CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Charlie Warner parked his beaten up, 2008 Kia Sportage by the greenbelt and got out.

It was after six and the sun had completely set now, which was to his advantage. Even though he parked in this area all the time when he was walking dogs, he often still got suspicious, sometimes dirty looks from residents who didn't like how his dented vehicle sullied the neighborhood. But in the dark, no one noticed as much.

Parking by the greenbelt had another advantage. Because he wasn't stopping in front of any homes, no security cameras would pick up the car. The only thing they'd record was a guy wearing a cap pulled down low over his face and a windbreaker pulled up to his neck. He could be anybody. With that self-assurance in mind, he walked toward the house, the leash bulging in his jacket pocket.

This time would be different than all the others. With each of his previous victims, he'd gone to their homes. Chloe Henshall had been kind enough to let him in through the front door. At Sydney Ashe's, he'd inadvertently forgotten that their dog, Freddy, was at the vet's that day for surgery and came over, only to be scolded for his idiocy by Ashe.

Luckily, when he entered her house, blinded by rage, it was when the housekeeper was at the grocery store and the nanny had taken the kids to the park. He wasn't thinking about those details in the moment. But what he did remember, even in his agitated state, was the fact that the Ashes always left their backyard sliding door unlocked and that their side gate didn't close properly. And since Freddy wasn't around, there wasn't any barking to warn Sydney of his presence.

As for Erin Podemski, that was easy enough. After the unfortunate death of her sweet, furry guy, Max, she'd simply forgotten to request her house key back from him. Erin was his "get out of jail" free card if the cops ever looked into him. No one who was alive knew he had the key, and since he wasn't walking her dog anymore—hadn't been to her home in months—it would be hard to tie him to her death. Her new assistant didn't even know he existed.

That had made his questioning at LAPD's Central Station relatively painless. Charlie knew he was a personable guy, and he answered all of Detective Goodwin's questions in a straightforward manner. Admittedly, he was lying when he said he didn"t know Erin, and he gave bogus alibis for all the murders. But the fact that the detective let him walk out the door suggested that he wasn't at the top of their suspect list.

Of course, it wouldn't stay that way for long. Eventually, perhaps sometime soon, they would follow up and realize that his story didn't add up. That was why he had to act tonight and why this would be his last piece of retribution before he gave it up and left L.A. for good.

He had a plan, of sorts. Charlie was an avid hiker and camper who always kept his gear in the back of his car. After he completed this final task, he would head east, through the California desert toward Joshua Tree, picking up supplies along the way.

Once there, he would trek to one of the isolated caves he knew, where he'd never once seen another living soul. He'd hole up there, where he figured he could stay for a few weeks, maybe even a month if necessary. Eventually, he"d have to move on. Maybe he"d attempt to sneak into Mexico. Or perhaps he"d try to slip onto a cargo ship leaving from the Port of Los Angeles down in San Pedro. He hadn't figured out the details yet, but there would be lots of time for that later. Right now, he needed to focus on the job at hand.

And that job was teaching Margot Howell a lesson. As he walked toward the house where he knew he'd find her, he couldn't help but feel a little pride in how he"d gotten to this point. Earlier this afternoon, while at the home of a dog-walking client named Moses Capote, he'd called and, pretending to be Capote, asked for a personal showing of the mansion he was currently approaching.

Of course, he knew that Margot would leap at the opportunity. Moses Capote was a well-known manager to multiple music stars. His current Hollywood Hills home was a rental, since he'd only moved here from New York a couple of months ago. The idea that Margot could sell the guy a place with an asking price of $32 million likely blinded her to the risk of meeting with him alone after dark.

They scheduled the tour for 6:15. Warner knew the home was unoccupied, but the foyer light was on as he walked up the path to the front door. Like a good realtor, Margot was already there, prepping for his arrival. He pictured her shock when she opened the door to find him, and not Capote, staring back at her.

Margot Howell was perhaps the bitchiest client he'd ever dealt with, even worse than Sydney Ashe. But at least Ashe had an excuse: she was ridiculously rich and had grown accustomed to others constantly doing her bidding. Margot could make no such claim.

The woman surely made a good living with the commissions she got on these home sales. But she wasn't swimming in money like the people who lived up here. Unlike them, Margot lived in West Hollywood in a moderately impressive West Hollywood apartment tower, not all that far from Charlie's crappy one-room studio. That was why he couldn't get to her at her own place: the building's security staff, and the risk that, even if he got into her apartment, people might see him coming or going.

There was one more reason he couldn't kill there, the same one that kept him coming back to work for her despite her objectionable personality. Her dog, a miniature schnauzer named Welker, was adorable. The little fella would come up and nuzzle Charlie's ankle each time he came over, then flop over onto his back, exposing his belly for a scratch. It melted Charlie's heart every time. He couldn't bear the thought of killing Margot there, in little Welker's presence.

So he would do it here, in a large, isolated mansion. And he'd enjoy it. The last time he'd seen Margot, she had told him that he needed to shower longer to keep "that goddamn grotesque mix of patchouli and body odor" out of her home, and that was one of their warmer recent interactions.

As he stopped at the porch step, he reiterated to himself that this would be the last time. Conveniently, Margot was the client who reminded him most of his execrable mother, and more recently of his ex, Helena. He would close his eyes as he twisted the leash around her neck, picturing their faces as he choked the last breaths out of this vile woman.

Once she was dead, that would be the end of it. He'd be done with killing. And he'd finally be free.