Page 7 of Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard 3)

  THE TRAIL LED TO UTOPIA. JOHN PAUL RENARD HAD BEEN tracking the professional killer for over a year now, but he hadn’t had much success. The last known hit had taken place on the Riviera, an execution of a wanted man named John Russell, but since then, the killer calling himself Monk seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. There had been a hint of his work in Paris and in Cannes, but nothing substantial enough to be considered a real lead.

  Until now.

  When John Paul had been in the Marines and then, for a short time, had worked for the Agency, he’d learned patience. He figured that eventually the killer would return to the United States. It had been a hunch, nothing more, but lo and behold, he’d been right. Just three weeks ago, Monk had finally resurfaced. He’d actually messed up too. He’d used one of his old credit cards. It was such a sloppy thing to do and so out of character for a man who, up until now, had been pretty damned flawless in his executions. John Paul wondered if Monk had thrown the card away and someone else had found it and used it.

  It was worth checking out. A charge had been made at a spa in Colorado called Utopia for a woman named Carolyn Salvetti. John Paul ran a credit check on her and discovered that she had more than enough money tucked away in her IRAs and her pension plans to buy a couple of spas. Was there a connection to Monk here? Had she hired him to kill someone? Or was she his next victim?

  John Paul also ran her name through the government database. He used his old code to get access, knowing full well that as soon as he logged on, the men who had run him would immediately know it and would leap to the incorrect assumption that he was ready to come back. For that reason he didn’t stay on the computer long. In less than two minutes he found out what he needed to know. Salvetti was clean as a whistle. No warrants outstanding, no parking tickets, no illegal activities of any kind. Her husband was also clean. Carolyn Salvetti was president of a company called Star Catcher. Tony Salvetti was vice president.

  The database hadn’t given him any answers. If Carolyn Salvetti was Monk’s next target, then who had hired him? Who wanted the woman dead?

  John Paul was determined to find out. Since his brother, Remy, lived in Colorado Springs, he decided to drive there to see him. Known in his hometown, Bowen, Louisiana, as a surly recluse, John Paul shocked his family and few friends when he purchased an old Ford SUV. He made a few alterations, souped up the engine, packed it with a couple of kitchen chairs he’d made for Remy, and headed out.

  He spent two days with his brother, but on June sixteenth, the day Salvetti was scheduled to arrive at the spa, John Paul was there waiting for her. His hope was that Monk was right behind her, and he could nail the bastard.

  Carolyn Salvetti didn’t show. The desk clerk, an uptight, exceedingly nervous young man with weird, oversized, capped teeth, told John Paul that Mrs. Salvetti had canceled her reservation at the last minute. “But it’s noted right here, under her old reservation, that her niece, Avery Delaney, will be staying at the spa. Miss Delaney will only be here one week,” he thought to add. “Is that at all helpful?”

  Instead of answering the question, he asked to speak to the manager. The clerk tripped when he hastily pivoted, then went running to fetch his employer.

  Tim Cannon showed up a minute later, with the clerk half hiding behind his back. Since John Paul had left the Agency, he didn’t have any credentials to threaten the tight-lipped, sweaty little man, and so he used intimidation. As usual, it worked like a charm. For some reason he couldn’t quite understand, people tended to be afraid of him. His sister, Michelle, told him it was because of his size and the fact that he rarely smiled. Though he thought it was peculiar that strangers backed away from him, he used their fear to his advantage. Cannon, operating under the false assumption that John Paul worked for the government—an assumption John Paul had hinted at but hadn’t actually stated—and obviously embarrassed to admit that he was afraid of John Paul, didn’t call security or ask to see identification. The fact was, the manager couldn’t have been more helpful. He invited him into his office, offered him the use of his desk and phone, and then, stammering about an emergency errand he simply had to complete, he left his office and pulled the door closed behind him.

