping a high profile and there was a new police presence on the PSU campus. There were also reporters everywhere. Elliot had to call security twice when persistent “journalists” refused to take no for an answer.

With so much activity and attention, it was hardly surprising that there were no further attacks on students—nor did Elliot receive any more text messages.

“Maybe he’s left town?” he suggested when he and Tucker managed to meet for a quick dinner that night in Tacoma.

“No way. This guy is no transient. He’s geographically stable.”

“That’s the only stable thing about him.”

“True.”

Tucker’s smile was perfunctory. He seemed preoccupied. In fact, he’d seemed preoccupied since he’d arrived at the restaurant shortly after Elliot, and Elliot said, “What’s up?”

“I’ve got the crime scene and lab reports on Steven Roche.”

Elliot abruptly lost his appetite. He reached for his drink. “And?”

“We struck out on DNA from the wineglass. The Unsub didn’t take a drink. It looks like he opened the bottle and poured the wine for show.”

“I see.” The lack of DNA wasn’t good news, but it didn’t explain Tucker’s somber expression.

“How well did you know Roche?”

There it was. That look again. “We were friendly.” Elliot admitted, “More than neighbors. Friends, but not close friends.”

“He was writing a book about you.”

Elliot nearly choked. He set his glass down quickly and wiped his mouth. “What are you talking about? He was writing about the Charles Mattson kidnapping.”

“I found the Mattson file. There are a lot of notes but no manuscript. There was also a file on you.”

“What was in it?”

“A lot of notes. It looks like he made notes on almost every conversation you ever had. There were also photos I don’t think you knew were being taken, and some snapshots I think he might have lifted from a family album. There was a copy of one of your prescriptions and Montgomery’s reply to your resignation letter…mostly a lot of odds and ends, but none of it anything he should have in his possession.”

“I…” Elliot’s voice failed.

Tucker spared him one quick look, and returned his gaze to the crystal lantern on the table. “There was also a letter to his agent proposing either a biography on you or a novelized account of the Pioneer Square shooting.” After a pause, Tucker added gruffly, “Sorry.”

Elliot nodded automatically. He felt numb. Beyond the hurt of a friend’s betrayal was the stricken comprehension that he had been oblivious to Steven’s spying and pilfering. Until the night he had caught Steven wandering outside the cabin, it hadn’t even occurred to him there might be a problem.

“How was he getting in?” Meeting Tucker’s gaze, Elliot said harshly, “He had to be getting in somehow because I never gave him a key.”

“It looks like he fixed the latch on one of the basement windows so that it closed, but didn’t lock properly.”

Elliot reached blindly for his glass, tossed off the rest of his whisky.

“Do you want to hear this right now?” Tucker asked quietly.

“Hell yes. Go on.”

“The physical evidence indicates that the Unsub entered the cabin on Sunday while you were at Terry Baker’s funeral—suggesting he knew you would be at the funeral. He broke a basement window to get in. Not the same window that Roche was using.”

“He was setting the scene when Steven arrived,” Elliot said slowly. “Which is why he used the corkscrew. He opened the wine with it.”

“That’s the way it looks. Roche slipped into the house thinking you were away for the afternoon and he surprised the Unsub. Forensics leads us to believe Roche tried to escape back out the basement but was caught and killed before he could get out the window. His body was carried upstairs and positioned on your bed.”

“That would have to be someone in excellent physical shape.”

“Yeah.”

“Male.”

“Was there ever really much doubt of that? Most serial killers are male.”

White, male, aged 25 to 45 and generally loners. Mostly. Not always. Organized killers sometimes had strong personal and social skills and were able to maintain a normal family life. It was those exceptions to the rule that sometimes came out of nowhere and hit you over the head with their crowbars.

“Someone who owns a black or navy SUV or truck.”

“It’s possible. That leaves out Ray Mandat. He drives a white pickup.”

“What about the ferry records for Sunday?”

“We’re still crosschecking licenses and registrations.”

They’d be checking parking passes at PSU too and it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Black rated well at the top of the five most popular car colors.

Elliot said, “The problem is, if someone borrowed a friend’s car for the day, a connection to the university isn’t likely to flag.”

“Right.”

“It might be a fairly tenuous connection as it is.”

“Maybe.”

“There might be no connection at all.”

Tucker leaned forward. “I know this…” he searched for a word and eventually came up with, “…has thrown you, but I’m convinced we’re on the right track. I can feel in my gut we’re closing in on this guy.”

“That’s probably hunger,” Elliot said, glancing at Tucker’s plate. “You haven’t eaten anything.” Neither of them had, and it didn’t look like either had much appetite now.

