by Dianne Emley
Praise for The First Cut
“The First Cut hurtles the reader down a razor’s edge of suspense to the final, shattering end.”
—LISA GARDNER
“A great read … The First Cut should immediately establish Dianne Emley in the front ranks of thriller writers.”
—MICHAEL CONNELLY
“Gritty, intense, and hard-edged, The First Cut is first rate.”
—TESS GERRITSEN
“Action-packed, with plenty of suspense and enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing long into the night.”
—LISA JACKSON
“Impressive … expertly plotted … Emley makes each gamble pay off.”
—Detroit Free Press
“Guaranteed to keep readers on the edge of their seats until the final page.”
—Tucson Citizen
“An edge-of-your-seat plot … nicely developed characters and genuine suspense elevate this impressive crime debut.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Has all the makings of what promises to be a captivating and enduring series.”
—newmysteryreader.com
ALSO BY DIANNE EMLEY
The First Cut
Cut to the Quick is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2008 by Emley and Co., LLC
Excerpt from The Deepest Cut copyright © 2009 by Emley and Co., LLC
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming hardcover edition of The Deepest Cut by Dianne Emley. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN: 978-0-345-50458-6
www.ballantinebooks.com
v3.1
Dedicated with love and respect to
my mother
Theda A. Pugh
and my mother-in-law
Marie E. Emley
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I’d like to recognize my brilliant editors and pals, Linda Marrow and Dana Isaacson. Your wise guidance and astute editorial sensibilities have enhanced and elevated my work.
Assistant editor Dan Mallory deserves a special nod for his contributions.
Heartfelt thanks to everyone on the fabulous Ballantine team, especially: Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, Kim Hovey, Rachel Kind, and Cindy Murray.
I’m grateful also to my wonderful agent, Robin Rue, and everyone at Writer’s House, especially Beth Miller.
I must also acknowledge the fine work of my tough copy editor, Teresa Agrillo.
The events and people depicted in this book are fictitious, but they would not have the same impact without the kind assistance of several law-and-order professionals. Any errors are the fault of this author.
Officer Donna Cayson of the Pasadena Police Department was again generous with her time.
Thanks also to the many Pasadena police officers and brass I worked with throughout the past year. I continue to be impressed by your dedication and professionalism.
Karla Kerlin, Special Assistant District Attorney, Los Angeles County, again cheerfully let me pick her brain about criminal law.
Retired police captain Steve Davidson was immensely helpful, both for insights into police life and for his comments on the manuscript.
Gerald Petievich, author, former Secret Service agent, and buddy, made substantial contributions to the manuscript and aided my understanding of law enforcement personalities and tactics.
Ann Escue kept me from going astray regarding psychiatric facilities and methods, so critical in this book.
Ron Escue and Jon Redyk provided valuable insight on firearms.
Warren Bentley was helpful with information about small-claims court.
Thanks to my posse of friends, perceptive readers all, who beat up the manuscript: Jayne Anderson, Mary Goss, Toni Johnston, Leslie Pape, and Debra Shatford.
A grateful huzzah to friends who endured my whining: Rosemary Durant, Katherine Johnson, and Dottie Lopez.
Last, but never least, kudos to my family, who always contribute in ways both great and small. Special thanks to my nephew, Mark Pasqua, for observations about “lake life.” Hats off to the rest of the clan. The Emleys: Charles III, Robert, and Sally. The Kawaokas: Jeanine, Craig, and Cameron. The Pasquas: Sheila and Carl. The Pasquas II: Mark, Jennifer, and Carter. The Prices: Carole, Ed, Jeffrey, and Eric. The Pughs: Bill, June, Eric, and David. And the Pughs II: Chana, Jonathan, Aaron, Justin, Katherine, and Marie.
And of course, to my wonderful husband, Charlie, my safety net, my love.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Copyright
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
ONE
Nothing bad ever happened to Oliver Mercer. He hadn’t followed Mercer long before he’d figured that out. Nothing really bad. Having your teeth kicked out bad. Watching someone slit your girlfriend’s throat in front of you bad. Watching someone slit your girlfriend’s throat while you’re gurgling through your own slit throat bad. Or losing all your money. A guy like Mercer probably thought that was the worst thing that could ever happen to him. Or handing over his Rolex to a robber. Or finding his girlfriend in bed with his best friend. The fool.
