The Deepest Cut Read online

  ALSO BY DIANNE EMLEY

  The First Cut

  Cut to the Quick

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books By This Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Excerpt from Love Kills

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright

  For

  Linda Marrow

  and

  Dana Isaacson

  My brilliant editors who light the path

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you, Linda Marrow and Dana Isaacson. I’m awed by your superb editorial instincts. Special thanks to Junessa Viloria for her valuable comments about the manuscript and assistance with so many things. Kate Collins also made important contributions to the book.

  I’m grateful for the continued support and enthusiasm of the Bal-lantine team: Gina Centrello, Elizabeth McGuire, Kim Hovey Scott Shannon, Rachel Kind, and Lisa Barnes.

  My agent, Robin Rue at Writer’s House, provided much-appreciated wisdom and hand-holding. Thanks also to Beth Mller.

  While I write about many actual locations (used fictitiously), some are the products of my imagination. You won’t find the city of Colina Vista among the San Gabriel Valley foothill cities. Its police department is fictional. I’ve also made up several streets in Pasadena, California, and neighboring cities where evil acts take place.

  Although this is a work of fiction, the book has benefited from the kind assistance of law-and-order professionals. Any errors in policy or procedure are mine.

  Thanks always to the Pasadena Police Department. I’m especially grateful to Lieutenant Lisa Perrine for being so generous with her time and to Officer Kim Smith for her help.

  Retired Police Captain Steve Davidson was again immensely helpful.

  Retired police captain Steve Davidson was again immensely helpful.

  Karla Kerlin, judge, Los Angeles Superior Court, and Colleen Crommett, deputy district attorney, Orange County, gave advice about criminal law.

  Gerald Petievich, author, pal, and former Secret Service agent, helpfully batted around plot points.

  Author and pal Eric Stone and book club buddy Roseanne Wong offered insight into Chinese culture.

  My cousin, Bill Tata of Imagine Design, does a fantastic job of designing and maintaining my website: dianneemley.com.

  My cousin, Robin Hayhurst, gave me a local’s perspective of Montaña de Oro, one of the most exquisite places on earth.

  I’m blessed with terrific friends. Some contributed to the manuscript. All endured bouts of writer craziness. Thank you: Jayne Anderson, Rosemary Durant, Ann Escue, Mary Goss, Katherine Johnson, Toni Johnston, Dottie Lopez, Leslie Pape, and Debra Shatford.

  And last but never least, thanks to my wonderful husband Charlie, my safety net, my love, who can now fully embrace what it means to be married to a crime novelist.

  They were separate people with separate destinies. Why should they seek to each lay violent hand of claim on the other?

  —D. H. Lawrence, The Rainbow

  ONE

  Montaña de Oro State Park

  Central California Coast

  Eight years ago

  THIS WAS HIS CHANCE TO GET IT RIGHT. HE WAS NERVOUS BUT confident. This was good. No … great. Perfect. A fresh start. A new day. The first time had been a bloody mess. Of course, it counted. It had been everything— which was part of the problem. He’d been careless. He wouldn’t do that again. Because he’d learned that killing is never as easy as you hope, but it’s sooo worth taking the time and trouble to do it with style. Practice makes perfect. Here he was and here she was. Take two.

  Looking up at California State Park Ranger Marilu Feathers, he let a smile tickle his lips and said, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  He pulled one corner of his mouth higher than the other, crafting what was intended to be a rakish grin. She’d know that he knew it was a corny old saying, and that would show his mastery of the situation. While he was at it, he arched an eyebrow, aiming to look clever, disarming, maybe even handsome. He was rewarded. She smiled. She was flirting with him.

  In no mood, Feathers smirked. It was Christmas Eve and this clown was about to make her late to dinner at her parents’ house with her brother and his family. Her young niece and nephew wouldn’t care, but her sister-in-law would find it an opportunity to remind single, childless, thirty-something Feathers about the importance of schedules for children.

  She’d taken her horse instead of the Jeep to do one last patrol of the nearly deserted sandspit, ringing in the holiday and a well-earned break with a sunset gallop. And now this.

  The stranger looked Feathers over with a measure of scrutiny and delight, as if examining a long-sought-after rare book found by chance at a yard sale. He had watched in awe from the moment she’d appeared with Gypsy, her big roan mare, from the pass-through between the dunes and had begun galloping across the sand. She scattered spindly-legged sandpipers and inky black cormorants feeding in the surf while brown pelicans and Western gulls circled above, the gulls calling, “Kuk, kuk, kuk.”

  He had known she’d take Gypsy from the stable behind the dunes, would go down the Jeep path onto the spit, and would turn right, toward the Rock. He had known exactly where to position himself. She often rode at sunset, when the sandspit was quiet, but not always. He’d spent disappointing hours, primed, waiting, only to return home unfulfilled. While frustrating, waiting taught him discipline, which he knew he sorely needed. Now, at last, his reward. His heart had thrilled with each beat of the horse’s hooves upon the sand.

