Murder 42 - A Thriller (Sarah King Mysteries Book 2) by Victor Methos
Authors: Victor Methos
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that contained his badge and spoke to one of the security personnel. The man nodded, and Gio walked back to Sarah.
“Let’s go, they’re letting us in.”
They hurried past the entrance and into a courtyard that contained restaurants and shops. Again, everything was perfect. She didn’t even see trash on the streets.
“How’d you do that?”
“Being a federal agent has its perks.”
California Adventure was closed, but they got to go on a Toy Story ride. It was clearly intended for small children, and Sarah had to admit she didn’t know what Toy Story was.
“Believe it or not, it’s actually a great movie. I saw it with my nephew.”
They didn’t speak as they ran around, begging whatever employee they could find to let them into their attraction. But it wasn’t lost on Sarah that they held hands nearly the entire time. The crew were cleaning the park, and Sarah managed to get some cotton candy from a vendor cleaning up when she saw the castle.
It was all exactly as she had pictured it, as though torn from her dreams—vivid colors and sharp spirals poking into the sky. Not as large as she had imagined but certainly as beautiful. They crossed the bridge into the castle, but the doors were closed. She ran into the courtyard and looked up from the other side.
“I feel like I’m five years old,” she said.
“This place’ll do that to you.”
She watched him, the way his hands casually dipped into his pockets, the gleam in his eyes from the lights, one foot lazily thrown behind the other. Utterly calm, utterly collected and together. Sarah ran to him, placed her hands on either side of his face, and kissed him.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling away.
“No, I’m glad you did it before I could.”
She smiled. “Thank you for this.”
He nodded and grinned. “You wanna see if we can sneak into ‘It’s a Small World’?”
20
The Sorenson Gallery sat in Laurel Canyon, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in all of Los Angeles. Expensive didn’t always translate to tasteful in Farkas’s opinion, but on this particular night it seemed to.
The gallery had been exquisitely decorated. His photographs and paintings adorned the walls, his sculptures occupied the centers of the rooms, and video loops ran in a special dark room. He had initially wanted a hallucinogenic fog to waft into the room out of the vents, maybe something laced with LSD to give the observers a truer experience of his art, but the owner of the gallery had refused. Small minds always had a way of blocking the path of great spirits .
Tonight he had dressed like a true artist. It was considered passé to call oneself an artist and certainly to attempt to dress like one, but he felt stereotypes were there for a reason—they were generally based in some aspect of reality. So he wore an all-white silk top, white silk pants, and a red scarf. The red splashed out away from him, diverting attention from his deformity. He stared through the windows first. He had decided that if it didn’t look every bit as amazing as he had hoped, he wouldn’t be making an appearance. He would just sneak away and not return anyone’s calls.
But to his pleasure, the gallery was all that he had hoped.
He entered without fanfare, and in fact didn’t want to be recognized right away. People’s reactions to art were more interesting than the art. That was always true, from the works of the great masters down to the lowliest graffiti artist in the ghettos.
Farkas noticed a young woman staring at one of his photographs. He stood behind her and just watched her reaction. The photograph was of a teenage boy holding a gun that had just been fired. At his feet lay the body of a young man only a few years older than he was, with a bloody wound in his head.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” he said.
She glanced at him. “That’s one word for it.”
“It’s in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Some of the militias recruit boys as young
“Let’s go, they’re letting us in.”
They hurried past the entrance and into a courtyard that contained restaurants and shops. Again, everything was perfect. She didn’t even see trash on the streets.
“How’d you do that?”
“Being a federal agent has its perks.”
California Adventure was closed, but they got to go on a Toy Story ride. It was clearly intended for small children, and Sarah had to admit she didn’t know what Toy Story was.
“Believe it or not, it’s actually a great movie. I saw it with my nephew.”
They didn’t speak as they ran around, begging whatever employee they could find to let them into their attraction. But it wasn’t lost on Sarah that they held hands nearly the entire time. The crew were cleaning the park, and Sarah managed to get some cotton candy from a vendor cleaning up when she saw the castle.
It was all exactly as she had pictured it, as though torn from her dreams—vivid colors and sharp spirals poking into the sky. Not as large as she had imagined but certainly as beautiful. They crossed the bridge into the castle, but the doors were closed. She ran into the courtyard and looked up from the other side.
“I feel like I’m five years old,” she said.
“This place’ll do that to you.”
She watched him, the way his hands casually dipped into his pockets, the gleam in his eyes from the lights, one foot lazily thrown behind the other. Utterly calm, utterly collected and together. Sarah ran to him, placed her hands on either side of his face, and kissed him.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling away.
“No, I’m glad you did it before I could.”
She smiled. “Thank you for this.”
He nodded and grinned. “You wanna see if we can sneak into ‘It’s a Small World’?”
20
The Sorenson Gallery sat in Laurel Canyon, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in all of Los Angeles. Expensive didn’t always translate to tasteful in Farkas’s opinion, but on this particular night it seemed to.
The gallery had been exquisitely decorated. His photographs and paintings adorned the walls, his sculptures occupied the centers of the rooms, and video loops ran in a special dark room. He had initially wanted a hallucinogenic fog to waft into the room out of the vents, maybe something laced with LSD to give the observers a truer experience of his art, but the owner of the gallery had refused. Small minds always had a way of blocking the path of great spirits .
Tonight he had dressed like a true artist. It was considered passé to call oneself an artist and certainly to attempt to dress like one, but he felt stereotypes were there for a reason—they were generally based in some aspect of reality. So he wore an all-white silk top, white silk pants, and a red scarf. The red splashed out away from him, diverting attention from his deformity. He stared through the windows first. He had decided that if it didn’t look every bit as amazing as he had hoped, he wouldn’t be making an appearance. He would just sneak away and not return anyone’s calls.
But to his pleasure, the gallery was all that he had hoped.
He entered without fanfare, and in fact didn’t want to be recognized right away. People’s reactions to art were more interesting than the art. That was always true, from the works of the great masters down to the lowliest graffiti artist in the ghettos.
Farkas noticed a young woman staring at one of his photographs. He stood behind her and just watched her reaction. The photograph was of a teenage boy holding a gun that had just been fired. At his feet lay the body of a young man only a few years older than he was, with a bloody wound in his head.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” he said.
She glanced at him. “That’s one word for it.”
“It’s in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Some of the militias recruit boys as young
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