  The second he was alone, John Paul turned on Cannon’s computer, found the site, and typed in his access code. How he hated the technology, but it was the only way he could get the information he needed. He wanted to see if an alert had been posted regarding Monk and was pleasantly surprised that there hadn’t been. The spa wasn’t swarming with agents yet—in John Paul’s estimation, they were as easy to spot as nuns in black habits—which could only mean that the Bureau didn’t know that Monk was back in the States. John Paul wasn’t inclined to tell them. The FBI would only screw it up. Monk would spot the agents, get spooked, and vanish into thin air again.

  John Paul wasn’t about to let that happen. He was one step in front of the Bureau, and that was all he needed. He had a personal reason for going after the killer, and he wasn’t going to let anyone get in his way.

  A little over a year ago, Monk had tried to kill John Paul’s sister, Michelle, and had it not been for her husband and a friend, he would have succeeded. Monk got away, which, in John Paul’s estimation, was unforgivable. He vowed he wouldn’t rest until he had hunted the bastard down and sent him to Hell where he belonged.

  Once he started doing the research, John Paul’s need for vengeance intensified. One case in particular had really shaken him up. A father had hired Monk to kill his teenage daughter so that he could collect the insurance money and pay his gambling debts. The FBI knew Monk had murdered the girl because the killer always left behind a rose, and though the father had removed the evidence, a thorn was found in the girl’s bedspread. There wasn’t any other family to mourn or seek justice for the young girl. John Paul knew there were other victims the FBI didn’t even know about yet. How many more innocents would die before the killer was stopped?

  Chapter 4

  MONK KEPT THE THREE WOMEN ENTERTAINED WHILE HE drove them to their destination. Carrie thought he was charming and oh so terribly correct. He was her idea of the perfect English butler.

  He had transferred their luggage into the back of a brand-new, fully equipped Land Rover, explaining that the SUV was suited for the mountain roads, and for that reason he hadn’t driven one of the spa’s limos. Anne Trapp sat in the front, and Carolyn sat next to Judge Sara Collins in the back. The seats were plush beige leather and very comfortable.

  All of them were excited and nervous, but there was little conversation among them. Monk told them a brief history of the spa and then regaled them with several fascinating stories about some of the famous people who had stayed at the mountain house he was taking them to.

  Carrie wasn’t sure how long they had been driving. She hadn’t checked the time when they’d left the airport, but it seemed that at least an hour had passed, maybe even more. Monk’s stories so intrigued her she didn’t mind the long drive or the slight case of car sickness. While Sara ooh’d and ah’d over the scenery as they climbed higher and higher up the mountain and Anne sat in stony silence, Carrie questioned Monk about the previous guests he’d served. She wasn’t particularly interested in hearing about politicians. She wanted to hear all about the peculiarities of the movie stars.

  “Russell Crowe was a guest? What was he like?”

  Monk replied with an amusing tidbit about the Australian actor. “He was quite fond of the house,” he added, “and wanted to purchase it.”

  “It must really be nice,” Sara remarked.

  Monk assured them that the house had all the amenities and that he would be acting as their butler until they checked into Utopia.

  “I certainly hope there won’t be any more screwups,” Anne said irritably.

  “Was there a screwup?” Sara asked her.

  “There certainly was,” Anne said. She turned in her seat so she could look at Sara while she explained. “No one from the spa was waiting for m

e at my gate to help me with my carry-on, and if I hadn’t seen Mr. Edwards holding up the sign at your gate as I was walking toward the baggage claim area, I would have been left to fend for myself. I was quite weary,” she added. “And the thought of carrying my luggage to a taxi stand was more than I could bear.”

  “There were skycaps around who could have assisted you,” Carrie told her.

  “That isn’t the point,” Anne snapped. “I shouldn’t have been inconvenienced.”

  What a bitch, Carrie thought. The look on Anne’s face was almost comical. She was pouting like an eight-year-old.

  “I assure you, Mrs. Trapp, your every need will be taken care of by an excellent staff, and I once again apologize for the inconvenience.”

  “Will there be servants at the retreat?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “How many?”

  “Four,” he answered. “They’ll be arriving from the spa shortly.”

