A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(25)

"Yes, she works for Humboldt Realty in Dana Point," Art said.

"You see, Mike, you'd be doing a good service if you let Art in on the details. Now that they've found a third body, there's no doubt is there? It must be the Texas killer, right?"

"What are you talking about?" Art hadn't heard anything about a third body.

"It was on the news this morning, didn't you see it?" Amy's face was solemn, but her eyes sparkled with excitement. "They found another dead agent in a house in Newport Beach."

Art wondered if Gwen knew about the killing but hadn't told him because she was afraid he'd get back on the anti-work bandwagon.

"The poor woman was stabbed to death in a theater," Amy said.

"I thought you said—" Art started to say, but she cut him off.

"It was one of those Newport mansions with a gym and library and theater. This guy likes high priced real estate. First, that Laguna Beach house, then San Clemente, now Newport. If I were an agent, I wouldn't show any beachfront properties that's for sure."

Art was glad the police had kept Gwen and Maricela's names out of the papers. Very few people knew they had been the ones to find the first victim. Letting Amy in on that tidbit of information would be tantamount to announcing it through a bullhorn at the next school basketball game. Gwen wouldn't have a moment's peace. Bored women with too much time on their hands, like Amy, would be pumping her for information every chance they got.

Mike moved away from the couch toward the lobby. Amy and Art drifted with him. He lowered his voice. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, the women weren't raped. At first, the police thought they had been because their clothing was missing, but the coroner says, no rape."

"They were naked?" Amy's voice carried in the stone-tile lobby. Several people turned to look at her.

Mike took her arm and steered her toward the hospital exit. Art followed. He wanted to hear more. "Yes, and their clothing was removed from the scene," Mike said.

The three stepped outside into an arid gale. A hot wind whistled through the corridor between the hospital's wings. Mike loosened his tie. "And that's all she wrote. Don't know anymore."

"But—" Amy said.

"Thanks for coming, Amy," Mike said.

"Why would the killer take their clothing?" Amy's eyes were wide.

"Who knows? The guy's a psycho." Mike bent and deposited another kiss on her cheek. "Great to see you, Amy. Really."

"I'm sorrier than I can say, Mike. Let me know what I can do. I want to help." Art held out his hand. The older man shook it, turned and walked inside.

Mike was clever. It was pretty smooth the way he got rid of the problem in the room. Must be a talent leftover from his law enforcement days. He'd lured Amy outside with the bait of information, and now she stood staring at the hospital doors like a cow at a new gate.

Art wanted to talk more with Olivia, but after a handshake from a family member it seemed inappropriate. Frustrated, he leaned into the wind and pushed toward his car.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Gwen followed her GPS instructions through the winding hills of Dana Point. A few agents from the office were touring homes that had been recently listed by other brokerages, and she decided to go along.

She parked across the street from the first property. An offshore breeze caught her hair and whisked it into her face. The Santa Ana wind wasn't quite as hot and miserable here as it was farther inland. It was tempered by a hint of humidity from the sea.

Lance pulled up behind her. Damn. She hadn't wanted to see him today. She'd talked to Fiona yesterday, and she was ready to list the Laguna Beach house again.

As soon as the police released the property, Fiona hired a trauma scene cleaning company. They'd whisked and scrubbed away all but the memory of the crime, so there was no reason not to put it on the market. But Gwen was dragging her feet. Returning to the sight of the murder wasn't an attractive prospect, and she hadn't made up her mind whether she wanted Lance involved or not.

On the one hand, it would be great to have help from someone with expertise in construction. Fiona's budget for repairs wasn't big. She didn't want to borrow against the house and be stuck making payments for months if it took a while to sell. On the other hand, Gwen wasn't sure she trusted Lance, and there was always the commission. One and a half percent of ten million dollars was a lot of money to give away. Then again, if she couldn't move the property, she wouldn't get anything at all.

"Gwen." Lance trotted to catch up with her.

She was saved from having to respond by John Gordon who stuck his head out the front door. "Leave this open when you come in, okay? The place stinks."

And stink it did. The home was mid-sized, about 2,200 square feet, and every inch of it oozed cigarette smoke. On the walls were pale patches surrounded by nauseating brown stains where pictures had been removed. Every room was covered in a different hue of old, corroded carpeting. It had been pulled back in one of the bedrooms to reveal an army of mold spores marching across the concrete beneath.

"Some people are pigs," Lance said walking up behind Gwen as she made notes on the guest bathroom.

"Hm..." She grunted.

"I listed a house in Nellie Gail last week. I could probably get two million for it if it were in decent shape, but the owners lived like hillbillies. I'm not kidding. I don't think anyone's taken the trash to the curb in a month. They’re calling the pile a 'compost heap'. Crazy."