number eight. At least we think it’s number eight. Maybe there’ve been more we just don’t know about.”
“What if she’s decided she’s rich enough?”
“She doesn’t kill for the money.” Miller picked up the picture of Randolph Powers, knife blade protruding from his chest as he gazed sightlessly from his seat at the dinner table. “She kills because she likes to.” And she was getting ready to do it again. He knew it.
“I haven’t had time to look at this file,” Daniel admitted, sitting down on the other side of the desk, pulling the report toward him. “Are we sure this is the same woman?”
“Exact M.O. The victim was found in the dining room, cuffed to the chair, with the remains of dinner on the table.” Miller ran his fingers through his hair. God, he had a headache. “Opium was found in his system in the autopsy. The entire house was wiped clean of fingerprints. The only photo was a wedding portrait—and the bride’s veil was over her face. It’s her.”
Daniel skimmed the report. “According to this, Powers married a woman named Clarise Harris two and a half weeks prior to his death.” He glanced up at Miller. “The honeymoon was barely over. Didn’t she usually wait two or three months?”
Miller nodded, rummaging through his desk drawers for his bottle of aspirin. “She’s getting impatient.” Jackpot. Miller twisted off the aspirin bottle’s cap—empty. “Damn. Tonaka, do you have any aspirin in your desk?”
“You don’t need aspirin, man. You need sleep. Go home and go to bed.”
“If I wanted free advice, I would’ve asked for it. I think what I asked for was aspirin.”
The deadly look Miller gave Daniel was designed to freeze a man in his tracks.
But Daniel just smiled as he stood up. “You know, I really hope we’re partners for a good long time, John, because I cannot for the life of me imitate that look. I’ve tried. I practice every night in my bathroom mirror, but…” He shook his head. “I just can’t do it. You have a real God-given talent there. See you later.”
Daniel closed the door on the way out and Miller just sat, staring after him, wishing…for what?
If the kid had been Tony, Miller might have told him about the nightmares, about the fact that he was too damn scared even to try to sleep. If the kid had been Tony, Miller might have told him that this morning when he’d gotten on the bathroom scale, he’d found he’d lost twenty pounds. Twenty pounds, just like that.
But Daniel Tonaka wasn’t Tony.
Tony was gone. He’d been dead and gone for years.
Years.
Miller reached for the phone. “Yeah, John Miller. Put me through to Captain Blake.”
It was time to get down to real work on this Black Widow case. Maybe then he could get some damned sleep.
GARDEN ISLE, GEORGIA, was the best kept secret among the jet set. The beaches were covered with soft white sand. The sky was blue and the ocean, although murky with mineral deposits, was clean. The town itself was quaint, with cobblestone streets and charming brick houses and window boxes that overflowed with brightly colored flowers. Most of the shops were exclusive, the restaurants trendy and four-star and outrageously expensive—except if you knew where to go.
And after two months on Garden Isle, Mariah Robinson knew exactly where to go to avoid the crowds. She loaded her camera and her beach bag into the front basket of her bike and headed toward the beach.
Not toward the quiet, windswept beach that was only several yards from her rental house, but rather toward the usually crowded, always happening beach next to the five-star resort.
Most of the time, she embraced the solitude, often reveling in the noise-dampening sound of the surf and the raucous calls of the seabirds. But today she felt social. Today, she wanted the crowds. Today, just on a whim, she wanted to use her camera to take photographs of people.
Today she was meeting her friend, Serena, for lunch at one of those very same four-star restaurants.
But she was more than an hour early, and she took her bike with her onto the sand. She set it gently on its side and spread her beach blanket alongside it. There was a reggae band playing in the tent next to the resort bar even this early in the morning, and the music floated out across the beach.
She sat in the sun, just watching the dynamics of the people around her.
Some sunbathers lay in chaise lounges, their noses buried in books. Others socialized, talking and flirting in large and small groups. Men and women in athletic gear ran up and down the miles of flat, hard sand at the edge of the water. Others walked or strolled. Still others paraded—clearly advertising their trim, tanned bodies, scantily clad in designer bathing suits.
Mariah took out her camera, focusing on a golden retriever running next to a muscular man in neon green running shorts. She loved dogs. In fact, now that she wasn’t shut up in an office each day from dawn till dusk, she was thinking about getting one and—
“Fancy meeting you here this early.”
Mariah looked up but the glare from the bright sun threw the face of the woman standing next to her into shadows. It didn’t matter. The crisp English-accented voice was unmistakable.
“Hey,” Mariah said, smiling as Serena sat down next to her on her blanket.
“I thought you’d sworn off the resort beach,” Serena continued, looking at Mariah over the tops of her expensive sunglasses.
Serena Westford was older than Mariah had originally thought when they’d first met a few weeks ago—she was closer to forty than thirty, anyway. Her smile was young though. It was mercurial and charming, displaying perfect white teeth. Her hair was blond with wisps escaping from underneath the big straw hat she always wore, and her trim body was that of a twenty-four-year-old.
She was as cool and confident as she was beautiful. She was everything Mariah wished she could be. Everything Marie Carver wished she could be, Mariah corrected herself. But Marie Carver had purposely been left behind in Phoenix, Arizona. Mariah Robinson was here in Georgia, and Mariah was happy with her life. She went with the flow, calm and relaxed. No worries. No problems. No stress. No jealousy.
Serena was wearing a black thong bathing suit, covered only by a diaphanous short wrap that fluttered about her buttocks and thighs in the ocean breeze, leaving only slightly more than nothing to the imagination. Despite the fact that Serena Westford was no longer a schoolgirl, she was one of the minuscule percentage of the population who actually looked good in a thong bikini.
Mariah let herself hate her friend—but only for a fraction of a second. So what if Mariah was destined never to wear a similarly styled bathing suit? So what if Mariah was the exact physical opposite of petite, slender, golden Serena? So what if Mariah was just over six feet tall, broad shouldered, large breasted and athletically built? So what if her hair was an unremarkable shade of brown curls, always messy and impossible to control? So what if her eyes were brown? Light brown, not that dark-as-midnight intriguing shade of brown, or cat green like Serena’s.
Mariah was willing to bet that behind Serena Westford’s cool, confident facade, there lurked a woman with a thousand screaming anxieties. She probably worked out two hours each day to maintain her youthful figure. She probably spent an equal amount of time on her hair and makeup. She was probably consumed with worries and stress, poor thing.
“I just came down here to violate the photographic rights of these unsuspecting beachgoers,” Mariah told her friend, unable to hide a smile.
The two women had first met when Mariah took Serena’s picture here on the resort beach. Serena had been less than happy about that and had demanded Mariah hand over the undeveloped film then and there. What could have been an antagonistic and adversarial relationship quickly changed to one of mutual respect as Serena explained that while in the peace corps, she’d