  He felt his emotions running away with him and— just as Feathers had reined in her horse— he seized command of himself. His reward was near. His memories of this moment would keep it alive and fresh forever. All he had to do was hold on. Hold on.

  Feathers pulled up her horse beside
the makeshift barrier and managed an insincere “Good evening, sir,” and then the admonishment. “You’re in the snowy plover restricted habitat. You can’t be here, let alone have a campfire.”

  He knew that. Who could miss the miles of yellow nylon rope on four-foot metal stakes marked with signs, some drawn by schoolchildren, “Share the beach!” “We love the snowy plover!” He thought the stupid bird deserved to go extinct, but he knew that if she could Ranger Feathers would sit on their nests— mere shallows in the sand, the lazy birds. He’d not only purposefully gone into the restricted habitat, he’d built a fire with driftwood. Brilliant. Did he know how to push her buttons, or what?

  Near him now, she was a sight to behold, tall in the saddle, her dun-colored uniform fitting loosely on her big-boned, lean frame. He was beguiled by her uniform, her round, flat-brimmed Ranger Stetson hat, her gun, and her badge. Her plain face so easily adopted that no-nonsense bearing. He’d seen her laugh, but soon after, her face would reassume that stern countenance, that command presence coveted by cops. It came naturally to Feathers. She had been born for the job.

  He’d told her, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Rakish grin. Arched eyebrow.

  He returned his attention to the marshmallow he was roasting on the end of an opened wire hanger. The next move was hers. He was so excited, he could hardly stand it. Get a grip, buddy!

  Feathers thought, What’s he doing? Trying to flirt with me? She guessed he was one of the college kids that abounded in Morro Bay and Los Osos, the relaxed beach cities adjacent to the sprawling state park. A state university was nearby, and students frequented the park to hike in the jagged coastal mountains or to surf and raise hell on the long stretch of secluded sandy beach reached by foot or horseback via twisting, steep trails that traversed the dunes. Only rangers were allowed to drive there.

  She had invested a lot of time over her years at the park reprimanding, citing, and sometimes arresting the drunken, the loaded, and the pugnacious of all ages. In addition to providing the public information about hiking trails, campsites, local flora and fauna, and the locations of public restrooms, her job was to enforce the law in the park. Those who did not revere this sacred space would feel her iron hand. She was protective of these eight thousand acres. Her corner of paradise. Her mountain of gold.

  The young adult visitors were usually in packs, or at least pairs. This jackass was alone, sitting on a cheap, webbed-nylon folding chair. He wore a heavy plaid wool jacket, buttoned to the top, blue jeans, and sand-caked athletic shoes. A wool watchman’s cap was pulled low over his ears. She saw no belongings other than the chair, the open bag of marshmallows on the sand near his feet, and the wire hanger. The jacket, though, had deep pockets.

  The park was nearly empty. Only a few campsites were occupied. The sandspit was deserted except for this guy. He was burning driftwood, an additional insult to the park. Her park.

  “Sir, you’re going to have to put out that fire and move out of the restricted area. Now.”

  “I know, Ranger Feathers.” He pulled the golden, softly melting marshmallow from the flames and swung the wire toward Feathers. “Toasted marshmallow?”

  The sudden motion startled the horse, and she pranced backward. Gypsy was Feathers’s personal horse and unaccustomed to aggressive movements.

  “Watch it, pal.” Feathers steadied Gypsy, the horse moving so that Morro Rock was behind them. The giant, crown-shaped, long-extinct volcano at the mouth of the bay was silhouetted by the fading winter sun.

  She was wearing a brass name tag, but his vision had to be extraordinary if he could read it at that distance in the dim light. She leaned forward and gave the horse a couple of firm pats while eyeballing the stranger.

  The watch cap covered his hair and part of his eyebrows. He was seated, but his legs and arms were long. She guessed that standing he would be at least six feet. His clothes were bulky, but his build looked average. His face was ordinary. Not handsome or ugly. No distinguishing scars or marks. It was a blank canvas, brightened only by the way he looked at her: adoring and consuming. It put her in mind of the way her brother played with her infant niece, slobbering kisses over the baby while taunting, “I’m gonna eat you up. Eat you up.”

  “Didn’t mean to scare Gypsy.” Tossing off the horse’s name was good. He was golden. He could almost see the wheels turning as she sized him up, wondering, “Do I know this guy?” It was all this nondescript, young Caucasian male could do to keep from grinning. He knew how the world saw him. He had learned to use it to his advantage.

