LOVE DIES by Tim Sheard - $15.00
"LOVE DIES by Timothy Sheard is a compelling and devious crime novel. Fast-paced and disturbingly plausible. Highly recommended." --Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of THE KING OF PLAGUES"
READ THE FIRST CHAPTER
ONE
A woman attains her greatest beauty in death.
He entertained this simple truth as the light came on in the bedroom window. Six A.M. Right on time. A slim figure moved behind the sheer curtain. Moments later the frosted bathroom window brightened.
And aren’t punctual people the easiest to kill? Another simple truth.
Pulling down the car visor, he checked his face. Saw the cocoa-colored makeup had smudged along his cheek, revealing white skin beneath. He applied a dab of foundation to the spot and blended it with the rest, then checked the black wig with the dreads.
Perfect.
He sipped a cold cup of coffee as he watched her figure move across the bathroom window. She was pinning up her hair; spritzing her throat with a bit of perfume.
When the bathroom light winked out, he patted his jacket pocket, checking for the vial of liquid soap. She would finish dressing, walk to the living room for her jacket and hat, then make a final check: office keys, cell phone, lipstick and powder. No breakfast for this babe, she was all about work and keeping those aristocratic cheekbones prominent. Show off the legs and a little cleavage; give the clients the promise of a little heaven.
He stepped out of the car, mailing envelope in hand. His brown UPS shirt was embroidered with the name “Henry.” His pants were crisply ironed, his shoes glossy black. “I’m a credit to the company,” he told himself, dodging traffic as he crossed East 23rd Street.
He approached the building entrance, looking for a resident on the way out. The spinster with the little fluff-ball dog was usually an early riser. So were the Wall Street guy in pinstripes and the nurse in scrubs. This was the only part of the plan left to chance. If he failed to gain access before she left her apartment, he would have to wait for another day. No problem; patience was the mother’s milk of success.
The briefcase guy in the pinstriped suit strode through the lobby toward the entrance. Holding the door open, briefcase said, “Here you go. Unless it’s for me.”
In a vaguely Caribbean accent he asked, “You mistah Schermerhorn?” A name not listed in the lobby.
“No, Fallon. Oh, well, have a nice day.”
“You, too, Mon.”
He stepped into the lobby, saw that the night porter was nowhere in sight and the doorman hadn’t come in yet. The pinstriper would be a witness, but so what? Nobody was going to investigate. And even if someone did nose around, they’d look for a black UPS guy from the Islands.
He opened the door to the stairs and climbed, taking the steps two at a time. Midway between the third and fourth floor landings he removed a spool of twenty pound monofilament fishing line and tied the line between the posts supporting the railings.
He exited on the fourth floor landing, pulled a cardboard sign from the mailing envelope and taped it to the elevator door. The sign read, “OUT OF ORDER.”
Loitering at the end of the hall, he heard the lock on her door turn. As he moved slowly from apartment to apartment scrutinizing the numbers, he listened to her heels click on the marble floor. The clicking stopped in front of the elevator.
“Oh shit,” the woman said in a shrill voice. “They damn well better have it fixed by tonight or the board will hear from me!”
He was now doubly happy that she was the target.
At the sound of the stairwell door opening, he hurried back to the elevator and snatched the sign, then hurried after her. The heavy stairwell door, fireproof and soundproof, closed just as her scream pierced the silence of the stairs.
He found her crumpled on the third floor landing. One shoe had flown off and skittered onto the stairs. Cutting the fishing line and pocketing it, he stepped down to where she was lying, lifted her head in his large rough hands, and with a fierce motion slammed the head onto the concrete floor, generating a fearsome crack!
He put his ear to her open mouth and listened. No breath whispered to him.
He felt at her neck for a pulse. There was none.
Letting his fingers glide lightly over her still breast, he felt a powerful urge to rip open her clothes and take her there in the dark stairwell. He had never before felt so aroused. But he knew some early riser might come trotting down the stairs at any minute. Besides, only a fool left his DNA on a corpse.
He smeared liquid laundry soap on the sole of the errant shoe and dribbled more on several steps, then took up the package and moved silently down the stairs to the street. He drove south to 14th Street, turned east and picked up the southbound FDR Drive. As the pink tongue of the morning licked the gray Manhattan skyline, he went over the kill in his mind, savoring every moment. She was so sexy. So utterly beautiful. And so dead.
