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  For my parents, who were always there for me.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Epilogue

  Also by Elizabeth Adler

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  This will not be the first time I have killed, though I am not one of those roaming, spur-of-the-moment serial killers. I am discreet, careful, choosy in fact, about whom I want to kill, and why.

  I am not an evil person; on the contrary I believe I am, if not good, then certainly kind. I am kind to animals unless they aggravate me, pleasant with babies because they are not worth the bother of aggravation, and I know how to use charm well enough to fool most people.

  “Murder?” you might be asking. Am I talking casually, seriously, about murder? That is not the way I would put it. There is a reason I choose who should depart this life and it is always a logical one. Now I have picked out the next.

  Rose Osborne is not dead yet, but she is going to die. And soon. Later, I will tell you exactly why.

  How can I not be evil, talking so easily about killing someone? Believe me, I am as normal as you who are judging me.

  You will never know me, never meet me. Not for me the long, fantasy sexual bites of the vampire. If you want blood then the femoral artery at the junction of the thigh and the crotch cuts easily while at the same time giving access to the most intriguing and secret parts of the anatomy.

  The knife is my favorite method. I have used it more than once, though sometimes other, more fitting methods work better, as you will see later.

  So, be aware I am among you. I am the one who always helps out at the animal shelter, at the scenes of disaster, with the old people … that’s how “normal” I am. And why you, like Rose, will always be the last to know.

  1

  EVENING LAKE, Massachusetts, 3 A.M.

  Harry Jordan’s wooden vacation house was certainly the smallest, as well as one of the oldest, on Evening Lake, a resort where nothing bad, like murder, ever happened, but which in recent years had become a little too smart for Harry’s style: too cocktail-partyish; too many lonely blond wives with hungry eyes; too many miniature dogs peeking out of Range Rover windows. Mind you Harry’s own car, a classic ’69 souped-up E-type, British racing green with tan leather seats, was certainly a head-turner, but then Harry owned that car because he loved it with a passion, not for show. And the dog usually to be seen gazing from its windows was a large silver-gray malamute-mix that looked remarkably like a wolf, but with astonishingly pale blue eyes.

  The dog’s name was Squeeze and it went everywhere with Harry. Which, since Harry was a homicide detective on the Boston squad, meant that Squeeze had seen a cross section of hard life on the streets as well as the plusher environment of Harry’s own Beacon Hill apartment. Not only did Squeeze know that the best place to eat in town was Ruby’s Diner near the precinct, he also knew the locations of the best bars. Squeeze had it pretty good and so, Harry had thought, did he, until last week when the woman he was going to marry left him and went to Paris instead. Which was the reason he was here at Evening Lake. Alone. But for the dog.

  Squeeze was Harry’s alarm clock. At five thirty every morning, even on Harry’s infrequent days off, it waited, eyes fixed on the flickering green digital display of the clock, zapping it with a fast paw at the first ring. Usually all that happened was that Harry would roll over onto his back. After another couple of minutes the dog would leap onto the bed and lay its massive head on Harry’s chest, staring fixedly at him. Another couple of minutes and Harry would groan under the dog’s weight, open his eyes and stare straight into the dog’s. It would not move and Harry had no option but to get up. That was their morning routine. The difference now was that it was not yet morning.

  It was 3 A.M., the darkest hour of the night. And they were on vacation at the lake. So what, Harry wondered, was up with Squeeze anyway. He always left the door leading to the porch open so the dog could push in and out as needed. Something must be wrong.

  He sat up and looked at the dog, standing by the door, taut as a hot-wired spring, staring intently back at him. Knowing he had no choice he got out of bed and went in search of his pants.

  At forty Harry looked pretty good, six-two, muscular despite a lack of serious exercise and his erratic diet of junk food eaten on the run. There were a few furrows on his brow now and his dark hair was beginning to recede a bit at the temples and somehow never looked as though it had been combed, and maybe it hadn’t if he was in a hurry, which he mostly was; his level gray eyes under bushy brows seemed to notice everything about you in one sweeping glance and he never seemed to have time for a decent shave, so sometimes he had a rough beard. Stubble became him. At least that’s what women thought. They found him attractive. His colleagues did not agree. They called him “the Prof” because of his Harvard Law degree, earned the hard and, for Harry, bitterly boring way. He’d given it up years ago and become a rookie in the police department instead. The reason he’d used was that he didn’t want to waste his time getting criminals off on legal technicalities for large fees; he would rather be out on the streets catching them.

  Harry had worked his way up from patrol cars to senior detective. And he was good at what he did.