  His adoring gaze made her wary. It aroused her instincts of danger. He hoped it also appealed to another part of her. She would be unaccustomed to such attention from men. She was a rawboned woman with a lantern jaw, a squat nose, and thin lips framing a gash of a mouth. Calling her handsome would be generous. She wasn’t the type of woman who inspired sonnets. But he loved her. He could hardly wait to show her how much. He caught his breath, feeling overwhelmed.

  Control, he told himself. Control.

  Christmas always made him emotional.

  She asked, “Do I know you?” She searched her mind, grabbing at a memory that stubbornly slipped back into the shadows. “Where have I seen you?”

  He pulled the sticky marshmallow from the end of the hanger with his fingers and blew on it before tossing it into his mouth. He chewed with obvious pleasure, letting out a little moan. He stood and stabbed the wire into the sand, where it wobbled back and forth.

  He struggled to calm his breath. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He retrieved the wire hanger and intentionally held it by his side in his left hand, farthest from her, in a nonthreatening manner. He ducked beneath the yellow rope and walked a few feet toward the surf. He wrote in the wet, smooth sand.

  Feathers cocked her head and squinted at the scrawling. “What does that say?”

  He shrugged, chucking the wire away. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay, pal …” Feathers reached behind her and pulled a small spade from a loop on the saddle bag. “You’re gonna put out that fire and I’m gonna escort you out of the park. Being Christmas Eve, if you cooperate, I won’t cite you. If you don’t, I’ll arrest you and you’ll spend the night in jail. Got it?”

  “Ranger Feathers, you know about death.”

  He was standing a few feet away from her and the horse, his hands by his sides. He didn’t want to breathe through his mouth, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never been more rock hard. He was afraid that the slightest movement would make him explode, which would be awkward.

  Control.

  “Tell me what you know about death, Ranger Feathers. I want to know. I want to know everything.”

  She shifted the spade to her left hand and pulled out her two-way.

  The call would go to Ranger Dispatch. Budget cuts had made staffing thin. They would probably reach out to the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department. Backup would arrive, but not in enough time.

  “Do you wear the pearl necklace?”

  The question caught her off guard. She released the radio button.

  “Yes, Marilu. That necklace. Do you like it?”

  “So you’re the one who gave it to me.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “You earned it. The heroism you showed the day you brought down Bud Lilly … You were judge, jury, and executioner, ridding the world of a worthless creep. That should be honored in a special way.”

  Finally, she raised Dispatch.

  He detected relief in her eyes. A crack in the armor.

  She announced her location into the two-way and asked for an assist with a nine-eighteen— a psycho/insane person.

  Now.

  In a flash, his hand was in and out of his pocket. He aimed the snub-nose .38 at a spot between her eyes as if it were something he did every day, even though it was the first time he’d aimed a gun at a human being, other th
an at his own reflection in the mirror.

  She reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. He fired.

  He couldn’t believe he’d missed. He looked at his gun as if it had betrayed him.

  At the sound of the gun blast, the horse had reared. With one hand, Feathers tried to rein in Gypsy while pulling out her gun with the other. Struggling with the frantic horse, she got off a shot. The horse reeled.

  His hand flew to his neck, which stung like crazy. He drew back bloody fingers. He stared at the blood. She’d grazed him. He started to giggle. She’d only grazed him. But the blood … And the heat radiating from the long fissure across his skin. It thrilled and calmed him. His hand was steady. It was like magic. He aimed again.

  Feathers did too, but this time, his aim was true.

  Gypsy took off at full gallop. After fifty yards, mortally wounded Feathers fell from the horse into the surf, scattering the sandpipers and cormorants. The calls from the soaring birds grew more frantic.

  Overwhelmed, he dropped to his knees. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the pleasure of release was so sublime, he had to close them as he cried out, his hands clutching the sand.

  Still panting and fuzzy-headed with bliss, he pulled himself together to finish his mission. He picked up his beach chair and bag of marshmallows and walked to retrieve Feathers’s Ranger Stetson from where it had fallen just within reach of the foamy fingers of the surf. The mare Gypsy, hovering near her fallen master, galloped off at his approach.

  He took a long, final look at his prize, Ranger Marilu Feathers, bleeding into the sand. The young man— whom years later Detective Nan Vining would give the nickname T B. Mann— then turned and walked into the lengthening shadows. The next phase of his life had begun.

  A wave washed away his handwriting in the sand.

  TWO

  Pasadena, California

  September

  PASADENA POLICE DETECTIVE NAN VINING WAS IN HER KITCHEN looking at a paper shopping bag that stood on the floor. She was in a ready position, hands by her sides, fingers twitching, feet shoulder-distance apart, as if the bag and its contents were about to harm her and her daughter. It was too late for that. Still, Vining’s instincts overrode logic.