Free Faces of Evil [2] Impulse by Debra Webb

Howard might have been inside his vehicle by then. With her out of the way, he could far more easily come back inside and arrange the scene to suit his purposes.
    As usual he came prepared. There was no indication he’d so much as washed his hands here. He’d carried what he needed, then took the items with him when he left with his victim. Knife, blade of some sort, small container for his art work, cloths or disposable wipes for cleaning up. . . and the sedative he used to disable Howard.
    No one laid still and quiet while they bled – not even from a paper cut – or while some maniac used their blood for ink.
    Even if he’d restrained her there would have been some movement, some amount of squirming, making the smudge on the shiny floor from her makeup more smeared around.
    It was all so precise. Classic work for the Player. Yet, rife with evidence. Evidence that was related to the victim if not to him. The Player never left evidence.
    Vibration on the floor made her jump.
    She turned and stared at the cell phone shimmying on the hardwood, its screen lit. Maybe Howard’s husband or boss or a friend. . . wondering how her afternoon appointment had gone.
    Jess crossed to where it lay and crouched down to read the screen.
    Home calling.
    A pang of regret caught beneath her breast. He would ultimately kill this poor woman as a move in this gruesome game of his.
    Just to get to Jess.
    Belinda Howard didn’t fit the profile of his preferred victim but she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jess’s sister had invited her to dinner in hopes of persuading Jess to buy a home in Birmingham. And now Belinda Howard would die because of her work. . . because of Jess.
    She had to stop him. . . one way or another.
    “Jess.”
    Time to get out of the way. There was nothing more the scene could tell her. She didn’t need fingerprints or trace evidence to confirm who had done this.
    His name was Eric Spears. He was the Player. Whether anyone else in the world had accepted that reality, it was true.
    After grabbing her bag, she almost slipped as she stamped across the gleaming floor. Damned shoes. Damned shiny floor.
    This house was. . . way, way out of Jess’s budget. Poor Belinda Howard. She’d probably been psyched at the idea of just how much her commission would be on a sale like this. Rushed over, lit the candle, hoping to finally sell a beautiful home that had languished on the market for no telling how long. Another victim of the failing economy.
    Burnett waited for Jess to go ahead of him. Always the gentleman.
    She offered a smile to the forensic techs she passed on her way out the front door. All flashed her one of those it’s-about-time glances.
    Harper paced the sidewalk, his cell resting against his ear. He was the detective in charge of this scene when he had no more business here than Jess. But they both needed to be here, lack of objectivity or not, to see that Spears was stopped and Detective Wells and Belinda Howard came home safely.
    That little voice Jess didn’t like listening to warned that she was wasting her time even hoping that either one would survive.
    On the porch, she stripped off her gloves and hopped on first one foot, then the next to remove the shoe covers. Damned high heels.
    Belinda Howard’s BMW sat in the driveway, which, in addition to the for sale sign, marked the house as being the location of her appointment since Lily couldn’t remember the exact address. En route Jess had made a call to the receptionist at the realty office but she hadn’t known all Howard’s appointments for the afternoon. Belinda, she’d explained, worked spontaneous showings all the time.
    This was one appointment Jess wished the lady had missed.
    Two uniformed officers were canvassing the neighbors. Unless they got lucky and someone saw the vehicle Spears drove, the effort was another waste of time. Spears might be taunting them with these changes in his MO but he was far from stupid. He had a