Fred (Ski) Ludwikowski—thank you for recommending Sherlock’s birthday present from Savich, a new ankle piece, the 9mm Glock 43. She is really enjoying it, practices fast-drawing between floors on the elevator.
Angela Bell, FBI, Office of Public Affairs—even though I didn’t bombard you with questions and situations with this book, knowing I could have is gold. Having you there with every answer merits an eternal thank-you.
The town of Malibu—thanks to all the inhabitants I spoke with, both inside and outside the Colony. You guys are the angels atop the LaLa Land Christmas trees.
Karen Evans—as always, the light in my window, the premium in my tank, the apples in my pie. You are a princess.
1
* * *
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
LATE JUNE
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Missy Devereaux, whose real name was Mary Ann Duff, fluffed her hair as she pretended to look in the store window, scanning behind her, wondering if he’d followed her to Las Vegas. And then she saw him, across the street, ducking behind an old gray Volvo in the thick Las Vegas Strip traffic. He looked thin in his baggy jeans and his loose-hanging dark blue shirt. She couldn’t see his face—he wore dark sunglasses and a Giants baseball cap.
It wasn’t fair. She’d just landed a six-month stint here at the Mandalay in a Beatles musical retrospective, hoping for half a year of peace and calm without a stalker to tie her stomach in knots, but here he was, after only four days. She’d been so careful when the taxi picked her up at her cottage in Malibu nearly a week before—had the driver drop her off at LAX, a terminal away from the airline she’d booked—but still he was here, watching her, following her. All she’d wanted was her life to return to normal. She’d done everything she could. She’d gone to the cops to see if they could stop him. Movie star stalkers were old hat to the Calabasas Sheriff’s Department, responsible for handling all the criminal problems in Malibu. They had a protocol in place, a pleasant older cop had told her four months before, they would talk to him if she would point him out. What, she’d asked, would her stalker do when he got tired of following her around? Attack her? The friendly older cop only shook his head, avoided answering that question. That same day, Missy bought a Becker Ka-Bar knife, a fixed blade three and a quarter inches long, with a three-inch handle. It was made of Cro-Van steel, the salesman had told her, and was favored by sailors going back nearly to the ark. She liked the sound of that, carrying something badass enough for the marines. She liked the feel of the Ka-Bar, too, solid, and ready to go in its sheath hooked onto her waistband.
The cops hadn’t caught the stalker, even following their protocol.
She kept fluffing, touched on some lip gloss, and continued to stare into the window. She didn’t see him now, but she knew he was there, watching. She was so used to feeling acid burning her gut, so used to the overwhelming urge to run as fast as she could, that she didn’t at first recognize the bolt of rage that splashed through her. She felt her adrenaline spike, felt her blood pumping hard and fast, the mad mix making her shake. For the first time she let the heat of anger wash over her, and she saw clearly who and what he was—nothing. She wasn’t going to let him destroy her life. Not anymore. She turned on her heel and worked her way through the gridlock traffic on the Strip, not even aware of the horns honking, the tourists jostling her or the wolf whistles. All her focus was on that miserable little man who probably spent his nights licking her publicity photos.
She saw him straighten, stare at her, then draw back when she started running toward him, not away, her Ka-Bar in her hand.
She heard growling, realized it was from her, and yelled, “You miserable little worm! I’m going to carve out your tonsils!” He sprinted away, Missy after him, running fast and strong. She’d been a blimp in high school, but all that had changed when she’d turned twenty. Six years later, she was in top-flight shape, ran three miles every single day, worked out at Sam’s Muscle Bar, in L.A. Catch him? Not a problem. He wove through crowds of tourists on the sidewalk, knocking some out of his way, going around others, and Missy