Whit cracked her fingers. This scenario was of a very powerful woman, at least in this community. That kind of wealth didn’t happen because Cordero was a sweetheart. Behind that tanned grin was a hard-core business woman with a great deal of influence and social persuasion. No doubt she possessed political sway as well.
Whit shared her information with George and asked, “Anything on your end, besides what I just told you about?”
“From her website, it looks like she’s sold homes to all the victims in the past five years. She’s also into some charity work. Habitat for Humanity, and she’s donated some land for a sports park.”
“That fits.”
George turned in his chair. “So who’s the savior?”
“A friend. A source that I can use only off the record. You understand? Never mention her name.”
George nodded solemnly.
Whit grabbed her phone and dialed Katie’s number. Riggs picked up on the second ring. “Hey, McKenna.”
“Hi, Riggs. You still on the Niki Francis case?”
“Yes.”
“Probably working the fire victim, Bo Delano, too?”
This time there was a small pause. “Yes.”
Whit could hear the smile in Katie’s voice. She was no dummy.
“So you’re working them together?”
“Okay, McKenna. What’s this about?”
“I need confirmation. I know Niki Francis and Bo Delano both had a nasty little tumor called a teratoma. Can you verify?”
“On the record?”
“Yes.”
“No. And I can’t imagine where you got that information.”
“I’m also suspicious of Isabel Rodriguez. She was complaining of the same symptoms before she ‘allegedly’ drowned in her pool. Did she also have a teratoma? And were they the result of a botched medical trial? And did that trial take place under Dr. Heinemann’s care at Eden Retreat?”
“You’ve been busy.” She sighed into the phone. “This is an ongoing investigation; you know I can’t talk about it. Unless, of course, you have something vital that could help the department?”
Whit smiled and waved George closer to the phone. He leaned in to listen next to her ear, which she allowed so he could back her up with Stu. “I not only have a trade, but you may even be able to catch the killer in the act.”
Silence greeted her statement for several seconds. “That’s a lot of information to confirm.”
“What if you just confirm that all three victims had teratomas? I can take care of the rest.”
“What kind of trade do you have exactly?”
“I think I know who the next victim is going to be.” She heard Riggs cover the phone with her hand and speak to someone else. The voices were muffled, so she couldn’t hear what was being said.
“Detective Panetta and I are out of town right now. But I can call Blackwell and get immediate protection. How certain are you?”
“Based on all the evidence, I’d say ninety percent.”
“All right. Who is it?”
“So you’re confirming that Francis, Delano, and Rodriguez all had teratomas?”
“Off the record?”
“No direct attribution. A police source.”
“Then … I confirm.”
Whit grinned at George, holding up her hand for a high-five. “Okay. I think Celeste Cordero is next on the killer’s list. Do you know who she is?”
“Yes. Are you sure about this?”
“Like I said, based on the evidence.” She filled Riggs in on the details of Irene’s story and her own research. “Cordero is a high roller. The kind that I’d say could maybe get themselves into trouble and no doubt buy or bully their way out of it. But this time, I think the stakes are very high for someone.”
“That does make sense.” Another long pause. “I think you might be right. Thanks. I’m calling Blackwell right now. I hope you’re right, McKenna, because this feels like a free fall for me. My career could take a big hit if you’re wrong.”
“I’d bet all my money I’m right, Riggs. Besides, I value our friendship more than any breaking story.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Whit hung up and grabbed George by the arm. “Come with me, but whatever you do, don’t mention my source’s name. Not ever, to anyone.” The clock on the wall said it was almost ten thirty. She’d have to write fast. Dragging George into Stu’s office, she entered without knocking.
Stu was hunched in front of his computer pouring over stories submitted for the Sunday edition, shaking his head. “These stringers are going to be the death of me. Sloppy. Sloppy.” He straightened and slurped some coffee from the now-cold mug.
“I have it. Confirmation.”
He looked dubious and glanced at his watch. “You’ve only been gone thirty minutes.”
“My police source confirmed that all three victims have teratomas. Off the record, of course.” She nudged George in front of her. “Tell him, George.”
George raised his hand. “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Stu snapped. “Keep it pithy.”
George sniffed. “Yes, sir. Mrs. McKenna’s source said the words: ‘I confirm.’”
Suspicious as always, Stu asked Whit, “A minute ago you had nothin’. What’d you trade? No way you pried that out of them without something hot.”
Smiling like a Cheshire cat, she leaned on his desk and whispered, “I told them who the next victim is likely to be.”
Stu bounced out of his chair, spilling his cold coffee. “Who is it? We gotta get people over there while you write.”
CHAPTER
24
FLUORESCENT LIGHTS BUZZED overhead, the room chilly as Riggs and Panetta stepped through the door. Every surface gleamed white except for the steel tables in the center of the room. The metallic coppery scent of blood, stringent formaldehyde, and other chemicals were familiar smells to Riggs.
