The Perfect Murder Page 5

  You said to let you know.

  Sebastian had just stepped out of the shower when he spotted Mary McCoy’s instant messages on his laptop. According to the time indicated on those messages, she’d tried to reach him twenty minutes ago, right after he’d gone into the bathroom.

  Had she already signed off?

  Afraid he was too late, he sat down wearing a towel and typed a quick response.

  I’m here. What’d he say?

  There was no immediate reply. A single mom, Mary was often up late. She’d told him it was the only time she could carve out of the day for herself. But—he glanced at the radio alarm by the bed—it was nearly midnight, and she had to go to the hospital where she worked bright and early in the morning. Maybe she’d gone to bed.

  “Come on, come on.” He tapped his fingers on the desk. She’d given him her phone number, but he couldn’t call her at this hour, and he couldn’t drive over there, either. He stayed away from her place in case Malcolm was closer than they thought. Letting Malcolm see him would blow everything.

  Mary? he typed, as if he was speaking and not merely sending another message.

  Nothing. Damn. He’d missed her.

  Shoving his wet hair out of his face to keep it from dripping into his eyes, he slumped in his chair, momentarily distracted by his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. God, he hardly recognized himself anymore. His hair, as thick and black as that of his Greek ancestors, was getting so long it curled around his ears and nape. His coal-black eyes were hollow and slightly sunken, so the sharp angles of his cheekbones protruded in an exaggerated fashion. Dark stubble covered a jaw and chin that, like his cheekbones, now seemed more pronounced. He’d once been so meticulous about his appearance and grooming. A haircut at Lucio’s every six weeks, standing appointment. A close shave twice a day to combat an unrelenting five-o’clock shadow. Italian shoes. Designer suits. Gold cuff links. A Rolex watch. Now he wore mostly jeans and T-shirts and a brown leather bomber jacket, rarely cut his hair and shaved every three days. The only personal maintenance he hadn’t abandoned besides regular hygiene was a stringent fitness routine. He pushed himself to lift and run more each day, but not because he gave a damn about improving his physique. It was all about coping with his frustration—and being ready to exact retribution.

  In the same reflection, he could see his handgun sitting on the nightstand behind him. He’d spent a lot of time learning how to use it. Sometimes he even craved the feel of that smooth handle in his palm.

  What have you become? he asked himself. Was he allowing what had happened to Colton to change more than his appearance and habits? Was he allowing it to twist his heart?

  Constance certainly thought so. But he couldn’t seem to escape the compulsion driving him. It was like some kind of centripetal force that’d sucked him in and held him fast.

  Let it go and move on, Connie always said. Come back to me. Don’t let Malcolm cost you any more than he already has.

  For a moment, he grabbed at the hope in those words. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could go back to New York, to her.

  He scooped his phone off the desk to see if she’d called again, but didn’t bother checking when he noticed a change on his computer screen. A reply from Mary McCoy had popped up.

  BrownEyedGirl: I’m here.

  Relieved, Sebastian tossed his phone on the bed so he could type.

  S.Costas: What’d our friend have to say tonight?

  BrownEyedGirl: Not a lot. It was mostly me, doing what you said to do. I told him I’d like to hook up, suggested I drive down to L.A. this weekend to see him.

  With luck, she was leading Malcolm right where he wanted to go. Considering all the time he’d put into reestablishing the relationship, he had to be secretly hoping to see her. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be much of a payoff to their lengthy and sometimes sexual Internet discussions.

  But would that desire be enough to tempt Malcolm into revealing his true identity? That was the big question.

  S.Costas: Did he agree?

  BrownEyedGirl: He didn’t disagree. But he didn’t make a commitment, either. I asked for his address. I said I wanted to see how far he lived from Sacramento. He said L.A. was about 400 miles. So I said maybe I should fly and he should pick me up at the airport, but he said he had a lot going on this weekend and we should plan it for another time.

  He was dodging them, playing it safe.

  S.Costas: Did he say when?

  BrownEyedGirl: No. He said he’d have to check his schedule. Then he got off.

  Shit. Sebastian hoped they hadn’t spooked him.

  S.Costas: Did he seem nervous or suspicious?

  BrownEyedGirl: Not really. Just a little cagey. Maybe he’ll get back to me, like he said.

  He obviously wanted some contact with her or he wouldn’t have gotten in touch. And Malcolm was cocky enough to think he could get away with anything. The killings had occurred in Newark, New Jersey, Malcolm and Mary had gone to high school in San Antonio, Texas, and Mary now lived in Sacramento. Perhaps he believed she was sufficiently removed from the situation. If Sebastian hadn’t found that old shoebox in the storage above Malcolm’s garage, the one that contained Mary’s old letters and pictures, he wouldn’t have realized they’d once been so close, and Mary might not have learned about the tragedy in New Jersey. She’d been completely surprised—stunned—when he’d told her. The news had brought her to tears. It wasn’t until five months later that she’d dug Sebastian’s card out of her desk and called him to say she was receiving some rather mysterious e-mails—e-mails that reminded her of someone they both knew quite well.