  What very few of his colleagues knew about Harry—because to him it was not important, and besides it was nobody’s business—was that at the age of thirty he’d inherited a trust fund set up by his grandfather that made him rich. At least, rich enough to buy the brownstone on Boston’s Beacon Hill, which he’d converted into apartments. He rented out the three top floors but kept the apartment on the garden floor for himself. He redid this to his own specifications, walled in the garden, and later bought himself a pup. The malamute.

  Harry’s fiancée had not enjoyed sharing her man with a very large, ver
y present dog. She objected when Squeeze jumped first into the Jag and sat shotgun next to Harry, while she was expected to struggle into the small space in the back that almost could be called a seat. She also had not liked Harry’s hours, especially the nocturnal ones. “You never take me out to dinner anymore,” she’d complained, though she did like it when Harry cooked.

  For a man who existed on food eaten on the run Harry happened to be a very good cook, though only old-fashioned things like pasta Alfredo, scampi Livornese, spaghetti Bolognese—all recipes taken directly from his rare and treasured copy of the Vincent Price cookbook with its menus and recipes from some of the great restaurants of the world, circa 1970. Exactly Harry’s era, taste-wise. Forget today’s avant-garde chefs and what Harry called tortured food: he liked it simple and, if he was lucky, good. If not then a burger was just fine.

  He was fussy about his wine though. Harry enjoyed a good Claret. He never called good red wine “Cabernet,” nor did he trust “Chardonnay”—he preferred a Graves or white Bordeaux.

  Anyhow, Harry thought now, swinging his legs out of bed and gazing out the window at Evening Lake, glimmering blackly on this moonless night; anyhow, the fiancée whom he’d loved dearly, Mallory Malone, the girl of his dreams, had had enough. Paris, she had told him, would be more fun than another night alone in Boston waiting for the phone to ring or sharing more takeout fried chicken and a bottle of his good red. “I can share a bottle of good Bordeaux with anyone I like in Paris,” she’d added.

  Harry had seen the tears in Mal’s eyes as she walked out the door for the last time, not slamming it, though he guessed she had every right to. He had not gone after her. It would not have worked; he knew it, and she knew it. Not the way things were, with him dedicated to his work. While she had given up her own successful special investigations TV show, which looked further into unsolved crimes of the past, for him.

  He’d called his best buddy and colleague, Carlo Rossetti, broken the news, and for the first time in his police career said that he needed to take time off. He needed a break. He wanted time out from stabbings and shootings and killings on the streets. He needed to rethink his life. He needed to be alone and the old gray wooden fishing shack on the lake that had been his grandfather’s was just the place.

  It consisted of two sparsely furnished rooms, a corner kitchen with a hot plate and a microwave, a white-tiled shower that needed regrouting—a job Harry promised himself to do while he was there—a porch with an old three-legged orange Weber barbecue with a lift-up lid and several years’ worth of burned-on grease. There was a narrow wooden jetty and a small rowboat with a little outboard motor. Powerboats were not allowed on the lake, only sails and boats like Harry’s. A copse of birch trees, trunks gleaming silvery in the night, protected him from the sandy road that led around the lake, giving him privacy, though he did have an excellent view of nearby houses, much larger and grander than his own, and also of those on the other side of the lake, the largest of which was owned by a flashy blonde with a daughter who looked about eighteen, though when Harry glimpsed them in the mini-market, he thought that with her pale straight hair and elusive blue gaze, she might be closer to thirteen. It occurred to him looking across the lake now, that it was odd, with such a big house, so little entertaining was done. Unlike with the rest of the summer people there were no cocktail parties, no barbecue nights, no boozy laughter. And apparently no friends for the young daughter. Quite different from the Osborne family who lived a couple of houses away. He’d encountered Rose Osborne on his early morning walks. She too, seemed always to be alone. They’d exchanged morning pleasantries. She’d said please come by, they kept open house, but Harry never had. He found Rose attractive: a sumptuous-looking woman, round and full and … welcoming … was the best word he could use to describe her, with her wildly curling long hair, often pulled in a messy ponytail, her intense brown eyes, her long legs and—of course he had noticed—her slender ankles. She always seemed last-minute thrown-together in a sweatshirt, capris, and sneakers, and sometimes she was on her bike: “Getting my morning exercise in,” she’d call cheerfully in passing, throwing him a smile that, lonely man that he was now, Harry really appreciated. Still, maybe because he was attracted to her he had never taken Rose up on her offer, never gone by for that cup of coffee or that evening drink. He respected marriage and married women were not his style. Besides, he was still a man in love. With Mallory Malone. Or at least he thought he was. Thought maybe she was too, in love with him. Maybe a little bit.

