He was smarter than this. He was letting this asshole push his buttons.
So instead Paulson stepped toward the ledge. As he looked down his stomach fluttered. He’d never been a fan of heights. In fact, he pretty much avoided them whenever possible. But if he was forced, could he jump? There was a balcony ledge about ten feet to the right. He’d be falling too fast to grab the railing. But if he gave himself a slight running leap, even a step or two might do it . . .
“What did you want to show me?” Paulson asked.
“Reach into your robe pocket.”
Paulson froze. He didn’t remember wearing a robe. He looked down to discover he was wearing someone else’s clothes. Oh Jesus. What the hell had happened? Who’d done this to him? He’d been out, just walking his dog. The last thing he remembered telling Stephanie was that he’d be right back. How long had he been gone? Stephanie must be sick with worry by now.
Unless this same bastard had gotten to her first . . .
“Do it. Now.”
“Okay, okay,” Paulson said.
Paulson reached in, preparing for the worst. He felt something hard and rubbery that felt like a plastic wire and immediately his brain screamed bomb .
But no—there was something soft and fluttery at the end of the wire. He carefully pinched the wire between his fingers and felt something jab into his thumb pad. By the time he pulled it from his pocket, Paulson knew what the object was.
A white rose.
This set off worse alarm bells than the notion of a bomb . It meant his attacker was staging something. He wanted Paulson to hold this rose. Dressed in a robe. On the edge of a roof. All at once, at an instinctual level, he knew who was behind him. Of all the dumb newbie mistakes to make, letting a killer trace you back to your own home! Paulson yelled and turned and—
Something hard shoved him in the back of his right thigh.
His balance was off. Paulson tumbled off the edge. Reached out wildly for something— anything . It wasn’t until a second later that he was able to scream.
chapter 12
UCLA—Westwood, California
Monday classes were over and Dark had killed enough time with the forensics trades— The American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology , Science & Justice , the International Journal of Legal Medicine , the Forensic Science Review —in the campus library. Blake had turned out to be a no-show; Dark supposed her research paper would somehow be completed without his vital input. It was time to go home.
Dark made his way to the parking garage via the Janss Steps, named for the brothers who sold the land to the university. They were iconic; MLK and JFK once held rallies on these steps. But every time Dark descended them, he couldn’t help but think: This would be the perfect place for a murder—something right out of Hitchcock. A slow, desperate tumble you were unable to stop, arms flailing, unforgiving slabs of concrete rushing forward to smash into your spinning body. Sure, it would be in broad daylight, but that was the beauty of it. Too many potential suspects and any potential witnesses were too focused on their own steps to pay much attention to what was happening around them.
There you go again, Dark thought. Murder on your mind. Always. Can’t you just walk down a flight of stairs or watch a college student carve a side of roast beef without your thoughts turning to murder?
About halfway down, a voice called out to him. “Agent Dark?”
Dark turned, instinctively reaching for the Glock that wasn’t there. Standing a few steps above him was a woman. She wasn’t dressed like a student, and her clothes were too expensive-looking for a faculty member’s. Her bright eyes had a look of bemusement in them.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not here to attack you. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Dark shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
The woman’s eyes turned hard and flat. “Don’t I look the slightest bit familiar to you, Agent Dark? My
So instead Paulson stepped toward the ledge. As he looked down his stomach fluttered. He’d never been a fan of heights. In fact, he pretty much avoided them whenever possible. But if he was forced, could he jump? There was a balcony ledge about ten feet to the right. He’d be falling too fast to grab the railing. But if he gave himself a slight running leap, even a step or two might do it . . .
“What did you want to show me?” Paulson asked.
“Reach into your robe pocket.”
Paulson froze. He didn’t remember wearing a robe. He looked down to discover he was wearing someone else’s clothes. Oh Jesus. What the hell had happened? Who’d done this to him? He’d been out, just walking his dog. The last thing he remembered telling Stephanie was that he’d be right back. How long had he been gone? Stephanie must be sick with worry by now.
Unless this same bastard had gotten to her first . . .
“Do it. Now.”
“Okay, okay,” Paulson said.
Paulson reached in, preparing for the worst. He felt something hard and rubbery that felt like a plastic wire and immediately his brain screamed bomb .
But no—there was something soft and fluttery at the end of the wire. He carefully pinched the wire between his fingers and felt something jab into his thumb pad. By the time he pulled it from his pocket, Paulson knew what the object was.
A white rose.
This set off worse alarm bells than the notion of a bomb . It meant his attacker was staging something. He wanted Paulson to hold this rose. Dressed in a robe. On the edge of a roof. All at once, at an instinctual level, he knew who was behind him. Of all the dumb newbie mistakes to make, letting a killer trace you back to your own home! Paulson yelled and turned and—
Something hard shoved him in the back of his right thigh.
His balance was off. Paulson tumbled off the edge. Reached out wildly for something— anything . It wasn’t until a second later that he was able to scream.
chapter 12
UCLA—Westwood, California
Monday classes were over and Dark had killed enough time with the forensics trades— The American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology , Science & Justice , the International Journal of Legal Medicine , the Forensic Science Review —in the campus library. Blake had turned out to be a no-show; Dark supposed her research paper would somehow be completed without his vital input. It was time to go home.
Dark made his way to the parking garage via the Janss Steps, named for the brothers who sold the land to the university. They were iconic; MLK and JFK once held rallies on these steps. But every time Dark descended them, he couldn’t help but think: This would be the perfect place for a murder—something right out of Hitchcock. A slow, desperate tumble you were unable to stop, arms flailing, unforgiving slabs of concrete rushing forward to smash into your spinning body. Sure, it would be in broad daylight, but that was the beauty of it. Too many potential suspects and any potential witnesses were too focused on their own steps to pay much attention to what was happening around them.
There you go again, Dark thought. Murder on your mind. Always. Can’t you just walk down a flight of stairs or watch a college student carve a side of roast beef without your thoughts turning to murder?
About halfway down, a voice called out to him. “Agent Dark?”
Dark turned, instinctively reaching for the Glock that wasn’t there. Standing a few steps above him was a woman. She wasn’t dressed like a student, and her clothes were too expensive-looking for a faculty member’s. Her bright eyes had a look of bemusement in them.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not here to attack you. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Dark shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
The woman’s eyes turned hard and flat. “Don’t I look the slightest bit familiar to you, Agent Dark? My
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