Pete Figoni stood hunched over one of the dissection tables. A tall, lanky man in his early thirties, he reminded Riggs of Abraham Lincoln, with the exception of the scraggly goatee. He was in the process of incising the brain of a cadaver, seemingly unaware of the detectives, the faint sounds of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” droned from an iPod tucked into his white surgical jacket.
His scalpel sliced and separated the cerebral hemispheres of a cadaver, watery blood oozing between Figoni’s gloved fingers. He fixed the left half in buffered formaldehyde, then drained and set the bisected brain in a petri dish with sterile cell culture. His movements were precise. Riggs thought he might have made a good surgeon and wondered why he hadn’t finished his education. According to Lillian at HR, he had been a promising medical student at NYU.
“Mr. Figoni?” Riggs stepped forward, mindful of the blood splatters on the floor, and waved her badge in front of his vision.
Figoni glanced up, his scalpel poised over the cadaver brain. His gaze darted back and forth nervously from Panetta to Riggs. He slowly removed his lime-green earbuds.
Panetta leaned against the counter. “I’m Detective Panetta; this is ME Detective Riggs. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Figoni nodded and flexed back and forth on his heels, stretching his legs. “What’s this about?”
“We saw you at Human Resources an hour ago,” Panetta continued. “Actually, your van cut us off at the road to Human Resources. You might want to slow down.”
Riggs, sensing a pissing match, spoke up. “We are investigating a murder in Medford. We were told you travel to Medford in the course of your job, is that true?”
With a nod, Figoni said, “Yeah, man. Once a week or so, depending, I go to the hospitals. Got a girl there I hang with, so sometimes I spend the night.”
Panetta raised his brows at this. “Who is this girl?”
“Izzie.” Figoni flashed a lascivious grin. “She’s got all the curves in the right places, you know.” He used his hands like an hourglass,
the scalpel dropping a splash of blood on the floor. “Double Ds, you know.”
Riggs suppressed her distaste. “What is Izzie’s last name and phone number?”
“Her last name’s Thompson. She works at the movie theater. Tinseltown. That’s where I met her. So, I still don’t understand the whole intel probe thing. I’m just a grunt.”
“Just covering our bases.” Riggs had had enough. She hated subterfuge, and this guy was obviously feigning stupidity. “Her number?”
He rattled it off while Riggs wrote it down.
“What would I have to do with your investigation anyway?”
Panetta folded his arms and leaned back as if he had all night. “You’ve heard of the Niki Francis murder? We’re investigating that. We know that Human Resources works with embryonic stem cells. Do you have any knowledge of that?”
“Yeah. Sure. I know what HR does.” He massaged his goatee. “But hey, I’m just the slice-and-dice guy. I’m not, like, privy to the stem cell work. I just deliver the body parts.”
“So you don’t have access to stem cells?” Riggs pressed.
“No! I mean, no. I travel all over, well, in a two-hundred-mile radius. I work at night mostly, ’cause it’s more convenient to access the morgues. My job is just to collect body parts. I have no idea what goes on in the whole science gismo world at HR.”
Riggs shared a glance with Panetta. Neither of them was buying the I’m a dummy routine. Riggs said, “I spoke with Lillian Gray. She read your personnel file. You were on the dean’s list at NYU. Why did you quit with only a year left to finish?”
With careful deliberation, Figoni removed his gloves and walked to the counter, pulling out a small paper cup and filling it with water from the faucet. He took a drink. “Not sure what this has to do with the whole Niki Francis thing, but when I was a third-year, my parents were in a really nasty car accident. A pileup on I-5. My dad died at the scene, but my mom, she …” He sighed, clearly struggling with the story. “Look, I’m an only child. Late-in-life kind of thing. So when my mom was hospitalized, I left college to be with her, and she was on life support for five weeks. I lost all that time at school. Then, when she finally got better, she needed long-term care. Brain damage. So I ended up at HR. It pays the bills, man. You know?”
For all his scruffy looks, Riggs decided he understood more than he let on; his demeanor was more facade than reality. She could see this was not going to get any better, so she handed him her card, in the process picking up the distinctive scent of pot, which made her think that maybe she was wrong and he might simply have lost his ambition after his parents’ accident and become a pothead. “If you think of anything that might tie in to our investigation of embryonic stem cell use, call us?”
“Yeah, sure. Right on.” He pocketed the card and reached into a box on the counter for more gloves.
They turned to leave, but Riggs looked back as the door closed and watched as Figoni popped the earbuds back into place.
“All right, the Beatles!” He sang cheerfully, “All you need is love, love is all you need.” He sprayed the table as the remains swirled to the end and were sucked into the disposal, which hissed and gulped as Riggs left the room.