  Every now and then, though, he would see other members of the Osborne family dashing in and out, a remote-looking college-age son, who gave off “keep away from me” vibes that spelled a problem to Harry; a couple of fluffy teenage girls; and a boy, elevenish, small, skinny, ginger-haired and, unlike the rest of that busy household, always alone. Harry noticed things like that and it made him wonder why the kid was always alone. He also noticed that the boy would hide up in the fig tree where a branch led, he guessed, to his bedroom window. So the kid sat up there and spied on his family and the rest of the world. He would probably make a good detective.

  And then there was the husband, Wally Osborne. The famous writer. Wally wrote scary novels that could make the hair stand up on the back of your neck and which were made into films that made you want to shout out loud, “Look behind you, the killer’s there!”

  You might expect a writer of evil books to look evil, or at least a bit mad. Wally Osborne looked neither. He was tall, lean, and handsome with permanently tousled blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a light summer tan which, Harry knew, must send the local women into raptures. He thought Rose Osborne probably had a hard time keeping tabs on a husband like that. But that was none of his business.

  Anyway, he was at Evening Lake, it was three in the morning, and he was climbing into the sweatpants he wore to the gym and a soft dark blue sweater, a present from his ex, thrusting his feet into sneakers, grumbling as he laced them up, glancing at the dog, still expectantly waiting.

  “So, okay, let’s see what’s up, Squeeze,” he said resignedly. He wasn’t sure what it might be but the dog surely knew something, and since he was still a cop, even though he was thinking about quitting, Harry needed to investigate.

  2

  The Osborne house nearby Harry’s sat squarely on the edge of Evening Lake. “Sat” rather than “perched” because this was a solid house, built to last, ninety years before by a generation that respected solid workmanship and the art of a true craftsman.

  It still sat, rather than perched, all these much-lived-in generations later, a white clapboard structure, raised on stilts at the waterfront with a veranda, or “porch” as it was always to be called, running the length of it lakeside, and a jetty where variations of small boats were moored. Omar Osborne was one of the first settlers and certainly one who voted for the irrevocable rule that no motorboats be allowed. Evening Lake would remain unpolluted, he hoped, for his descendants.

  New houses now edged the lake, some of them Gatsbyish in their size, but local laws kept them to “simple” splendor, and many of the first old shacks were still there, the brown wood faded to a silvery gray, a reminder of times past though still lived in and enjoyed.

  The house was traditional. A row of French doors opened onto the porch, fronting a spacious light-flooded room with oversized “lived-in” sofas covered in nut-brown heavy linen, and comfy chairs with rarely plumped-up cushions, covered in cream brocade, obviously brought from some other house to join the mix-and-match melée, because this house had never felt the hands of a “decorator.”

  “It all simply came together, the way it should,” was what Rose Osborne told her visitors, apologizing for the trek up the wide creaking wooden staircase—she never knew when asked whether it was oak or chestnut, and was always surprised by the question because she was too worried about guests having to march up three floors to their rooms.

  The main guest room was on the second floor and had gables ju
tting like eyebrows over the short windows. Rose’s favorite color was turquoise, and she’d had the gables painted that cheerful color, though now because they weren’t too keen on having the upset caused by repainting every three years they had faded to what Rose called her “passionate blue.”

  “Why ‘passionate’?” guests would ask and be rewarded with a smile and Rose’s answer that many people had asked her that, but it was her secret. Hers and her husband, Wally’s. She had never even told her three children what it meant. Which, in fact, was that it was exactly the color of the pure silk nightgown her husband had surprised her with on their honeymoon, bought in some outrageously expensive boutique and which they certainly could not afford, but that he’d said he’d just known would look wonderful on her and that he wanted to make love to her wearing it.

  So he had. They had. And the nightgown was still there, wrapped in special tissue to preserve the silk, in the second left-hand drawer of her vanity, under lock and key. A memory preserved. Occasionally, dreaming of the past, Rose would unlock the drawer, take out the package, carefully unwrap the tissue, and look at the most beautiful garment she had ever owned. Its pale champagne lace trim was as delicate as ever, its blue as turquoise as the Mediterranean on a summer evening when that coast turned luminous in the fading light.

  In back of the house a forest of birch mounted the hill, silver at dawn and evening, blank and peeling in the full light of day. Atop the hill, brambles tangled at a walker’s feet, thorns scratched childish hands seeking blackberries, and old wells, dry now but once the area’s only source of fresh water, crumbled, away from the main paths with warnings posted to “take care.”

  The small town of Evening Lake, only a village really, lay two miles down the sandy road that led behind the house, which had a sharp gravelly turnoff that you had to watch out for or you would miss it. There was a lean-to on the left where cars could park, and a would-be vegetable garden struggled on the right where tender Boston lettuces pushed through the sandy earth and radishes grew to giant size and where, if left un-netted, birds or animals ate all the tiny sweet tomatoes that here were more true to their fruity origin than mere salad fixings.