Free When Night Falls by Cait London Page B

1930s costume party. That was the same excuse he’d used for the other tailors—one in each city. Then, of course, they’d had to die and the records of the suits be removed from their files. Even the little dressmaker in Madrid had to die after she’d altered his clothing.
    He couldn’t afford to let Rosalie gossip about who he really was and his fascination for Clyde, his hero. It was really old Rosalie’s time to die anyway, and the push down her stairshad made her death look accidental. No one suspected Clyde had helped—after all, Madrid was safe, wasn’t it? Oh, he contributed to her funeral. It was only right. And he mourned her with the rest of Madrid.
    Dresses for Bonnie, purses, and cloche hats were stored in boxes behind the closet’s fake wall, a clever little door known only to him.
    Dressed like Clyde Barrow, he could feel the excitement rushing through him, the power—
    One lift of the board on the floor would take him to Clyde’s favorite handgun, gleaming and deadly. The Colt Model 1911 .45-caliber automatic had handled well, peppering the Warrens’ old windmill, a perfect moving practice target.
    Clyde hated Madrid for what they had done to him, making him seem like nothing, when he was really better than they would ever be. They would pay for every put-down, every snicker, and he was getting really good at killing…and at waiting and planning. They still hadn’t put the pieces together, the little accidents he’d planned, including poisoning Pearl’s dog—Chester had barked too much, and Clyde didn’t want the dog to arouse anyone to his night stalking.
    Clyde adjusted the brim of his hat and polished his charming smile, a real lady-killer smile. Pearl might make a good Bonnie, but Clyde would have to be very certain of her first—she could be unstable and emotional, and he wasn’t. He knew exactly what he wanted—to kill the women.
    Mitchell had found the body in the garage and it was time to get Pearl working on gossip, using her to get Madrid worked up about the Warrens again. Clyde sucked in his stomach and straightened his shoulders. The Warren men attracted women, that tough, lean westerner look, and that irritated. Uma and Shelly and Pearl had always been Clyde’s, and Mitchell Warren wasn’t interfering .
    Clyde scowled into his reflection. “Pete Jones really shouldn’t have asked for more money.”
    Pleasure rippled through Clyde as he remembered Pete’s surprised expression as he died. Clyde liked power and control, and that moment had been ultimate—Pete begging for his life.
    They’d found the body and Clyde was ready for them. It wouldn’t do to move too fast, because that would take away the pleasure, the anticipation, and he wanted their fears to grow, devouring them as his once had—before he’d discovered who he really was—Clyde.
    Lauren was only the first to pay the bill Madrid owed him, and he was getting really good…

FOUR
    R oman slid the Harley-Davidson near the sidewalk and kicked the stand down. The well-tuned FXRS’s Low Rider motor died smoothly. He removed his helmet and scanned Maloney Street. The old garage had a padlock and chain, the boards were weathered and unpainted, the window broken.
    He smiled briefly and wondered how many windows he’d broken in deserted buildings, a kid showing off his pitching arm with a rock. He removed his mirrored sunglasses and squinted against the morning sun. The street’s pavement was cracked, blue-gray and still cool enough for a rabbit to hop across and into the brush of an empty lot. It was only the last week of June, and by mid-July, the pavement would be hot enough to burn the hand.
    His cruise down Main Street proved it was the same as eighteen years ago—flower-basket clean and perfect. But behind that perfection lay the weaknesses, lusts, and darknesses of those who lived there. Just opening their stores, people still noted a newcomer, pausing on the sidewalks and slanting curious looks at him. A