Baddest Bad Boys(19)

She didn’t have a plan yet, but that didn’t worry her. She had William himself, inside her head. Way better than a plan.

It hadn’t taken long to prepare. Her suitcase was full of designer clothes, by necessity high-necked and long-sleeved to cover William’s body art. She drove one of the vans, in case she had a chance to use the surveillance equipment, which she could install like a professional.

And behind the driver’s seat was the special case: the ebony chest filled with implements that they had used for their liberation rituals.

Julia had always had the honor of cleaning and polishing each blade, scissor, drill, hook, pincer and pick to a glowing sheen, lovingly laying each one in its nest of blood red velvet when they were done.

On the seat next to her was the final detail, tucked into a box she had carved herself out of styrofoam. The last of her most recent clutch of robin’s eggs. Delicate and beautiful. She pictured putting it into the slack, bloodied mouth of Amendola’s woman. A knife to his gut. Yes.

She got out, and walked up the cracked sidewalk like she had every right to be there. Fortunately, the door was not parallel to the street, but to the side, facing the other half of the duplex, and shielded by a shaggy, overgrown rhododendron. That slob Amendola was clearly not a talented gardener or landscape artist.

Minutes later, the lock snicked open to her skillful picking. Julia braced herself for the squeal of a burglar alarm. There was none.

As she pushed the door open and entered the modest duplex, she understood why he didn’t bother. The place was dull and stark—a sand colored shag rug, a beige couch in front of a large screen plasma TV. Plain black-out shades. No pictures, posters, bookcases. The blandest lamps a person could find, if they were looking hard. Nothing personal. Nothing worth protecting, other than good quality electronic equipment. The bareness of the man’s home must reflect the emptiness of his soul.

Unfortunately, it also implied that there was no important woman in his life. No woman could live in a place so featureless.

The kitchen was likewise unremarkable. Unusually clean, for a man living alone, but that could just mean that he ate out, or had a cleaning service come in and wipe up his filthy messes. Cupboards revealed whiskies and bourbons. In the refrigerator were condiments and beer. So. He was a heavy drinker. Big surprise.

She went into the bathroom, searching for feminine products, and found only condoms. If he brought women here, he must throw them out before it occurred to them to need a toothbrush or a panty-liner. He probably bent them over the table, humped for a moment, and then speed dialed a car service to get them the hell out of his way when he came. Empathy clutched her throat for the women he’d maltreated.

Slimy, disgusting user. He should be put down. Like a rabid dog.

On the Internet, she’d found records of a brief marriage. She wondered if he’d beaten the woman. Probably raped and sodomized her.

His bedroom was plain. A king-sized bed, a silver gray corduroy duvet cover. His closet had an unremarkable assortment of shirts, suits and jackets. No designer brands. A handful of inexpensive, unattractive ties were snarled around a wire clothes hanger, abandoned and forgotten. So he was cheap, too.

William had worn only the best. Of course.

Two more bedrooms. One was a catch-all, with a weight lifting set in one corner, a scaffold piled with skiing and climbing equipment in the other. Finally she saw how he spent what money he made. She’d checked his pay grade. His monthly income was less than her monthly clothing budget. Unless he was on the take. Which was probable.

The other bedroom was a studio, with a huge desk, a filing cabinet and a laptop. Here she found a hinged frame boasting two five-by-seven photos. One showed Amendola with a good-looking man more or less his age, and a younger girl, in the mountains. The men were dressed in climbing gear, with sunburned laughing faces. The girl would have been pretty but for the bad glasses and the braces. The girl’s face was similar to the other man’s. His sister, maybe. Amendola’s arm was around her shoulder. Julia’s eyes lingered on that point of contact.

The other photograph was taken from a lakeside. The same two men in a boat. Amendola held up a large trout, looking absurdly pleased with himself. A spectacular view of a sunset pink Mt. Rainier was reflected in the lakewater.

Finally, a pinhole window into the man’s private life. She closed her eyes. Summoned William’s face. He smiled mysteriously. She took this to mean what it had always meant: the answers were before her and she had to use her own brain to ferret them out. William’s rigorous attitude comforted her, obscurely. Although they were on different planes, nothing had changed. William was still William.

Amendola’s computer was password protected. His filing cabinet had a dull assortment of tax records. She began sorting through the garbage on his desk. Bills, bank statements, junk mail.

And then, on the very bottom of the pile, she found it.

It was an envelope with a newspaper clipping, dated two years back. A local Olympia paper told the story of Jon Amendola and Daniel MacNamara, who had come upon an unfortunate climber on their way up the Disappointment Cleaver route to the summit of Mt. Rainier. The man had been trapped in a rockfall in Cathedral Gap. Amendola and MacNamara had gotten the injured man out and transported him to Camp Muir. A grainy photo verified that Amendola’s climbing partner was the same man in the other photos. A Post-It was stuck to the clipping, upon which was scrawled, You’re famous. Hope you’re not still undercover, because Robin’s laminated this sucker all over her dorm room door. It was signed simply “Danny.”