Praise for the novels of P.D. MARTIN
“Readers who enjoy hard-nosed police drama or CSI-style television shows will find [Sophie] an engaging character.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A clever concoction.”
—The Age on Kiss of Death
“Martin provides solid entertainment as she takes a high-concept premise and runs with it. The narrative is fast-moving, the protagonists likable, the police detail and dialogue believable and the serial killers just as evil as they need to be.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Murderers’ Club
“As always, Martin delivers a cleverly plotted and entertaining read, chockablock with fascinating procedural details and flashes of dark humor.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Killing Hands
“A gripping read.”
—Herald Sun on Fan Mail
“Well-structured and unusually imaginative.”
—The Mystery Reader on Fan Mail
“Martin is a real find.”
—Women’s Weekly
Kiss of Death
P.D. Martin
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Extra Resources
Acknowledgments
One
Saturday night
A narrow trail snakes in front of me, lit only by the full moon. If I can make it to the road…or hide…
Low-hanging branches scrape across my face, breaking through my raised arms and drawing blood. But I can’t stop. I have to keep running. Can he smell my blood?
I stumble and fall to the ground. For a moment all I can hear is the deafening thud of my heart. But then I notice it. Silence. No more footsteps hurtling down the path behind me. I pick myself up and keep running, not convinced I’ve really lost them.
Finally I stop, resting my hands on my thighs to try to slow my breathing. I look around at the houses perched on the hilltops to the right. They’re too far away to hear or see me.
The crack of a branch on the far side of the trail frightens me. I back away. My eyes, even though fully adjusted to the night, strain to decipher my surroundings. Is someone behind that tree? I keep moving backward, but then another branch snaps behind me. I run.
Soon I hear the footsteps again. I push myself harder, run harder. I glance back, hoping they’re farther away than they sound. But they’re not. Slamming into something, I come to an abrupt stop. I fall backward. I look up. His face is in shadows, but I can see glistening white teeth as he smiles.
Fangs dig deep into my neck, accompanied by searing pain.
I wake up with a start, rubbing my neck. The very last part of the dream flashes back to me…what the…? But then I realize I’ve fallen asleep on the couch to a rerun of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Obviously its imagery spilled into my subconscious as I was dropping off.
I drag myself over to the TV and turn it off, moving my head from side to side to stretch my neck. Someone in Buffy may have got fangs in the neck, but all I’ve got is a crick in mine. Serves me right for falling asleep in front of the box. Flicking off the lights, I make my way into the bathroom for the usual nightly ritual—cleanse and moisturize my face and brush my teeth. I complete it all on remote, watching the process in the mirror like a third-party observer.
Before going to bed I decide to do a final sweep of my apartment. I’m always security conscious; my job and my past make me extra careful and I often find the only way I can sleep is to search my apartment before I turn in for the night. I grab my gun and start at the front door, looking through the peephole. The coast is clear outside. From my front door I can see most of the open-plan space of my living room and kitchen. White walls and downlights are made warmer by rich hardwood floors and two French doors that lead to a large balcony—one of my favorite features during hot summer nights. Like half of the complex’s balconies, mine overlooks the swimming pool and well-landscaped gardens.
The open-plan space has few potential hiding spots, so I move straight to the large hall closet. Once that’s checked I head for the bathroom, even though I was in there less than a minute ago. I pull the shower curtain back with my left hand, aiming my gun low into the small bathtub. It’s empty, and I move quickly to the next door—my bedroom, and the only room in the house with carpet…I love the feel of the squishy warmth under my bare feet. Dark wood furniture with a Japanese feel offsets the cream carpet, again creating warmth in what could be a stark room. I check behind my three-panel Japanese screen, before moving to the built-in wardrobe. Opening one door at a time, I scan the clothes and also squat down to make sure only my shoes, facing away from me, occupy the closet. Like the rest of the place, it’s all clear. As my final check I flick on the outside light and make sure no one’s on the balcony.
Looking down at the Buddha that sits in the corner of the room, I say: “All clear.” But I’m talking to myself, not the deity. Maybe I need a pet.
Sunday, 11:00 a.m.
On my way home from Bikram yoga—something I’ve discovered since moving to L.A.—my BlackBerry buzzes with an incoming call. There are only a handful of people who could be calling me on a Sunday, and when I see the number is withheld I jump to the logical conclusion—work. Still, while all special agents are always on call, as a profiler most of my work is initiated in the office Monday to Friday.
“Agent Sophie Anderson.”
“Anderson, it’s Rosen.” George Rosen is the head of the L.A. office’s Criminal Division and many of my cases come through his department. “What’s up?”
“Murder.”
“Go on,” I say.
“Do you know Temescal Gateway Park?”
“Uh-huh.” Temescal Gateway Park is about twenty minutes from where I live and work—Westwood, L.A. I’ve even done a few of the park’s walks.
“A body was found there an hour ago. Right on the border of Topanga State Park.”
“And we’ve got a call already?” Police rarely call in the FBI so quickly in a homicide case, unless there’s something strange about the death or the area is rural with no local expertise in murder cases—and nothing twenty minutes in any direction of L.A. is rural. There must be some other reason why the Bureau’s being pulled in early.