The Grave Artist Excerpt
Chapter 1
Saturday, June 20
The man cast his dark eyes approvingly over the bride’s white satin dress.
He thought of it as a blank canvas soon to be painted—with the vermilion hue of blood.
In his thirties and handsome in an action hero sort of way, Damon Garr stood on the back lawn of the Hollywood Crest Inn, facing the 1930s stucco structure, as he studied the newlyweds bidding farewell to the guests at their reception.
The Brock party . . .
The time was close to midnight. The musicians were stowing their instruments after playing the tired repertoire of canned romantic tunes for the five hundredth time this season. And the month was only June. Servers and bus people clattered away the dessert and coffee china.
Concealed by the sumptuous California foliage that blossomed over the property, Damon looked past the waning celebration and watched.
And waited.
His patience finally was rewarded when the couple retreated to a bench in a large, landscaped garden behind the inn to steal some time alone. The brunette bride, around thirty, was a bit older than the blond groom. She appeared slightly tipsy, throwing her head back and laughing too loud at something her brand-new husband said. He himself was not the picture of sobriety either.
But weddings were made for indulgence, were they not?
Damon was dressed for the occasion—dark Italian suit, white shirt, burgundy tie—with perfectly barbered hair and a pear-skin smooth shave.
Inconspicuous, as always, when creating his Tableaux.
No one would have paid him any mind. He seemed like any other guest at the Brock reception, one of the three happening at the venue, which offered unreal views of Los Angeles, far below its perch in the Hollywood Hills. Still, he remained hidden in the vegetation—out of the couple’s sight and, just as important, out of security camera view—and edged close enough to overhear the groom offer to get them each another drink. His bride laughed again, saying she’d already had too much, but he waved away the insincere protest and rose, promising to return shortly with brandies.
Anticipation quickened Damon’s pulse. He’d spent two hours hidden behind plantings, listening to bad music and worse toasts, waiting for an opportunity like this.
Now . . .
He slipped a pair of blue latex gloves from a plastic bag in his back pocket. Snapping them on, he checked the distance between the bench and the bar, calculating how long it would take the groom to reach his destination, via a flagstone path overlooking a large koi pond thirty feet below.
The couple would be separated less than five minutes.
Time to act.
Damon picked up what he’d spotted earlier: a landscaping stone roughly the size of a small cantaloupe. Remaining behind the trees, he swiftly closed the distance to the waiting bride, noting the moonlight glinting off her dark hair. She looked ephemeral, a vision in white.
He clutched the rock tighter.
And walked past her.
The groom’s black tuxedo was hard to see when he moved into the shadows, but his steps were unhurried, and Damon had no trouble catching up to him.
This was the tricky part. Timing, as they say, was everything. Damon darted a glance around the area. No sign of anyone.
He sped up, raised the rock high and brought it down in a sweeping arc onto the top of the groom’s head.
A satisfying snap told him the skull had cracked. The groom crumpled to the ground.
Time for stage two.
After tossing the stone into the koi pond, he squatted to rifle through the unconscious groom’s clothing, found his cell phone and pocketed it.
Still hunkered down, he grasped the groom’s left hand to pull his arm around Damon’s own shoulders. Next, he wrapped his right arm around the groom’s waist and hoisted his limp body upright. Damon trudged with his burden to the iron-pipe railing separating the path from the cliff over the pond. Had he been spotted, it would appear that he was simply helping a drunken reveler too unsteady on his feet to walk.
But another quick look around assured him that there were no witnesses.
He heaved the groom over the guardrail. A moment later, he heard a thud, then a splash. Damon moved to the edge and peered over the precipice. In the moon’s glow, he made out a figure sprawled in the shallow water among the jagged stones.
Luckily the body had landed face down. If the blow and the fall hadn’t killed him, he would soon drown. No extra effort needed on Damon’s part.
Now for the final phase.
He pulled the man’s cell phone from his pocket and checked to see if he’d use plan A or plan B. If it was a model that let you open the camera app without unlocking the unit, he’d take several pictures of the beautiful view, then hit the button to swap lenses, so that it was on selfie mode. If it was locked, he’d leave the phone near the cliff, as if the groom had dropped it and fallen while trying to retrieve it for the selfie.
This was part of the thrill for him. The challenge of planning what he could, but relying on sheer cunning to adapt to unexpected circumstances. He felt it was this skill, constantly honed, that made him successful.
He tapped the screen, which allowed him to access the camera. Plan A then. He got four good pictures, reversed lenses, then tossed the phone over the side. He didn’t throw it hard, making sure it landed on the rocks, not in the water.
Slipping the gloves away, Damon strolled back toward the hotel with unhurried steps.
He didn’t have to wait long—ten minutes—for the sounds of shouting, the pounding of footsteps and the wail of a siren. He joined the throng on the lower-level garden, where the koi pond was located. A shiver of pleasure ran through him when he witnessed the expressions of horror as onlookers watched rescue workers hurry to the body. Within minutes, their urgent movements became methodical. There was no need to rush.
He eavesdropped on two police officers talking nearby. They concluded that the groom had wanted to take a selfie near the edge of the cliff with the moon over the city. The guy clearly had too much to drink and leaned back too far against the guardrail. Such a shame.
Damon stayed long enough to watch the bride, now widow, push past the workers, drop to her knees and embrace the body, blood staining the front of the satin gown precisely as he’d imagined earlier.
Exhilarated, he walked to the parking lot to collect his car, tucked away in a spot not covered by security cameras.
Damon Garr was pleased. If there was any phrase to describe the evening, he decided, it was this: a good start.
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Read more of The Grave Artist when it is released in September.