“Let’s get out of here,” Tucker said. “Let’s go home.”

Elliot nodded to the waitress for the check. “Yeah, well that brings up another problem, doesn’t it? I can’t stay with you indefinitely. Sooner or later, I’ve got to get back to my own life.”

Tucker didn’t reply.

“We said we’d try it for a week,” Elliot reminded him.

“That’s right.”

Elliot could tell by Tucker’s expression that he was saying the wrong thing, but it had to be said, didn’t it?

“I appreciate your letting me stay. You had a good idea there. It’s been…good. I mean, all things considered.” Tucker was looking more remote and unapproachable with each word. Elliot stumbled, “But eventually I have to go home.”

“Sure,” Tucker clipped out.

The waitress came with the check then and Elliot didn’t have a chance to respond. He wasn’t sure what he could answer in any case. He wasn’t even sure what Tucker wanted to hear.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“But it’s not really late,” Leslie Mrachek said impassionedly Friday morning, attempting once again to hand her plastic binder to Elliot. “I mean, I tried to hand it in last night but everyone was gone and the building was locked. So that shouldn’t count as late. I mean, I couldn’t know that you’d have left by then.”

“My office hours are nine to eleven on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and two to four on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In fact, I stayed till five yesterday.” And got hell from Tucker for deviating from his schedule without checking with the prison warden first.

They’d had their first genuine argument last night over it, and things had still been strained this morning when they’d kissed goodbye. In fairness, Elliot knew Tucker did have grounds for complaint. There was no point in putting together a timetable if Elliot was going to vary from it by hours at a time. It wasn’t fair to resent Tucker for doing his best to protect Elliot while not getting on his nerves. The only person to blame for the restrictions placed on him was the Unsub.

Who, for all they knew, was halfway across the state by now.

Leslie’s eyes were getting that ominously bright, shiny look. “But it’s not fair.”

“Leslie—”

“You probably haven’t even started grading them yet.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yes it is. You know I had it ready. You saw my first draft. It’s not fair to penalize me.”

Fair. Where did this idea come from that everything was supposed to be fair? What about life was inherently fair? Was it fair that bombs fell on noncombatants? Was it fair that some people were born rich and some people were born poor? That beauty wasn’t matched to goodness? Was it fair that Elliot had been crippled trying to stop a domestic terrorist from killing any more innocent citizens?

He opened his mouth to share a couple of life’s brutal realities with her, when the significance of what she was saying dawned. He took the folder and interrupted her tearful speech. “What time did you try to hand in your essay?”

“Five-fifteen,” Meeting his gaze, she said defiantly, “All right. Maybe it was closer to six, but the principle is the same.”

The principle of being late? Elliot didn’t even try to figure that one out. “Okay, Leslie. I’m going to bend the rules this once because I did read your original draft and I do believe you just lost track of time, though that’s not really much of an excuse.”

“Thank you, Professor Mills.” She clapped her hands in little-girl delight. “I promise it’ll never happen again.”

He nodded, reaching for his phone. “Can you close the door on your way out?”

Leslie went out on tiptoes and eased the door shut behind her.

Elliot counted the rings on the other end of the line. One, two, three—

“Lance.”

“It’s me.”

“What’s up?” Not unfriendly, just brisk. The way he’d been since Wednesday night—not counting last evening’s blow up. Well, Tucker knew he had been in the right yesterday. Elliot would have apologized if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate comment indicating Tucker believed Elliot had deliberately turned his phone off (which wasn’t true) because Elliot was still chafing at Tucker’s perceived overprotectiveness (which was).

“Is anyone checking the electronic access card records for movement on the nights that Terry and Gordie disappeared?”

There was a short silence. “Do you mean for the entire campus?”

“No. I mean unusual activity in centralized buildings like Hanby Hall.”

“Why the buildings?” Tucker asked finally. “Baker would have been grabbed on the grounds.”

“Do you remember Friday night two weeks ago when I called because I thought someone was following me to my car?”

“Yes.” Tucker’s tone softened fractionally.

“I don’t think that was my overactive imagination. When I was leaving my office I had the strong impression I wasn’t alone in the building. In hindsight, I think someone was here and that he followed me, that he watched me retracing Terry’s steps and figured out what I was up to—because he was in the perfect position to know.”

“I’m listening.”

“I know it’s not conclusive, but I’d like to see the electronic access record for that night—and for the nights Terry and Gordie disappeared.”

He could practically hear the wheels turning. “Agreed,” Tucker said. “It’s worth following up.” He sounded like he was about to hang up.

