Turning his attention from the screens, he crossed the small room and ended up at his dresser. With the glimmering blue light from the screens as a backdrop, he saw his face reflected harshly in the cracked mirror. He’d aged so much in the past few weeks, he was nearly unrecognizable to himself. Which, he decided, was good. For he wouldn’t be easily recognized by others. With or without his elaborate disguises.
Besides, it was time to unmask himself.
To face the world.
To make his ultimate point.
He glanced down at the stained top of the bureau and remembered how that blood had been spilled, how this dark spot in the wood had become sacred to him. Delicately, he touched one drop, then another, using a swirling motion, feeling the oak finish and the blood, once hot, that had pooled there. It was almost as if it pulsed beneath his fingertips. Faster and faster he rubbed the stain. Sharp images of the past, of spraying blood and shrieks and dying rushed through his head.
So much blood.
So much pain.
Twelve-year-old screams resounded in his ears, echoing eerily, urging him on.
Closing his eyes, he mentally focused on his mission.
All the recent killings were only practice.
Now was the time for the coup de grâce.
The clues he’d sent had been a smoke screen. There had been enough truth in the notes to keep the cops interested, but also to throw them off. They were busy protecting and offering surveillance to the remaining jurors in the trial, but they were wasting their time, disbursing manpower to remote locations.
He smiled. Rubbing the bloodstains gave him strength.
Power. Reminded him of his purpose.
Now.
Tonight.
It had to be done.
For the first time in a dozen years, he unlocked the top drawer. His eyes remained closed, his heart pounding rapidly, his pulse leaping in anticipation as he pulled. The old drawer stuck, but he yanked harder and it squeaked open.
Gingerly, he reached inside.
His fingers encountered the long leather sheath and he unbuckled it eagerly, suddenly anxious, knowing the end was so close. He had to force himself to slow down, extracting as much pleasure as possible as he slid the hunting knife from its case.
Then he opened his eyes.
Gazed down at the shiny honed blade, then tested it on his own palm.
A thin crimson line appeared upon his skin. Blood oozing. Another scar in the making.
It was perfect.
CHAPTER 28
“I thought I made it clear that you were off this investigation,” Katherine Okano stated angrily from the throne that was her desk chair. She was polishing her glasses so furiously that Reed thought the lenses might pop out of the frames. “Or did you conveniently forget, Detective?”
“I remembered,” he said tightly.
“And yet, there you are, big as life, caught on film. When we nail the killer what do you think his defense lawyer is going to come up with? Footage of one of the victim’s lovers at a crime scene and proof that you were there when Barbara Marx’s body was found along with the little nugget that you were her baby’s father. Won’t
that
be the reason you might contaminate or embellish the evidence to convict?” She stopped rubbing her glasses long enough to give him a long, hard stare. “You know I gave Morrisette specific instructions about you, so it’s not just your ass that’s in a sling right now. She’s jeopardizing the case by keeping you privy to what’s going on.”
“The Grave Robber addresses his notes to me.”
“Big deal. Just stop, Reed, and stop now or I’ll have to ask for your badge.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Searching his pocket, he came up with the wallet that held his police ID and badge. With a flick of his wrist, the leather case slid across her desk to land in front of her trademark glass of some iced-coffee concoction. “It’s not Morrisette’s fault. I coerced her.”
“My ass.” She settled her glasses on the bridge of her sharp nose. “You’re not getting off this easy, Reed.” She pushed the wallet back to him. “Just lay low. I’ll see how I can handle this.”
“And here I thought you didn’t care,” he mocked.
“Don’t push me.”
Picking up his ID, he started for the door. “Wouldn’t dream of it, K.O.,” he said, knowing he was lying through his teeth.
The day had been hell. After renting a car, Nikki had driven home and walked an excited and uproariously enthusiastic Mikado. Watching the dog scamper, chase squirrels and eagerly bark at strangers only reminded Nikki that she’d never see Simone again. Never hear her voice. Never stand her up.
But you can do something. You can help catch this creep. Put him away. He communicates with you.
