Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Morning
Upstairs Wilde found a naked woman laying face down in bed on the top of the sheets. She was flipped the wrong way with her head at the bottom and her feet by the pillow. Her arms were sprawled out, her right knee was up and her legs were spread. He approached slowly trying to figure out if she was sleeping or dead. Her body had no movement and no sounds of breathing came from her mouth.
He was pretty sure she was dead even though he saw no blood or bruises.
Who did it?
Robert Mitchum?
Suddenly she moved.
Her head came up and flipped to the other side.
There was nothing wrong with her face.
It hadn’t been stabbed or punched.
She hadn’t been suffocated.
Her legs twisted around for a more comfortable position and then all movement stopped.
She was already back asleep.
Wilde stood coffin-quiet, breathing with an open mouth, letting her drift into an even deeper unconsciousness before he took a step. Just as he was about to tiptoe out, something bad happened. The woman rolled onto her back, raised her arms above her head and stretched. Her eyes opened but were faced the other way.
Four steps.
That’s how far Wilde was in the room.
There was no way he’d get out without making a sound. The floor was wood, his shoes were leather, his body was heavy.
He didn’t move, not a muscle.
Go back to sleep.
Go back to sleep.
Go back to sleep.
Suddenly the woman put a hand between her legs and massaged herself in a slow, steady motion. She closed her eyes and spread her knees.
It felt good.
Wilde was six feet away, directly behind the woman’s head. If she turned her face even a bit, or looked up at the ceiling, she’d probably pick him up in her peripheral vision.
The tempo of her motion increased.
Her legs stiffened and spread even farther.
Wilde was just about to take a step back when the woman’s eyes opened and pointed at the ceiling.
He didn’t dare move.
Any movement would be detected.
The woman moaned.