It suddenly struck Elliot that so far in this tentative relationship of theirs Tucker was the one who did all the apologizing. Not because he was the only one in the wrong, but because he was better—braver—about putting his feelings on the line. Maybe there had initially been a reason for that, but if they were going to move forward, they had to let go—Elliot had to let go—of the past.

He said quickly, “Tucker?”

“Yes?”

“Listen, I…just wanted to say that I probably should have watched the time yesterday, and when I saw I was going to be late, I should have called.”

Pause.

“Yeah, you should have.”

“So I’m apologizing.”

Pause.

“Apology accepted.”

This was not going well. He should have waited till he could do it in person. Not seeing Tucker’s face made it too difficult. But then Tucker’s face had been about as readable as a doctor’s handwriting—prognosis: terminal—ever since Wednesday evening.

Wednesday. Yeah, things had gone wrong on Wednesday, and Elliot still wasn’t totally sure how or why. At first he’d been too shaken over the news that Steven had been planning to strip-mine Elliot’s life for his next book. But even he couldn’t fail to notice that things had become noticeably strained with Tucker since Wednesday.

Last night they hadn’t even fucked. What the hell was the point of protective custody if you weren’t at least going to get to have sex with your protector?

He squelched that inappropriate thought, knowing Tucker would not be amused. “So to prove I’m turning over a new leaf, I wanted to let you know ahead of time that I’m going to this art exhibition for Andrew Corian tonight.”

“Where?”

“Tacoma Museum of Art.”

“What time?”

“Eight. I’ll head over to my dad’s when I finish up here today. I’ll call you from there and I’ll call when I reach the museum—and when I leave.”

“All right. Thank you.”

“Or, if you think you can take time for dinner, I’ll meet you somewhere.”

This time the silence sounded more like hesitation. “That’s probably not going to happen. Sorry.”

“Right.”

Time to say goodbye, Elliot. Instead he hung on the line, not wanting to leave it like this. Not wanting to let the situation between them to worsen. Not even by a few hours. No one knew better than Elliot the difference a few hours could make.

“Hey.”

Tucker returned cautiously, “Hey.”

“Are you pissed off with me?” Elliot winced at how juvenile that sounded.

Fortunately, Tucker didn’t seem to notice. “No. I’m not pissed off. I’m disappointed obviously.”

It was kind of a relief to know he was on the right track. Elliot said, choosing his words with care, “It’s not like I’m saying I don’t want to…see if things could work between us. But I want it to be our choice. Not have it forced on us because you’re afraid some psycho is going to take me out.”

“I asked you to move in with me. That’s what I want. I don’t need an excuse. The excuse was for your sake.”

There it was. Slapped down on the table and no pretending it was anything but what it was. Why did Tucker always have to be first through the door? Couldn’t he ever just knock?

“Okay. I guess what I’m saying is…I can’t move as fast as you. Not physically and not emotionally. I’m sorry that you’re disappointed.”

Silence.

Elliot added, “I shouldn’t have brought this up now.”

“At least we’re talking about it.” Tucker actually sounded almost friendly. Certainly friendlier than he had since Wednesday night. “I thought your mind was already made up.”

“I just don’t like to be rushed.”

“I noticed.”

“We can talk about it tonight if you get home before dawn.”

Tucker’s normal cockiness reasserted itself. “Sure. Tomorrow’s Saturday. We can stay up all night and play loud music and video games and drink cold soda if we want to. And we can talk about Our Relationship.”

Elliot started to laugh, relieved that Tucker was meeting him more than halfway. “You really are nuts.”

“Yeah, but you like that, Elliot. You need it.”

Elliot was still grinning as he replaced the phone.

*  *  *

An exhibition at the Tacoma Museum of Art was no small thing, and Elliot was not surprised to see many familiar faces when he and Roland arrived just after eight on Friday evening.

The parking lot was packed with cars—including a number of black SUVs and navy pickups—and elegantly dressed couples strolled up the wide serpentine walk to the tall silver and glass building.

As they passed through the entrance doors, the hugely magnified sound of a heartbeat greeted them.

“I hate it already,” Elliot remarked.

Roland gave him a pained look and snagged a flute glass of champagne from a circulating caterer. “Changeling. Have a drink and chill out.”

Elliot took a glass but he didn’t think there was enough champagne in the city to chill him out. He wandered through the gently drifting tails of white balloons bobbing against the ceiling, brushing aside the long silver streamers hanging like glittering seaweed. Outside the tinted windows the lights of Tacoma shone like stars.