And you can take care of her dog. She would have wanted that.
Though Jennings had been obviously miffed with the new little interloper, Nikki had decided that Mikado was to become a permanent addition to the family.
Leaving the dog and cat to sort things out, she finally drove to work and upon arriving was accosted at the coatrack by Tom Fink. “Nikki,” he said in a hushed tone as she draped her scarf over an empty hook. “Can you spare a minute?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Let’s go to my office.”
As they walked through the cubicles, she felt everyone’s eyes upon her, sensed the curiosity in their gazes. Trina didn’t even look up as she passed. Norm Metzger eyed her as if she were the enemy and Kevin studied her from beneath the rim of a baseball cap. Even the ever ebullient and inefficient Celeste stared openly as Tom escorted her into his office. It seemed to Nikki that all clicking of computer keys, ringing of phones and gentle buzz of conversation ceased as she walked by. The newspaper offices sounded more like an elevator with only the soft chords of piped-in music disturbing the silence.
“What’s going on?” she asked as Tom waved her into a side chair and took his seat behind the desk.
“That’s what I’d like to know.” He tented his hands in front of him and balanced his chin on his thumbs. “Something’s up. Something major. You’re getting notes from the killer, your apartment was broken into and now one of your best friends has become a victim of the killer you named the Grave Robber; have I got that right?”
“I thought the police weren’t releasing the names of the most current victims until the next of kin had been notified.”
“They have been. Simone Everly’s parents have already heard the news as have Tyrell Demonico Brown’s sister, kids and ex-wife.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“Yes.”
“Because we make sure it does.”
“We, as in the paper? Oh, God, Nikki, don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed a conscience.”
“I like to think I always had one.”
“To report the news one has to be unbiased. Completely,” he said and she sensed something bad was coming at her. Something with the velocity of a freight train. “Simone Everly was a friend of yours, wasn’t she? Engaged to your brother years ago?” he asked, then, as if he were suddenly aware that he was coming on too strong, added, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what happened.”
“Are you?” she shot back.
“Of course. This is an awful thing. Awful. It’s no wonder you feel defensive.”
“Defensive?” Where was this coming from?
“I wouldn’t blame you if you threw in the towel.”
She didn’t respond, just waited. Sooner or later Tom would get to his point, the reason he’d pounced upon her the minute she’d walked into the office and started taking off her coat and scarf.
“Because of your relationship with Simone Everly and the Grave Robber, we have a unique opportunity here at the
Sentinel.
”
“We?” she repeated.
“Mmm. Let’s turn the tables around a bit,” he said, moving his hands rapidly in two circular motions. “Instead of you doing the interview, you’ll be interviewed.”
This was getting worse by the minute.
“Norm can do an in-depth article about Simone, you, and the Grave Robber, kind of a full-circle thing. It’ll focus on your relationship with the killer and one of his victims.”
“No way. Tom, don’t—” But he was already on his feet, tapping at the glass window and motioning someone in. A second later Norm Metzger slipped through the door. He was carrying a recorder, a pen, and a thick, virgin notepad without so much as an apostrophe on the pages.
“Nikki,” he said, dipping his head but unable to conceal his smarmy smile.
“Tom told me about the article,” she said and forced a replica of his grin.
“Great.”
“I think I should start with a statement.”
“Good idea,” he said, though there was a new wariness in his tone. “What kind of statement?”
Nikki stood and kicked back her chair. “It’s pretty simple and straightforward.”
“Nikki—” Tom warned.
“Here it is, Metzger. When Ms. Gillette was asked about the death of her friend Simone Everly, her only response was a clipped, clear ‘No comment!’”
And then she was outta there.
Reed stopped by the station, then drove to the funeral home where Barbara Jean Marx’s life was being reviewed and relived by a young preacher who pronounced her name incorrectly and had to keep checking his notes as he spoke about her. It was a pathetic service. Low-budget and low-key despite the bevy of reporters camped outside the small chapel. He recognized most of them, including Norm Metzger from the
Sentinel
, but the one he was searching for wasn’t around. Apparently Nikki Gillette couldn’t stomach a funeral so soon after Simone’s murder.