  “I wish to have one of them assigned to me,” Anne demanded. “Will you see to it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Anne nodded. “Good,” she said, and she sounded mollified.

  Sara and Carrie exchanged a look that spoke volumes. Then Anne said, “I’m pleased to know we won’t be alone tonight . . . in the event something should happen . . . or break. You just never know.”

  “The house is getting a new alarm system. The wires haven’t been properly hidden yet, but it’s workable,” he promised. “Once it’s turned on, you won’t be able to open your windows or outside doors, of course, but it does get quite chilly up here at night, so I can’t imagine you would want to keep any windows open.”

  Carrie studied her traveling companions. They both looked vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn’t pinpoint where they might have met.

  She stared at the back of Anne’s head and then finally tapped her on her shoulder and asked. The blond woman with deep-set brown eyes half turned in her seat and smiled slightly.

  “I don’t believe we’ve ever met,” she said. “Have you ever been to Cleveland?”

  “No,” Carrie answered.

  Up close, she noticed how sallow the woman’s complexion was. She didn’t think Anne was at all well. Her eyes were dull and lifeless, and her skin was almost waxy, but that could have been due to the heavy makeup she was wearing. Perhaps Anne had paid her fee for some kind of miracle cure for her waiflike, nearly anorexic body. Carrie judged her to be around her own age, give or take a few.

  Judge Sara Collins had just the opposite problem. She could have stood to loose a good sixty or seventy pounds. Perhaps she was going to have liposuction or stomach staples. She looked old, around seventy or so, and her face definitely showed her age. Maybe she was there to have a face-lift. Carrie was dying to ask but didn’t dare.

  Where could she have recognized her from? Maybe she’d seen her on television. Court shows were the rave now. Did Sara have her own program like Judge Judy?

  She would have asked, but their chauffeur had turned into a tour guide and was keeping up a steady monologue about Colorado. One story led to another and another, but they were interesting tidbits, and Carrie thought it would be rude to interrupt. Still, he wasn’t giving them time to get to know each other. She decided she’d ask Sara if she was a celebrity when they were settled in the house.

  Then she began to wonder what the other women thought about her. She knew she looked older than her actual age. An old hag, she thought. Yes, that’s what they probably thought.

  They’d been on private roads now for quite awhile, and it was getting steeper. Winding around and around was making Carrie more carsick. Great, she thought. I’m going to throw up on our proper English butler. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful way to impress the other houseguests?

  “Does the company own all this land?” Sara asked Monk.

  “Yes, madam,” he answered.

  “Is the house much farther?” Carrie asked.

  “It’s just around the next bend.”

  They were in the middle of nowhere. A wilderness, Carrie thought, and she began to feel uneasy . . . nervous. She suddenly realized she hadn’t seen a house or even a cabin in quite a long time. Then it occurred to her that an alarm system wouldn’t do any of them any good. If the alarm went off, who would hear it? Was it tied into the nearest police station, and if so, where in God’s name was that? An hour away? Two hours? Or would the alarm sound at the spa?

  Yes, that was surely how it worked. And that meant that the spa was close by. Having figured it out, Carrie leaned back in the leather seat and tried to relax.

  The house suddenly came into view. It was incredible. Massive gables of natural cedar rose into the sky, and two-story panes of glass reflected the mountain peaks behind them, as if the magnificent structure were placed there with no other purpose than to pay tribute to the grandeur that surrounded it. A circle drive curved toward the wide porch that stretched across the front of the house. Waist-high stone walls were built as protective barriers from the sheer drop at the back.

  Sara gasped. “Look at that wonderful porch and those lovely rocking chairs. I simply must try one of them out.”

  Monk parked the Land Rover in the center of the stone circle drive and rushed to open the doors for his passengers.

  “If you stand on the porch and look in the window, you can see through the house to the vista beyond,” he pointed out.

  “Oh, it is lovely,” Anne said. “It looks brand-new,” she added as she walked to the wall on the side of the drive and looked down at the trees below.

