Head to Head Read Online Free PDF

to make any mistakes, make it as hard for us as he can. He’s playing games, first with his victims, now with us.”
    “Victims? You think he’s serial?”
    “Yeah. He’s got her staged like he’s spent lots of time fantasizing, and my gut tells me he’s had enough practice to do it right.”
    Bud said, “Like a little girl posin’ Barbie dolls. That’s what she looks like, a damn Malibu Barbie.”
    “Okay, let’s see what we can turn up before Buckeye gets here. Maybe the guy got careless, but I doubt it.”
    “I’ll take the desk.” Bud headed across the oak floor to a slender-legged secretary pushed up against the far wall.
    “Make sure you don’t disturb anything. I want the crime scene photos to be exact. If he is playing with us, he might leave clues on purpose.” I was lead in the case because of my experience in homicide, but Bud had four years vice under his belt with the Atlanta PD. Undercover had given him good instincts. Too bad he made Colin Powell look unkempt.
    I searched the living room for anything even remotely out of place. An oversized sofa dominated the room. Pale yellow sectional. Pricey leather. High quality like everything else at Black’s resort. Exact same shade as the walls, it curved in a nine-foot arc around a brown fieldstone fireplace. Five navy blue chenille pillows were propped in perfect alignment against the plush back. A glass-topped cocktail table was positioned inside the C of the sofa, held aloft by a fantastic chunk of driftwood. A shallow, black stone bowl was the only object atop the glass. I knelt and looked under the glass. There were no visible fingerprints on the glass surface. Probably wiped clean by the killer. Buckeye would find them if they were there.
    Inside the bowl was a complicated television remote control and a set of keys. I got out my ballpoint pen and snagged the key ring. Three keys—all gold—one emblazoned with the cedar tree emblem of the resort, obviously the bungalow’s key. A Mercedes car key. The third looked like a tiny luggage key. A round gold medallion dangled from the key ring, stamped with the NBC peacock logo. I wondered how the NBC head honchos in New York would take the demise of their star. I carefully replaced the keys. Maybe publicity drove the perpetrator. Maybe he was sitting in some dark hole, glued to a television set, salivating for his fifteen minutes of fame.
    A huge entertainment center held a 50-inch, flat-screen TV and state-of-the-art stereo equipment I could almost kill for. I had few pleasures outside work anymore, but music was something I enjoyed. Soft music at night when I lay awake and remembered the bad things. The entertainment center, constructed from gleaming grained oak, was built between two giant, undraped side windows. It was wiped down, too, with not a speck of dust anywhere. Even the artificial silk ivy flowing from a brass pot was clean and glossy. I slid open the top drawer and sorted through an extensive selection of CDs and DVDs. Variety of films, including a dozen or more porno flicks. The second drawer was deeper and held nothing. I pressed the button on the DVD player. The drawer slid out, empty.
    The adjoining kitchen revealed more polished oak and shiny beige marble. Fully stocked wet bar with cushioned stools near a window seat overlooking the deep woods. I stared through the leafy branches and heavy underbrush, wondering if the killer had stood out there in the darkness, fascinated by the famous TV star, making his plans, fantasizing about the sick things he’d do. Or had Sylvie known the person who sent her to the bottom of the lake? A friend, a jealous lover, an unknown enemy?
    An answering machine was on the counter under a beige wall phone. Unplugged. Side-by-side refrigerator with ice and water and orange juice on the door. Inside, I counted six liter bottles of Perrier and five packaged bags of salad greens. Diet Italian dressing and half a bottle of California white zinfandel were