He didn’t blame her. But Reed thought that the least he could do was pay his respects to the woman who’d been pregnant with his child and surreptitiously scan the mourners to see if any of the grief-stricken might be the killer. Morrisette and Siebert were in attendance as well, checking for a party crasher, a guy who got his jollies by killing his victims by dumping them into already-occupied coffins, then attending the funeral to check out the ravages of his deeds and feel superior in the knowledge that no one but he knew that he was the reason the victim was dead, the catalyst for the funeral itself.
But he didn’t know many of Bobbi’s friends or acquaintances. He spied Jerome Marx who seemed less sad than annoyed that he had to attend the service, a couple of undercover cops, some of the people she had worked with, but that was all.
It was a small, straggling, nervous group that listened to the inept preacher, bowed their heads in prayer and struggled with the words to a couple of obscure hymns. All in all, it was a depressing affair.
Afterwards, he decided not to approach Morrisette. There was just no reason to drag her into deeper trouble. She was already wading knee-deep in that particular muck as it was.
Outside the chapel, the wind was blowing full force, holding the rain at bay but stinging as it hit his face and hands. He drove to the graveyard where, once again, Barbara Jean Marx was buried. Fewer mourners gathered at the grave site and he observed them silently, wondering how they knew her, if some of the men had been her lovers, if any of them knew her killer.
“…God be with you,” the preacher said finally and Jerome Marx approached the casket, placing a rose and something shiny—the ring that the kid had found in Dahlonega—upon the flower draped casket. With that, he turned and left and the mourners dispersed just as the rain began to fall.
She was steamed as she cleaned out her desk. The gall of Tom Fink. In league with Norm Metzger, that slimeball. Why she had expected more, she didn’t know, but she had.
“This is a mistake,” Trina said, rolling back her chair. “You’re tired. You’ve suffered a tremendous loss and yeah, Norm and Tom are jerks, but you don’t want to quit.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Nikki threw a jumble of pens and a notepad into the smallest of the three dilapidated boxes she’s procured from the mail room. “I’ve wanted to get out of here for a long time. Now I have an excuse.”
“But you need this job.”
“No one needs this job,” she said as she tossed in two coffee mugs, a nameplate and her Rolodex.
“What’s going on?” a male voice asked from behind her and she nearly jumped out of her chair.
Kevin, earphones in place, was only a foot behind her. “God, don’t you ever knock?” she said and when he didn’t get the joke, didn’t bother to explain.
“Nikki quit,” Trina said.
“Quit? You?” His dark eyes flashed.
“That’s right. Time for a change,” she said and noticed Norm Metzger lurking on the other side of the stub wall.
He peered over the top, only his eyes and forehead showing.
“I’ve thought a lot of things about you over the years, Gillette, but I never figured you for a quitter.”
She was bristly. Tired. On the edge, but she bit back a retort about what he could do with himself. “Guess you were wrong,” she said as she swept some papers and files from the last drawer and dumped them into the largest of the boxes surrounding her desk chair. She dusted her hands. “That about does it.”
“Don’t you have to give two weeks’ notice?” Kevin asked and she offered him a pained, I-don’t-believe-I-just-heard-that expression.
“If Tom wants, I’ll come in every day and warm this chair, but, really, I imagine he’ll be glad I’m not here in his face.”
“I just can’t believe you’re going.” Trina’s usual smile was missing and her eyes were stone-cold sober. “Things won’t be the same.”
“Maybe they’ll be better.” Nikki winked at her.
“Yeah, right.”
“Need a hand with the boxes?” Kevin asked and Nikki nearly took him up on his offer, then thought better of it. “Thanks. I think I can manage.”
“That’s what I like about you,” Norm said. “Belligerent to the end.”
“Stuff it, Metzger.” She slung the strap of her purse over one shoulder and picked up the largest of the boxes, then met Trina’s gaze. “I’ll call you later,” she promised and vowed that she would do just that as she marched down the hallway and to the outside door where the afternoon was already dark, evening quick approaching.