  “It was built four years ago.”

  “How in heaven’s name did they get all the glass up these mountains?” Sara asked.

  “Very carefully, I would imagine,” Carrie replied.

  “I believe you ladies will be very comfortable here,” Monk said.

  “Oh, yes, we will be.” Sara was so enthusiastic that Carrie wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d started clapping her hands.

  Wasn’t Sara used to such ambience? She was a judge, for heaven’s sake. Surely she had money. And obviously so did Anne. Neither one of them would have been able to afford the spa if they weren’t well-off.

  “If you ladies would like to go inside, there’s champagne chilling for you. I’ll bring the luggage in.”

  Carrie opened the door and led the way inside. She noticed the thin wires up against the house and assumed they were part of the alarm system.

  “Watch your step,” she said. “Don’t trip over the wires.”

  The floor plan was open, very spacious. To the left of the huge marble entry was a magnificent spiral staircase that reached up three stories. Light flooded the room, and when they raised their eyes higher, they could see the golden clouds through a long rectangular skylight.

  “Isn’t the staircase beautiful?” Sara said. “The wood . . . the steps, they’re twice the length and depth of any I’ve ever seen. It must have cost a fortune to build it,” she added. “Look at the railing. The craftsmanship is exceptional.”

  Carrie agreed. Then Anne called to them. “The mountains look like they’re on fire with the sunset. Come see.” Even Anne, a difficult woman to please, couldn’t contain her enthusiasm.

  Carrie stood in the foyer taking in the view. Colorful oriental rugs—high-quality rugs—were scattered across the living room’s pale brown, marble floor. In harmony with the mountains, the furnishings were done in soft browns and beiges. The stone fireplace was at least sixteen feet high and similar, she thought, to the fireplace in the villain’s house she’d admired when she’d watched one of her favorite movies, North by Northwest. The room was square like the living room in the movie too. No, this one was much better, the furniture updated and more exquisite.

  Directly ahead, the sun was setting, and the burst from the fiery ball filled the room with a soft orange hue.

  “I feel like I’m in heaven,” Sara said.

  “If you go to the top of that spiral staircase,

you will be in heaven,” Carrie joked.

  Anne spotted the silver bucket with a bottle of champagne on the sideboard. There was a beautiful crystal vase with three long-stemmed, bloodred roses next to it. The petals were just beginning to open. “Shall we have a glass of champagne?”

  “But of course,” Sara answered.

  The three women stood in front of the window overlooking the panorama as Anne struggled to get the bottle uncorked. She laughed nervously when the cork popped and the liquid bubbled over, then carefully filled each Waterford crystal flute.

  “We should have a toast,” Carrie said.

  “Good idea,” Sara agreed.

  She and Anne lifted their glasses and waited for Carrie to do the honors.

  “To us,” she said. “May all our dreams come true.”

  “That’s lovely,” Anne said.

  They sank down onto the plush, down-filled sofas and sipped their champagne, making idle chitchat, carefully avoiding any personal topics, while Monk carried their luggage upstairs to their suites. Carrie was still feeling a little nauseous, so she didn’t drink more than one tiny sip.

  Monk joined them ten minutes later with a tray of canapés. As he was placing the linen napkins next to the tray on the coffee table, Carrie heard a door close. She looked toward the hallway leading from the dining room and saw a woman wearing a black dress walk into the kitchen.

  “Maids have arrived,” she remarked to Sara.

  “Do have one of these cucumber canapés,” Anne suggested. She’d just finished eating the bite-size treat. “They’re quite tasty.”

  Carrie didn’t want to tell either woman she wasn’t feeling well, and she certainly wasn’t going to admit she’d gotten carsick.

  “Yes, I will,” she said. She popped the little sandwich into her mouth, barely chewing it before swallowing it down. “It is good,” she said.

  She couldn’t make herself eat another and became even more queasy watching Anne eat two salmon puffs as well as the cucumber sandwiches, and Sara devour twice as many.