  S.Costas: Don’t mention seeing him again, not for the next few days. We have to be careful or we’ll blow this.

  BrownEyedGirl: If it is Malcolm, I can’t imagine he’ll really agree to get together, not after telling me he’s someone else. How will he explain that?

  S.Costas: Easy enough.

  BrownEyedGirl: How?

  S.Costas: By saying he’s in the witness protection program or something.

  Knowing Malcolm, and his desire to come across as a big shot, that was exactly the line he’d use.

  BrownEyedGirl: I didn’t think of that.

  S.Costas: He wants to see you or he wouldn’t be writing you so much.

  BrownEyedGirl: He acts like it, but he won’t ever commit.

  S.Costas: He will someday.

  BrownEyedGirl: And if he does…how will that work? If you show up instead of me, he could pull out a gun and shoot you. He won’t let you take him to the police. Not after everything he’s done to escape.

  S.Costas: It would be best to arrange a meeting in a public place, a restaurant or a bar, if possible.

  BrownEyedGirl: Maybe I should continue to pretend we’re rekindling the romance and invite him here for a drink. I could get some of his DNA on a glass or something. The police will have to listen if you can prove he’s alive, right?

  Sebastian was no longer sure he wanted the authorities involved. He’d begun to dream of taking care of Malcolm on his own. It seemed so much simpler, more efficient. The police had done nothing so far except give him the runaround.

  S.Costas: No way. He’s a murderer. Do whatever you can to avoid letting him get that close. You haven’t given him your address, have you?

  BrownEyedGirl: No, but he asked for it.

  Sebastian didn’t like the sound of that.

  S.Costas: You didn’t give it to him, did you?

  BrownEyedGirl: Of course not. I told him I don’t share that information over the Internet.

  S.Costas: If he doesn’t want to get together, why’d he ask for it?

  BrownEyedGirl: He claimed he was going to send me some flowers.

  S.Costas: Cunning.

  BrownEyedGirl: Actually, I think it’s a telling coincidence.

  S.Costas: What do you mean?

  BrownEyedGirl: Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day he asked me to be his girlfriend. We c
elebrated the 19th every month for the two years we were together.

  Interesting…

  S.Costas: Mention of flowers was some sort of hint?

  BrownEyedGirl: Could be.

  S.Costas: How’d he respond when you wouldn’t give him an address?

  BrownEyedGirl: He said he could get it if he really wanted it.

  That was true. She was listed; anyone could find her. But Malcolm probably had her address long ago. Sebastian believed Mary was the reason he’d come to California in the first place. They both knew he’d run into a mutual friend in New York City—months before the murders—who’d mentioned that she was now living in Sacramento. That friend had contacted her to say she’d seen him.

  BrownEyedGirl: He said something else I think you’ll be interested to hear.

  S.Costas: What’s that?

  BrownEyedGirl: He told me he used to be a cop.

  This raised the hair on the back of Sebastian’s neck. If he’d needed further proof, he had the coincidence of the anniversary and now this. Wesley was Malcolm. They had him on the hook; they just needed to reel him in. But was it safe to allow Mary to go on with this fishing expedition? If Malcolm figured out what she was doing…

  S.Costas: This could get dangerous.

  And because he’d been the one encouraging her to communicate with Malcolm, he’d feel responsible if something happened to her. He had to be careful.

  BrownEyedGirl: He has no reason to hurt me. I don’t have any money.

  Maybe she didn’t have money, but Malcolm had contacted her for a reason. Was she simply someone to brag to? Was he bored? Lonely? In love with her? Hoping to meet for a sexual rendezvous?

  Or did he sincerely regret having passed her up in his younger days? He’d divorced his first wife and murdered his second. He didn’t seem very easy to please when it came to women, but there was no way to tell what was going on in his mind.

  BrownEyedGirl: Isn’t that why he murdered your ex-wife? For her money?

  S.Costas: That was part of it, but there could be other reasons.

  Exactly what those reasons might be Sebastian hadn’t yet deciphered. Emily had asked that they meet for lunch. She’d been upset when she called him. But she’d scheduled the meeting for a week away, when Malcolm would be on a trip to Vegas with his brother, and been killed before that day could come.

  S.Costas: Did he give you anything new to go on today besides letting you know that he was a cop—and that he remembers your anniversary?

  BrownEyedGirl: Just more of the same.

  S.Costas: The same what?

  BrownEyedGirl: Flirting. Compliments. What you’ve read before. He tells me he wishes we’d gotten together. That his life would’ve been different if we had. His comments are getting more and more explicit, of course, and—Oh boy, he just signed on!!!!!

  Sebastian sat up straighter.

  S.Costas: Malcolm?

  BrownEyedGirl: Yes! He’s sending me a message. It says, ‘Hey, you still up?’ Should I respond?

  Would it be smarter to play hard to get? Probably. But Sebastian was getting low on patience. And money. He had to press forward before circumstances forced him to give up.

