DeLoach stood. "Call me in a couple of days and I'll give you a progress report."
DeLoach yelled. "Zula Mae, you can quit listening through the door now and show Ms Regan out, please?"
Abigail Love stared down at the four-foot gap between the East Tower and the West Tower of the condominium complex then gazed out across the few remaining lights in the sleepy Caribbean town. She tossed her nylon rope across the chasm to the roof of the West Tower, stood on the two-foot high ledge and held her breath. She was on the rooftop of the eight-story East Tower and she knew the fall would be nearly a hundred feet. She'd practiced this jump several times in her room. Now was the moment of truth. She bent her knees slightly, flexed her muscles and pushed off with all her strength.
Love's small framed cleared the two-foot ledge on the West Tower and as her feet touched the rooftop, she tucked and rolled and then sprang back to her feet. Just like she'd practiced.
She grabbed her nylon rope, secured it to a vent pipe, and walked to the edge of the roof. Two floors below was the Kingsley's unit.
It was funny how things worked out, she thought; she had been so worried about when she would get to case the Kingsley's condominium but Teresa Kingsley had innocently made it all possible.
Dinner with the Kingsleys the previous night went so well that Martin insisted she join them again tonight. Teresa seemed excited but Abigail Love saw through Martin Kingsley's motives. He wanted Teresa out of his hair and Abigail was the perfect solution.
Teresa and Love spent the day touring the island on scooters rented from a vendor down by the waterfront. The women stopped for lunch at an island grill on the west side of the island where the specialty was conch fritters. The grill was located adjacent to a clothing-optional beach where, after several drinks at the grill's bar, Abigail and Teresa removed their tunics and bathing suit tops and spent a few hours sunbathing next to the emerald Caribbean waters.
At 3:00, they returned to the Towers where they each had another drink poolside before to returning to their suites to get ready for dinner.
When Love met the couple downstairs, it was obvious that Teresa was still tipsy. She wore a red sundress with flat sandals and Martin was in long khaki pants and a loose fitting tropical print shirt.
During dinner Teresa complained to her tall olive-skinned husband that all he and his partner ever did was talk business. After dessert, Teresa decided she and Love would walk the few blocks back to the condominium and have another drink.
The town's streets were eerily deserted after dark and the entire district took on a seedy atmosphere. The ten-minute walk took nearly twenty minutes while Love half-walked, half-carried the drunken Teresa Kingsley through the narrow streets. After arriving at the complex, Teresa invited Love to her unit in the West Tower for a nightcap. This time she didn't refuse.
Love leaned over the roof and looked down at the Kingsley's balcony, twenty-five feet she guessed. She mused at how easy Teresa Kingsley made it for her. Using the video feed from the camera she planted earlier, Love waited a full hour after Martin turned out the bedroom light before she made her move.
Earlier in the evening, after another drink, Teresa passed out on the sofa. Love seized the opportunity to case the layout of the condominium, disable the lock on the balcony door, and plant a miniature camera. When she was finished, she helped Teresa from the sofa and walked her to her bed where the woman passed out again. Love removed Kingsley's sundress and slipped her beneath the sheets wearing only her black thong. Love draped the sundress over the back of a chair, scanned the floor plan one last time and let herself out, locking the door behind her.
Most of her kills had been similar to this. Cozying up to her victims in order to deflect any suspicion and above all, to get them to let their guard down. She could have killed Teresa Kingsley earlier in the evening. She had the opportunity. But that wasn't her plan. There were probably other ways she could have gotten herself into the Kingsley's condo, but this was the plan she liked best. She thought about Teresa and how naïve and trusting the woman was. But that was how it always was, just when she was getting to like someone, she had to kill them. The ruse was always part of the scheme. Too bad for them that Teresa Kingsley was so stupid — or at a minimum, naïve.
She glanced down at the balcony again; Martin and Teresa Kingsley would not see another sunrise.
She methodically checked her equipment. She pulled out the silenced Sig Sauer SP Mosquito with the threaded barrel from her fanny pack. She was unfamiliar with the pistol but on this island, she would take what she could get. Her employer had arranged for the delivery of the weapon. It was an ideal weapon for a close range kill. The mosquito would fire a .22 caliber round into her victim's skull. Enough power to penetrate but not enough to exit leaving the bullet to ricochet inside the brain, stirring up the gray matter like a blender.
Next she tossed the nylon rope over the edge and clamped the rope with her gloved hands. She hoisted herself over the edge and lowered herself down the side of the West Tower. When she reached the Kingsley's balcony she leaned over and grabbed the metal railing and pulled herself to it. She slid over the balcony rail and secured the rope to it.
She had memorized the layout of the condo in her head and even counted the steps from the balcony to the kitchen to the bedroom. She slid open the balcony door and stepped inside using the curtains as cover — just in case Martin Kingsley got up to go to the bathroom or the kitchen in the middle of the night. She knew it wouldn't be Teresa; the alcohol should keep her out for much longer.
Love crept in the room, all quiet. She turned on her penlight with the red lens and made her way through the kitchen, and counted the steps to the bedroom. She heard Martin Kingsley snoring and followed the sound. She flashed the red light across the bed. He was sleeping on his back, his breathing labored. Teresa was underneath a jumble of covers and pillows. Love would handle her after Martin.
Suddenly Kingsley stopped breathing. Love extinguished the penlight and stepped away from the bed. Martin sat up in the bed and took a huge gasp of air. He sat upright for several seconds before falling back on his pillow. Sleep apnea, she thought. The older man she dated in college had it. Same symptoms. Now Martin Kingsley would meet the same fate.
When the man's snoring resumed, Love stepped forward and without hesitation fired two shots into Martin's head. The snoring stopped. She turned on the penlight — blood and brain matter cascaded from his skull, across the pillow, and onto the sheets — he was dead.
Love walked around the king-size bed and sat on the edge next to Teresa. The woman roused, shifted to her side, and fell back asleep.
Love removed her left glove and placed her hand on Teresa's head. She slowly stroked the sleeping woman's hair.
"That feels nice," Teresa muttered in a half sleep state.
Love removed her hand.
"Don't stop, Martin." Her speech still slurred from alcohol.
"It's not Martin," Love whispered.
"Oh Abby, you're still here. That's nice. I thought you were Martin."
Love could tell Kingsley wasn't really awake, just drifting in and out of a drunken slumber. She reached out and put her hand on Teresa's cheek letting the back of her fingers slide down the woman's neck and across her shoulders.
Kingsley moaned and arched her back. "Abby, you're the best friend I've ever had."
Abigail Love pulled her hand back and stood beside the bed. She slipped her glove back on her hand and smiled. "Goodbye, Teresa."
"Goodnight, Abby." Kingsley muttered with a slight giggle. "I'll see you in the morning."