Mercer had all the advantages. Born into money. While following Mercer around Pasadena, he’d heard people call it “old money,” like that made it even more important and special. Dough was dough as far as he was concerned. No better cushion from life’s problems than a mountain of cash. If at all, real trouble had just skimmed the surface of Mercer’s life, its misery lasting as long as a tiny baby’s frown. And when his troubles were over, those little tears and that wrinkled brow melted away, leaving nothing behind. It took decades of worry for those frown lines to dig in. That’s what Mercer was, as far as he was concerned: a big, fat baby acting like he’s something special because he has money he didn’t earn. Having airs and looking down on people. He�
��d seen Mercer do it. He’d gotten that close. He’d worn his favorite disguise, but Mercer would have looked right through him anyway. He was one of the little people.
He smiled. Sometimes little people had big plans that could whip around and bite a guy like Mercer right in the ass.
He’d heard Mercer go on about a billboard company he’d bought into. “Outside advertising,” he’d called it, like that dressed it up or something. Guess it made Mercer feel like he had a real job. A well-placed billboard, Mercer had said, like the ones along the Sunset Strip, could earn fifty grand a month in rent. Billboards, for crying out loud. Who knew? Mercer’s partner had been having problems with the law for allegedly poisoning some expensive trees, city property, that were blocking his signs. Personally, he thought that was funnier than hell and had to hand it to the guy, if the story was true. Mercer had used unkind words when speaking of his business partner. Well, you gotta know who you’re getting in bed with, so to speak.
One thing’s for double damn sure, Mercer wouldn’t have gotten his girlfriend if he was a working stiff. Babe like her wouldn’t have given him the time of day. That’s all anyone needs to know about life right there.
Bad things did happen to good and to so-so people too, for no apparent reason. Mercer hadn’t learned that life lesson yet. He was about to show Mercer a different view of the world.
Looking through binoculars from his vantage point across the Arroyo Seco, he caught himself holding his breath. He let out a small sigh when all the lights in Mercer’s glass-walled home turned on at once, as they did the same time each evening. The house, designed by the much-discussed Spanish architect Santiago Torres, was striking on the hillside. The lights spectacularly set it off. He was sure that’s why Mercer turned them all on. That was okay. Then everyone could enjoy it a little bit. The worker bees commuting on the 210 freeway could look up at the big house shining on the hill and have their spirits raised. It was like looking at a faraway castle. Sometimes just the suggestion that life can be different is enough to get you through another mean day. That was another astute observation, if he said so himself. Astute meaning “smart.” And if life is being difficult, sometimes you take things into your own hands.
He was grateful for Mercer’s attention to appearances for another reason. The lights made watching Mercer easier. The lights could pose a problem later, but he’d deal with it. He tapped ash from his cigarette into the car’s ashtray.
The globes on the antique lampposts along the Colorado Street Bridge near where he was parked also turned on. That was a pretty view from the freeway too. It was the first Saturday of September, the middle of the Labor Day holiday weekend. The evening was just how he liked it—clear, warm, and not too smoggy for the city. Not much traffic or people. It would be a fine weekend to go fishing, but the payoff of the sport he was engaged in now would ultimately be more satisfying.
Mercer walked out onto one of the terraces, holding a martini. The man was a creature of habit.
“Look at him up there, acting like he’s master of his domain,” he nearly shouted to no one. “King of the hill. What’s that old Beatles song? The fool of the hill. No, on the hill. That’s it. ‘The Fool on the Hill,’ ”
He hummed a few bars of the tune. Grinding out his cigarette, he said, “Showtime.”
He craned his neck to look at himself in the rearview mirror, then turned the key in the ignition. He circled the cul-de-sac and headed for the bridge to cross the arroyo.
At Mercer’s driveway, he punched in the code to open the gate. He’d gotten it by watching the housekeeper when she came to work. Even the stupidest criminal wouldn’t have trouble getting into this place. And he was not a stupid criminal.
He rang the doorbell, impressed with the pleasing musical notes it emitted. He turned his back to the peephole, knowing that Mercer would open the door for a blonde. He could almost count the steps it took Mercer to get to the door from the terrace. He’d look through the peephole and wonder what the intrusion was about. Then he’d open the door, still holding his martini.
The door opened and there was Mercer, holding the martini.
“Hello, Oliver. I love it when people fulfill my expectations.”
Mercer blinked at his visitor, as if having trouble taking it all in.
“Such an ugly scowl, Oliver. Not very hospitable.”
“Who the hell are you? Maybe I should ask what are you? A man dressed like a woman?”
“I hate when people criticize things they don’t understand.”
Before Mercer could close the door on him, he kicked it open, knocking Mercer to the floor, the high heels doing a good job. The hunting knife was out, and he started stabbing and stabbing.
