Dead Man Running (An Alex McKnight Thriller, Band 11) - Hardcover

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Steve Hamilton is the New York Times--bestselling author of fourteen novels, most recently Exit Strategy and The Second Life of Nick Mason. His debut, A Cold Day in Paradise, won both an Edgar Award and a Shamus Award for Best First Novel. His stand-alone novel The Lock Artist was a New York Times Notable Crime Book and won an Alex Award and the Edgar Award for Best Novel. Hamilton attended the University of Michigan, where he won the Hopwood Award for writing, and now lives in Cottekill, New York, with his wife and their two children.

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***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2018 Steve Hamilton

The act was done in a moonless desert darkness, but seen in the light, half a world away.

It was just before 4 p.m. on a bright February day on the Mediterranean Sea when a man named Frank Thompson logged on to his laptop. He was one of more than three thousand passengers on the cruise ship, midway between Sardinia and Sicily. His home in Scottsdale, Arizona, was six thousand miles and eight time zones away. Now that the ship’s Internet service had finally been restored, Frank just wanted to know two things: That the video cameras installed in his house were working. And that his house was safe and secure.

The man’s wife was up on the deck. She didn’t think he should be worrying about the house. She thought he should be relaxing and actually enjoying this cruise, after waiting so many years to do this. After spending twelve grand to make this trip happen.

I’ll start enjoying this, Frank said to himself, when I can get a little peace of mind.

He checked the first video feed. It came from the X10 Internet camera mounted on the bookshelf next to the fireplace. It was positioned so that the lens would look through the legs of a wooden elephant, and it communicated wirelessly with the server in the study, which in turn fed the images to the Web. Available to see anytime, anywhere in the world. At least when the Internet was working.

The live image, as Frank hit the key to bring it up, showed the front door and half of the living room. Everything looked normal to him, and yet not normal in a way he couldn’t identify.

He kept looking at the image. The couch, the door, the little welcome mat to wipe the desert sand off your feet when you came in.

What’s wrong with this picture?

Then it finally hit him. There was too much light.

It was early in the morning back home, which on most days would mean that sunlight should be coming through the big window in the kitchen. Just as it seemed to be doing here.

But when they had left the house, those curtains had been closed. Frank was sure of that.

He clicked the link to restart the video, which ran on a continuous eight-hour loop. The image jumped back eight hours to darkness, the only light a thin glow from the one lamp they had left on in the living room. He hit the fast-forward button and watched the image flicker, the minutes passing by in fast motion, with no movement.

Until there was.

It was just a flash. He backed up the video, then ran it at normal speed. The front door opened. How could it be unlocked? This video would never reveal that secret to him—he could only go back eight hours, and as of eight hours ago, the door was obviously unlocked and any goddamned person in the world could walk right into their house.

Like this stranger.

Who was in their house.

Frank paused the video to get a better look. The man was tall and well-built, a few years younger than Frank, with fair skin and long brown hair that went down to his shoulders. He was dressed in black jeans and a black button-down shirt. Black shoes. Even a black baseball cap, his brown hair trailing down the back of his neck. Frank’s mind caught on the hair first—he’d always hated long hair on men. Then on something else, a certain quality about the man himself, how he moved with complete composure. No rush. No nerves. Like he was actually comfortable being in another man’s house after dark. Frank watched as the man crossed the room, moving from the front door toward the hallway.

Frank hit the pause button again, sat there going through a series of emotions. Shock, anger, surprise. And if he was being honest with himself, a slight tinge of excitement.

This thing really works.

He switched to the kitchen feed, went back eight hours, ran it through at fast speed, watching for the same kind of flash. As he was doing this, his wife came back to their stateroom.

“Marion, look at this!” he said to her. “There’s someone in our house!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sit down.” Frank went back to the living room feed, found the time stamp when the front door had been opened. Just after midnight, Arizona time. Eight in the morning on the ship’s time.

Marion watched the video, looking confused and skeptical until she saw the man walking through her living room. Her eyes went wide.

“How did he get in? We have to call somebody!”

“Just a minute,” he said. “Let’s find out where he went. Let me see if he . . .”

Frank didn’t finish the thought. He had switched to the bedroom feed now. The camera was mounted on top of the armoire in the master bedroom, partially covered by the arrangement of silk flowers in a basket. It looked down on the bed and the dresser with the jewelry box on top. All of Marion’s diamonds were in that box. He hadn’t let her bring any of them on this trip, a pronouncement he was already regretting. The apology was half formed on his lips when the screen went from black to something else.

A light had been turned on. In their bedroom.

The stranger stood in the doorway, looking at a woman who was already lying on the bed. Waiting for him.

“That’s our bed,” Marion said. “That’s our bed.”

The man stepped forward. He stood over the woman and looked down at her for a long time.

Frank was about to pause the video. No need to see what came next. But Marion stopped him.

“What’s wrong with her?” she said. “Look at that woman, Frank . . .”

He looked closely. The woman was lying on her back, her hands folded together on her stomach. She wasn’t moving.

Her skin . . .

White. Like wax. Her mouth was open. Her eyes . . .

Staring at nothing.

“Oh my God,” Marion said. “That woman, she’s . . .”

She didn’t finish the thought.

She didn’t have to.

Frank and Marion Thompson sat in their cabin and watched the stranger in their bedroom as he began to take off his clothes.

Chapter One

There are some things a man should never have to see.

Roger Halliday had an older brother who’d done three tours in Vietnam. When he’d asked him what had happened over there, that’s what his brother had told him. Those exact words, and nothing more.

Forty plus years later, his brother long gone, Roger Halliday was an FBI agent taking his last lap before retirement. He’d started as a probie on an Evidence Response Team, put in some time with the Behavioral Analysis Unit before going mainline with the Criminal Investigative Division. So he’d seen his share of dead bodies, shot or stabbed or thrown off a thirty-two-story building onto the hood of a car.

But he’d never seen anything like this.

“How many times did you watch it?” his partner asked. Agent Juwan Cook, in the Bureau for eight years now. He was black, with a smooth head he shaved every morning and a thin mustache. Cook kept his eyes straight ahead as he drove.

“Three times,” Halliday said. The first time, it had been just a matter of getting through it. When it was done, he had watched it again. Twice. Looking for details. Doing his job.

Cook shook his head and kept driving.

The house was on the north side of Scottsdale, up by the McDowell Sonoran Preserve. One of those places you drive by and imagine yourself living someday, if you work long enough and are smart with your...