The Third Victim Read Free Page A

each other. Her lips stirred again, this time mischievously. “I have to go to the bathroom. Don’t go ’way.” She pressed the tip of his nose with a slim, playful forefinger, then slid out of bed. He watched her walk to the bathroom, naked. She moved with a deft, self-sufficient grace, as a model might move crossing in front of the camera. She was compactly made. Her torso tapered to firm, flaring flanks. Her thighs were robustly rounded; her calves thinned down to elegant ankles. Her figure could have come from sturdy peasant stock, refined by later decades of privilege. Her long, shining hair fell almost to the small of her back. She carried her head high, neck arched, chin lifted. It was a confident, almost disdainful pose. Cathy’s ego was completely intact, unassailed.
    A folded newspaper was sailing in slow motion over the redwood fence, plopping onto the bricks. It was the Bulletin, late. He flipped back the bedcovers, slipped into his shorts, got the paper. As he propped himself against the padded plastic headboard, thumping at the pillows, he heard the bathroom door open, heard the rustle of her footsteps.
    “Tarot’s at it again,” he said, pointing to the headline. He watched her come toward him. Her breasts were small, curved close to her torso. Cathy would never sag. She swung her legs together as she slid back into bed. It was almost a dancer’s turn: expressive, economical, effortless.
    “Has he killed someone else?” She was close beside him, their shoulders in intimate contact. Aroused, he felt his genitals stir.
    “No. Not yet. He’s warming up to it, apparently.”
    “He means it, too,” she said softly. “This is what he did last time: wrote that he was going to do it, then wrote that he did it.”
    “That’s how he gets his kicks.”
    “The publicity, you mean?”
    “That’s part of it, probably.”
    “Did he warn both the other two women—the last two?”
    “No. Just the second one.” He quickly scanned the news story. “The first one he apparently murdered before he wrote to the Bulletin. The second time, though, he wrote before he did it. Just like he’s doing now. Jesus—” He shook his head. “He’s way out. Way, way out.”
    “I wonder if he rapes them first.”
    “They’ve never said. The papers, I mean.”
    “Are you sure?”
    He shrugged. “Pretty sure.”
    She smiled again, moving closer. Now her thigh was touching his. Her voice became huskier: “You’re a real Tarot fan.”
    He finished the story, folded the paper neatly, and dropped it on the floor beside the bed. As he did, he glanced again at the bedside clock. The time was almost twenty to nine.
    At twenty to nine, Joanna would already have dropped off Josh at nursery school. She would be on the freeway, heading back downtown. In twenty minutes, she’d be at her job. As he’d turned to the back pages of the Bulletin, following the Tarot story, he’d noticed a half-page Gorlick’s ad: a living-room group featuring “the carved-oak look.” The drawing had been excellent. In a year on the job, Joanna had learned a lot.
    “You’re off again, Kevin.” Cathy’s voice was very low. He felt her breath warm on his cheek. “You’re somewhere else.”
    Still turned half away, he decided to smile. “Everyone’s somewhere else, some of the time.”
    “But not most of the time.”
    He allowed the smile to fade. Cathy had a strong sense of her possessions. Had she ever been a loser?
    “What shall we do today?” She was touching his foot with hers. Now her foot was beginning a slow, sinuous upward tracery. “Why don’t we rent a sailboat? Do you have to go to work?”
    He shook his head. “No. But today’s the day that producer’s supposed to be in town. Dick Wagner. He promised to call me this morning.”
    “At this number?”
    “Yes.” It was, he realized, a half-reluctant response.
    “Maybe we can go sailing after you talk to him.” Her fingers were resting lightly on his stomach,