He remembered coming back here the first time after having spent a month at the Hazelden Treatment Center in Minnesota, where they tried to help him get a handle on his OCD, his proclivity to self-medicate, and what they politely referred to as his “impulse control issues.” He remembered one night when Irina was visiting her mother, sneaking back here with an OTB intern who had been more receptive to his overtures than Annie Cole was. All the memories faded in and out, sometimes twisting into each other.
He suspected the haziness might have something to do with vodka he’d been consuming almost nonstop since crawling through the window with the faulty latch once it got dark outside. Whatever the reason, he found himself in his former bedroom, rummaging through Irina’s clothes, the ones she kept in the walk-in closet he’d had built for her, which was bigger than his first apartment in Manhattan.
He tossed dress-adorned hangers onto the floor, trying to keep track of how many of her outfits he’d designed. He opened her dresser drawer, the one that held all the OTB stockings. There were dozens—some sheer, some in colors—all created by him. Even now, though she despised him, Irina couldn’t get rid of these.
She loved them too much. Just as so many other women did. Stockings weren’t especially popular in Southern California these days. But his creation still held cachet, even if he no longer did. He’d never met a woman who’d worn them who had a critical word to say. They were his gift to the world. He wondered if that would be taken into consideration when he was finally held to account for his sins. The thought made him laugh out loud.
Your honor, my client may have strangled the life out of two innocent women. But he knew how to make a gorgeous pair of hose, don’t you think?
He laughed again, even louder this time.
*
Officer Carrie Shaw was ready to go home.
She didn’t have that much longer until her shift ended at midnight and she could feel her concentration fading in and out as she walked the length of the Manhattan Beach section of the Strand, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.
It had been an unordinary week in town and it was still only Wednesday. Already, three murders had been committed along this very stretch of homes, one a resident, one the mistress of a resident, and one a celebrated LAPD criminal profiler.
Carrie would have liked to have been involved in any of those investigations. But as the newest member of the department, she wasn’t even considered experienced enough to stand guard outside the homes that were now crime scenes. She suspected that it was her physical bearing as much as her inexperience which put her at a disadvantage. Though she was athletic and wiry, a former gymnast, she was also petite, five foot two and 110 pounds soaking wet—not exactly an intimidating presence.
So instead of guarding a crime scene or going out on calls, she was stuck walking up and down the two-mile stretch of walking path that constituted the Manhattan Beach Strand. She estimated that in the last three hours, she walked close to eight miles. She didn’t even get to take advantage of the magnificent view of the Santa Monica Bay. By the time she took over Strand Patrol from the officer one rung up above her on the seniority ladder, it was already too dark to see the ocean.
Besides, she was supposed to be looking in the other direction, at the houses of people richer than she could ever dream of being. Sometimes she felt like a bit of pervert, peeking into people’s homes, spying on private, personal moments, looking for any behavior that might seem suspect.
Just then, and seemingly in a direct rebuke to her, a woman in the house she was passing scowled down at her and dropped her blinds emphatically. Carrie shook her head with a mix of shame and annoyance.
I’m just trying to do my job, lady.
She knew she wouldn’t get any dirty looks from the next house. According to her call sheet, the homeowner was out of town for at least the next two weeks.
That must be nice.
She was about to move on when she noticed a light on in a room on the third floor, casting a dull spotlight onto the section of the walking path just ahead of her. That wasn’t terribly unusual. Lots of residents set lighting timers