Anne Gold waved to him from across the room, and he lifted a hand in greeting. She was talking to a tall, good-looking man and seemed more animated than she had in days. The man turned and, meeting Elliot’s gaze, smiled.

At the front of the room, Corian was being photographed by the museum’s board of trustee officers. He was smiling widely as the cameras flashed. He made some comment that had the ladies tittering and the men guffawing.

In this crowd Corian was most definitely the darling. His exhibition kicked off a month-long museum fundraiser, and it was clear no expense was being spared.

The amplified heartbeat was getting on his nerves, so Elliot wandered outside. The plaza outside the museum was draped in glowing strands of tiny white lights and featured several large and dramatic pieces from local artists. A giant hand proffered a scattering of real conch shells and starfish. Three dimensional blue marble stars were stacked in rows. Dirty mattresses and worn out tires were heaped in preparation of a bonfire.

Elliot pulled his cell phone out and called Tucker.

Tucker didn’t pick up, so he left a message. “Eight forty-five. The eagle has landed.”

He disconnected, disappointed not to have actually spoken with Tucker. He knew exactly what Tucker would make of this kind of event and it would have been entertaining to share it with him. More and more he was conscious of wanting to share things with Tucker, looking forward to talking with him at the end of the day.

He went back inside the museum, stopping in front of a large hanging placard that offered a grungy glam shot of Corian about fifteen years earlier and described his “artistic vision” in nearly unintelligible terms. There was mention of the dimensional constants of space and time and the dissolution of the line between art and life.

And what the hell that meant, Elliot had no clue. But he disliked it on general grounds.

He snagged another glass of champagne and proceeded through the exhibit. The deep, resonant heartbeat triplets forced everyone to raise their voices as they moved admiringly through the displays and he caught snatches of conversation as he wove his way through the crush of people.

“Look at nature. Nature abhors a vacuum.”

“We should be able come up with a different kind of art. Something really new.”

“God no, they’ve been divorced for years. Can you imagine what a PIA he’d be to live with?”

Corian was a sculptor working primarily in marble, which—according to what Elliot had just read—was the only stone with a fine-grained lustrousness and translucency reminiscent of human skin. And, in fairness to the artist, Corian did manage to evoke work that seemed to glow with life.

His style was much more traditional than Elliot would have expected: a series of young, beautiful nudes—male and female—in various positions. The females were beautifully done and gracefully, almost modestly, posed. The males were striking both for the boldness of their postures and the sheer gorgeous perfection of their bodies. As good as Corian was with the female form, he was better with the male.

That lavish appreciation of detail seemed odd given that Corian was not gay. Or maybe it wasn’t odd. Corian was male and unsurprisingly knew the male form better. He was also an egomaniac and was bound to consider anything he was—male—superior.

Something was odd, though.

What was it?

Perhaps these youthful male figures were a subconscious representation of Corian himself? But no, each one was utterly unique. Right down to the appendix scar on that kneeling youth. Elliot frowned, considering.

His cell phone rang and he reached for it, smiling, expecting Tucker’s return call.

But it was not Tucker. The icon for a text message appeared. The hair rose on the back of Elliot’s neck. Anonymous call from [email protected].

He pressed accept.

Are we having fun yet?

All at once the background music seemed unbearably loud, but perhaps that was Elliot’s own heartbeat pounding away in his ears. He turned his head, rapidly scanning the packed room. There were several people on cell phones. The dark-haired man who had been speaking with Anne Gold was either dialing or texting.

Elliot stared down at his phone. He texted back Let’s meet.

He waited.

Nothing.

He looked around the room. The dark-haired man was now laughing with a red-haired woman in a paisley jumpsuit.

Elliot’s phone chirped.

Text message from [email protected]. He clicked on the message.

Soon.

He had no proof the Unsub was in this crowd. It was more likely that he wasn’t in this crowd. Except this guy liked risk, liked the thrill. He wasn’t afraid of being caught because he was confident he was stronger and smarter than everyone else. He might easily have followed Elliot this evening.

Or he might think Elliot was following him.

Now where had that thought come from? Elliot wasn’t sure. He stared around the room at the laughing, talking, drinking faces. No one was paying him any attention. No one was watching him. Roland was talking to three attractive older ladies with the long, straight hair and baggy peasant dresses that so many of his dad’s admirers favored. Anne was helping herself to another glass of champagne. Charlotte Oppenheimer had just arrived. He saw her wince at the human heartbeat soundtrack overhead.

No. There was something he was missing. Something obvious. Something as plain as the nose on his face.

The thought sank in. Elliot slowly turned back to the forest of marble bodies. Like human tombstones. He knew now what was odd.

Every single male nude was headless.