Out of his peripheral, he could see Sam already in position, blocking access to the elevators. And for the love of God, no posting to YouTube. Curtains slid back, shutters flashed wide, glass doors opened. Lights blinked on in surrounding hotel rooms.
He watched the other’s hands every second. Jason’s heart pounded, and sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. That didn’t mean at any moment this unsub wouldn’t make a fast and fatal reach. He was certainly not brandishing a weapon. And anyway, Jason had no desire to shoot if it was at all possible to avoid it. Unfortunately, you could not shoot someone for spying on you, or fleeing from you, or even appearing on the scene at the very moment you were getting dumped by your sort-of-boyfriend. “Hold it right there,” Jason ordered, leveling his weapon as he kept pace with the suspect. The details provided were so exquisite they practically made the picture jump out of the book for me. The amber glow of the heater lamps illuminated glimpses of pale skin and Caucasian features. He wore black jeans, a black hoodie, and a backpack. He-the build was definitely male-was about Jason’s height. He turned, keeping the lounge chairs and potted palms between himself and Jason as he traveled the length of the stone deck, making for the steps leading down to the elevators. Fueled by adrenaline, he hit the terrace running, racing across the bricks about the same time the figure in black realized his miscalculation. In fact, it was a relief to act, to have something that required his immediate and full attention-and a relief to get away from Sam. Jason called back to Sam and Hickok, who had also drawn their weapons, “He’ll have to try for the elevators.
Did he not realize the pool terrace was a couple of stories up? The figure sprinted across the terrace, past the blue oblong of the brightly lit pool, heading for the taller fence at the end of the courtyard. Jason followed, pushing through the gate, which clanged loudly again. The gate bounced open with the force of his exit. He reached the French doors, unlocking and throwing them open as the figure on the patio turned, shoving through the wrought-iron gate, which clanged noisily behind him. Someone stood on the other side of the glass, watching them. Wind shaking the topiaries? A ghostly hand picking at the folds of a collapsed umbrella? He looked more closely, but it still took a disbelieving second or two to recognize the outline as human. His attention was caught by movement on the other side of the French doors leading onto the room’s private patio.
“That painting wasn’t just dry, it was cured,” Hickok said. A painting which seems to depict the murder.” “This is the third homicide of someone involved in the art world where the unsub has left a painting in the style-general style,” he amended, apparently for Jason’s benefit, “of Monet.
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