Later, after whacking off another piece with the chain saw, he cut the motor and stepped back to admire his work, taking a drag on his cigarette. If he had it to do over again, he would have rethought the chain saw. It made such a mess, splattering bits of meat all over him and everything else. He took a bottle of Miss Dior from the pocket of his plastic apron and dabbed more beneath his nostrils.
The doorbell rang, followed by rapid knocking. Still holding the chain saw, he wiped a gloved hand against the apron in a wasted gesture. He was covered in blood and gore. His dress was ruined. He had figured it might be, so he hadn’t worn one of his favorites. He looked through the peephole and tsked tsked.
Standing behind the door, he opened it a crack.
Lauren Richards tentatively pushed it and leaned inside. “Oliver? Are you playing games with me?”
She gasped at the trail of blood in the marble entryway and took a step toward it in spite of herself. Her mouth twisted in horror, her eyes fell upon the corpse of Oliver Mercer on the living room floor. At least, she thought it was Oliver. His arms and legs were in pieces, disassembled at the joints, the hands and feet cut off. The severed body parts were rearranged.
She made strangled squeaking noises through her palms pressed against her mouth.
A hand snatched her arm and flung her inside, where she slipped on the blood-slick marble. The door slammed closed. She looked up from the floor to see him and the bloody butcher’s apron, women’s clothes, and blond wig. She didn’t know if his mouth was covered in blood or smeared lipstick.
He still held the chain saw. A burning cigarette dangled from his lips.
He shook his head.
“Oh, honey. Talk about wrong place, wrong time.”
TWO
Detective Nan Vining felt the murders before she saw them. The spilled blood. The screams of unbridled fear spewed from that place deep inside where words have no value. She could feel it beneath her skin, a flush of her own hot blood prickling beneath her scalp. It was residue from her journey. She’d been to hell and back. Or maybe it had been Heaven. She wasn’t sure. All she knew was, she had the scars to prove it.
She stood in the driveway of Oliver Mercer’s home. She was tall and lean, taut and muscular. She’d pinned her long, nearly black hair into a bun, showing off her ears, which were adorned with simple gold studs, and her graceful neck. She’d stopped caring about hiding the long scar that marred her neck, trailing from her left ear down beneath the collar of her blouse. She had another, smaller scar on the back of her right hand. She’d come to view the scars as quirky characteristics, like her slight overbite and the gap between her front teeth. She’d prefer that they weren’t there, but she wasn’t about to spend time and money on vanity.
She wore little makeup, just eye shadow and mascara that set off her deep-set, green-gray eyes. She’d been told that she was pretty, but didn’t believe it, choosing to believe that the men who said it were attempting to get her to relax her guard. The only appearance she cared about was maintaining a command presence. Pretty didn’t help her on the Job.
Standing where two people had been recently slaughtered, Vining could sense the karma. It was easy to name: evil. This was something she knew first-hand. She’d been up close and personal with evil. Too clos
e. Too personal.
Houses and other places have karma. They carry an imprint of the small and large dramas that take place within their walls and seep into the soil. An empty house, waiting for a new family, gives off a wistful yet hopeful aura. An abandoned house seems wickedly stubborn, still standing, like a ruined beauty hints at former glory in her clouded eyes. Why else do people fall silent when standing upon great battlefields of the past? Why are people drawn to hotel rooms and homes where the notorious or merely famous have laid their heads? Why do homes where murders and suicides have occurred linger on the market and sell for less than they should?
Vining had come to embrace the concept, but was skeptical of taking it further.
When Vining’s fourteen-year-old daughter Emily was ghost hunting, an activity that, happily for Vining, the girl had since relegated to the dustbin of once-adored adolescent hobbies, she had shown her mother a photograph of an old prison electric chair. The photograph captured shadowy yet distinct images of faces in agony. Em had presented it to Vining as one piece in the mosaic she was crafting that proved the existence of the netherworld. Vining agreed that it was strange, but said that it could be trick photography. Emily accused her mom of being in denial.
Practical Vining enjoyed this indulgence. She didn’t indulge in too many luxuries.
Death changes everything. Vining had been dead for just over two minutes. She’d been living-challenged—the gallows-humor term she’d adopted when the more insensitive jerks around the station had asked questions that were none of their business.
While she didn’t completely accept the person she was now, she’d stopped fighting her. Like a stray dog who decided she’d found a home, that person would not leave anyway. Vining reluctantly invited her inside. The dog circled around and plopped in front of the fire, like she’d always been there. After all, Vining decided, everyone’s life is crowded with ghosts. The ghost of the person one used to be. The ghosts of children now grown. The ghost of love once hot, now cold. Ghosts were everywhere. All one had to do was close one’s eyes. Or open them.
