The Executioner by Chris Carter Page B

head above the waterline, but nothing seemed to work. She had to close all but her flagship agency in West Hollywood. The past four months had been particularly hard for Amanda and her company. She had to let everyone go except for her best friend and first ever Reilly’s employee, Tania Riggs.
    Despite the gloomy week, Amanda was feeling lucky. Late yesterday she’d received a call from a potential buyer who sounded very interested in one of her most expensive properties. A seven-bedroom, nine-bathroom, four-million-dollar mansion on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. The caller had seen the property advertised on their website and loved the features – the swimming pool, the large eccentric fireplace in the living room, the tennis court, the beautiful grounds – the house was perfect. He had requested a viewing for late this afternoon.
    ‘Here you go,’ Tania Riggs said, handing Amanda a dark green plastic folder.
    Amanda had asked Tania to prepare a ‘killer’ package on the property.
    ‘I’ve included everything.’ Tania said. ‘Photos, detailed information on the house and grounds – even a list of celebrities who live within two miles of the place. There’s also a CD with that PowerPoint presentation I showed you earlier.’
    Amanda smiled. ‘That was a fantastic presentation, Tania, thanks. I have a good feeling about this.’ She wiggled the folder in her hand.
    ‘Me too. It’s such a beautiful house, and if you have the money . . . a bargain.’
    Amanda admired Tania’s optimism. For someone who hadn’t received her wages in five weeks, she sure knew how to stay positive.
    The phone rang and Tania ran back to her desk to pick it up.
    ‘Amanda,’ Tania said, after placing the caller on hold. ‘It’s Mr. Turner for you.’
    Amanda nodded and reached for the phone on her desk. The conversation took less than a minute.
    ‘Please tell me he didn’t cancel,’ Tania said nervously, after Amanda hung up.
    ‘No, no.’
    ‘Thank God for that.’
    ‘But he’ll be about an hour late.’
    ‘Oh, that’s OK, then.’ Tania smiled. ‘Do you want me to wait with you?’
    ‘There’s no need. I’m all set here.’ She pointed to the dark green folder Tania had given her. ‘Go home, girl. And try to have a good rest over the weekend.’
    ‘I sure will. Good luck.’
    Tania buttoned up her coat all the way to her neck before closing the door behind her.
    Amanda placed her right elbow on her desk, rested her chin on her closed fist and stared at the spreadsheet on her screen once again. Things were about to change, she could feel it.

Twenty-Four
     
    Hunter and Garcia were studying the forensic photographs taken at the church when Captain Blake entered the room without knocking and closed the door behind her. Her eyes rested on the piles of leather-bound notebooks on both detectives’ desks.
    ‘Are these the priest’s journals?’ she asked, approaching Garcia’s desk, picking a volume up and flipping through the first few pages.
    Hunter nodded.
    ‘Anything interesting?’
    ‘Depends what you consider interesting.’
    Captain Blake gave Hunter a look that told him she didn’t have time for bullshit.
    ‘We’re going through them as fast as we can,’ Hunter explained. ‘But there’s a lot of stuff in those books. They’re not proper journals or diaries. They’re just books the priest used to write his thoughts, the way he felt, things he’d done . . . There’s no sequence. Most of the entries read like dissertations, and they go back a long way.’ He walked back to his desk. ‘The problem is we’re not really sure what were looking for. It could be anything, a word, a phrase . . . or it could be hidden between the lines. If Father Fabian feared for his life, we were hoping to find something in the most recent diary, but they aren’t dated. The idiots who brought them over after forensics were done dusting them didn’t think to number the books in the same order they were found on the