A woman attains her greatest beauty in death.
He entertained this simple truth as the light came on in the bedroom window. Six A.M. Right on time. A slim figure moved behind the sheer curtain. Moments later the frosted bathroom window brightened.
And aren’t punctual people the easiest to kill? Another simple truth.
Pulling down the car visor, he checked his face. Saw the cocoa-colored makeup had smudged along his cheek, revealing white skin beneath. He applied a dab of foundation to the spot and blended it with the rest, then checked the black wig with the dreads.
Perfect.
He sipped a cold cup of coffee as he watched her figure move across the bathroom window. She was pinning up her hair; spritzing her throat with a bit of perfume.
When the bathroom light winked out, he patted his jacket pocket, checking for the vial of liquid soap. She would finish dressing, walk to the living room for her jacket and hat, then make a final check: office keys, cell phone, lipstick and powder. No breakfast for this babe, she was all about work and keeping those aristocratic cheekbones prominent. Show off the legs and a little cleavage; give the clients the promise of a little heaven.
He stepped out of the car, mailing envelope in hand. His brown UPS shirt was embroidered with the name “Henry.” His pants were crisply ironed, his shoes glossy black. “I’m a credit to the company,” he told himself, dodging traffic as he crossed East 23rd Street.
He approached the building entrance, looking for a resident on the way out. The spinster with the little fluff-ball dog was usually an early riser. So were the Wall Street guy in pinstripes and the nurse in scrubs. This was the only part of the plan left to chance. If he failed to gain access before she left her apartment, he would have to wait for another day. No problem; patience was the mother’s milk of success.
The briefcase guy in the pinstriped suit strode through the lobby toward the entrance. Holding the door open, briefcase said, “Here you go. Unless it’s for me.”
In a vaguely Caribbean accent he asked, “You mistah Schermerhorn?” A name not listed in the lobby.
“No, Fallon. Oh, well, have a nice day.”
“You, too, Mon.”
He stepped into the lobby, saw that the night porter was nowhere in sight and the doorman hadn’t come in yet. The pinstriper would be a witness, but so what? Nobody was going to investigate. And even if someone did nose around, they’d look for a black UPS guy from the Islands.
He opened the door to the stairs and climbed, taking the steps two at a time. Midway between the third and fourth floor landings he removed a spool of twenty pound monofilament fishing line and tied the line between the posts supporting the railings.
He exited on the fourth floor landing, pulled a cardboard sign from the mailing envelope and taped it to the elevator door. The sign read, “OUT OF ORDER.”
Loitering at the end of the hall, he heard the lock on her door turn. As he moved slowly from apartment to apartment scrutinizing the numbers, he listened to her heels click on the marble floor. The clicking stopped in front of the elevator.
“Oh shit,” the woman said in a shrill voice. “They damn well better have it fixed by tonight or the board will hear from me!”
He was now doubly happy that she was the target.
At the sound of the stairwell door opening, he hurried back to the elevator and snatched the sign, then hurried after her. The heavy stairwell door, fireproof and soundproof, closed just as her scream pierced the silence of the stairs.
He found her crumpled on the third floor landing. One shoe had flown off and skittered onto the stairs. Cutting the fishing line and pocketing it, he stepped down to where she was lying, lifted her head in his large rough hands, and with a fierce motion slammed the head onto the concrete floor, generating a fearsome crack!
He put his ear to her open mouth and listened. No breath whispered to him.
He felt at her neck for a pulse. There was none.
Letting his fingers glide lightly over her still breast, he felt a powerful urge to rip open her clothes and take her there in the dark stairwell. He had never before felt so aroused. But he knew some early riser might come trotting down the stairs at any minute. Besides, only a fool left his DNA on a corpse.
He smeared liquid laundry soap on the sole of the errant shoe and dribbled more on several steps, then took up the package and moved silently down the stairs to the street. He drove south to 14th Street, turned east and picked up the southbound FDR Drive. As the pink tongue of the morning licked the gray Manhattan skyline, he went over the kill in his mind, savoring every moment. She was so sexy. So utterly beautiful. And so dead.