  S.Costas: Definitely. He might be ready to suggest a time and place.

  BrownEyedGirl: I have to tell you, I’m beginning to have second thoughts about setting up a meeting.

  S.Costas: Why?

  BrownEyedGirl: Because I’m afraid of what you might do if you have the chance. I’d hate to see you shoot him and then spend the rest of your life in prison.

  S.Costas: Don’t worry about me.

  Only three years younger than he was, Mary was lonely after her divorce. But, contrary to what Constance believed, their relationship had never even bordered on the romantic.

  S.Costas: Just see what he wants.

  She didn’t get back to him right away.

  Anxious to learn what was going on, he got up and paced until the words It’s no good appeared on his screen.

  What did that mean?

  S.Costas: He won’t meet?

  BrownEyedGirl: No. He says he’s had one hell of a night and he’ll be busy the next few weekends.

  Son of a bitch.

  S.Costas: Okay. Then I need you to do one more thing for me.

  BrownEyedGirl: What’s that?

  S.Costas: Let me take over from here.

  BrownEyedGirl: What do you mean?

  S.Costas: I want to be the one communicating with him. There’s no need for you to have anything more to do with this. It’s not safe.

  And it was too frustrating working through a third party. They were so close and yet they couldn’t pin him down.

  BrownEyedGirl: How do I let you take over?

  S.Costas: Simple. Give me access to your account. I’ll be you for the next week or two, see if there’s anything I can do to convince this bastard to trust me.

  BrownEyedGirl: You’re crazy. He’ll be able to tell you’re not me. You don’t write like a girl.

  S.Costas: I can fake it.

  Sebastian had read the transcripts of their instant-message sessions. At least the ones Mary had saved. If he wasn’t sure how to respond to a certain question, he could look back through the pages she’d given him to see how the subject had been handled before. Or he could contact her. If he couldn’t reach her in time, he’d sign off and blame it on a faulty connection. Already convinced he was in contact with his ex-girlfriend, Malcolm wouldn’t suspect a thing—provided Sebastian didn’t say something obvious or stupid.

  BrownEyedGirl: But this is my only e-mail address.

  S.Costas: I’ll open another account for you, and I’ll forward anything that comes in on this one that isn’t related.

  BrownEyedGirl: You don’t understand. E-mail is my life right now. With two little kids, I can’t get out of the house to meet people.

  She was purposely ignoring the solution he’d offered, didn’t want to be cut out of the loop. This was the one thing that kept her occupied at night—hearing from Malcolm and then reporting on it. Sebastian actually called her some nights and they formulated her responses together.

  S.Costas: I shouldn’t need it for very long. Like I said, I’ll forward anything that’s unrelated. AND I’ll pay you $1000 for the inconvenience.

  Thinking of his nearly empty bank account, Sebastian grimaced, but he knew if anything would smooth the way, this would. She lived on a very tight budget.

  BrownEyedGirl: You don’t have to pay me. You know I’d do it just because we’re friends.

  S.Costas: You could use the money, and I’m happy to help.

  He didn’t think it would be difficult to persuade her to accept. She thought he was rich.

  BrownEyedGirl: If that’s what you want. But you have to keep me up-to-date, okay? I’d like to know what’s going on. I’ve nursed this thing along for weeks and want to see the end.

  Sebastian could certainly understand that. Okay, he said, and she gave him her password.

  Five

  Several hours later, Sebastian was still up, keeping an eye on Mary’s buddy list while rereading the transcripts of her and Malcolm’s previous online sessions. If he had the opportunity, he wanted to be sure he could pick up the conversation with full knowledge of everything that’d been said before.

  He’d put on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt, but hadn’t been able to relax enough to sleep. Malcolm was signed on. He’d been on for most of the night. Sebastian imagined him chatting with other women, stringing them along with compliments and promises of flowers, just like Mary.

  How could he bring this bastard out of hiding?

  Sebastian was dying to initiate a conversation, to see what he could do now that he had control. But it was nearly four in the morning and Malcolm knew Mary had children she had to get off to school. She also worked, which meant she was rarely up this late.

  “Don’t break the pattern,” he warned himself. But he couldn’t continue to nudge Malcolm along at a leisu
rely pace; he needed to draw him out, make him commit.

  Ignoring caution, Sebastian clicked on the WhosYourDaddy screen name. Brandon just woke up with the flu. Poor kid, he typed.

  No, kid should be baby. Baby would sound more feminine. Using the backspace key, he made the change. And now I can’t go back to sleep.

  He sent it, but there was no response. “Come on,” he murmured. “Forget whatever porn site you’re on and take the bait. Don’t you care about poor little Brandon?”

  Sebastian adjusted his chair so he could stretch his legs. He’d been sitting too long. “Of course you don’t care about Brandon,” he said, settling in again. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

  After another five minutes, he made a second attempt. I keep thinking about you. Maybe that’s the real reason I can’t sleep. I get so lonely at night.