CHAPTER
25
REGGIE SNORTED IN Whit’s ear, dragging her from a deep sleep. For the first time in months she awakened with no anxiety. She yawned and stretched lazily. Sunlight streamed through the window blinds into her bedroom. Reggie slept against her, upside down, his jowls hanging open, paws peeking out of the covers. This was weirdly comforting. Her eyes drooped closed again, and then the door flew open.
“Mother … you have to see this!” It was Emma, in her Hello Kitty nightgown; at fifteen, her figure was anything but childlike now. Where had her baby gone?
Emma spread out the Medford Daily Chronicle on the bed. “Check it out!”
Niki Francis and Two Local Attorneys Victims of Serial Killer Dubbed ‘Dr. Frankenstein’
Police search frantically for more victims who have deadly ‘monster’ tumor
Emma perched on the bed beside Reggie, who was wide awake now and trying to turn over. “Priceless headline, Mother!”
Whit cringed at seeing the headline in print once again. “I begged Stu not to write that. It sounds like tabloid trash.”
“I especially love the monster tumor part. It’s gruesome!”
“You sound like George.”
“Love the teratoma pic, too! Where’s Jordan? She’s not in her room.”
“I let her take your dad’s camera equipment to the coast. She left early this morning, picking up some girlfriends on the way. She was hell-bent on taking some sunrise photos for a photography competition. I hope she’s all right.”
Whit half regretted that decision, but if all went well, Jordan would be back later this evening. Photos were an avenue of escape for Jordan. They gave her a sense of companionship with her father even though he wasn’t here. It was certainly a better way to channel her grief than pot.
Emma grunted. “I’m sure she’s just fine. She’s like a goat. Who wants to traverse cliffs and cling to dirt on the sides of mountains anyway? It’s not even slightly sanitary or progressive. Ugh!”
Whit yawned and stretched, trying to remember whether everything in her teen years was so dramatic. “What time is it?”
“Almost eight.”
Streaks of sunlight shimmered on Emma’s long blonde hair as she teased Reggie, tickling him under the chin. Whit reached out and tucked Emma’s hair behind an ear. She loved her so much. John had called her Princess because she was so much more prissy than Jordan. How could she have given birth to two complete opposite personalities? And she loved them equally. With all the stories she’d written in her career … what felt like a lifetime of sorrow and sin, war and famine, accidents and heartaches … could she ever think of her girls as safe?
She sighed. Sitting up, Whit asked, “What do you say to breakfast burritos?”
“Sure! Put extra cheese on mine.”
Reggie had escaped the covers and now licked and chewed on Emma’s fingers, his tail wagging happily, while his paws held her hand down.
“Do me a favor and give Reggie a quick walk while I make breakfast.”
Emma grimaced. “Do I have to?”
“Yes. He gets so tired of being cooped up in here. If you don’t take him now, it will be too hot. The temperature today is supposed to be a hundred and eight again. This heat wave has been unrelenting.”
Emma rolled over onto her stomach and pretended to sleep. Whit smacked her bottom. “Now get going.”
She howled in mock pain and rolled off the bed. “Violence is never the answer.”
“Ha-ha.”
Whit grabbed her robe and headed to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later she was in the kitchen after a quick shower and dressed in a tailored soft-yellow skirt and white sleeveless blouse. She had yet to put on her makeup, but she could do that after breakfast.
Her phone rang. “McKenna.”
“Mrs. McKenna, my name is Celeste Cordero. I have to talk to you about the story you wrote in this morning’s paper. In private.”
“Wait. I thought you spoke to the police last night. Why do you want to speak to me?”
“No. I didn’t talk to them. I had a minor accident last night and had to get some stitches. The police somehow found me at the hospital, but I refused to talk with them.”
Whit’s heart sank. If Cordero had not cooperated with the police, then Katie would have been left high and dry. No proof that her lead was legitimate. She could possibly be in serious trouble for misdirecting the investigation. She’d have to call her as soon as she hung up.
“Did you have anything to do with the stem cell injections?”
“All I can tell you is that I have some very important information to share with you. I need to meet in person.”
Given what she knew of this woman, there was no way she was some kind of innocent bystander. She was a soc
ial manipulator who held all the strings, with enough power to enforce her will on everyone around her while pretending a generous benevolence.
Whit decided she had to warn her anyway. “If you were involved, you do realize you could be in danger?”
“Yes, of course. That’s why I’m calling you.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is strictly off the record. Our name cannot be anywhere near this story. The election is in just a few weeks. I have a business reputation to maintain. You understand?”
Thank God for politicians.
“Yes. I understand.”
“Good. Can you meet me at my cabin at Lake of the Woods? About two PM today? Alone. I can text you the address.”
Whit hesitated. She had no idea how involved Cordero was with the medical trial or how desperate she might be.
Cordero continued with a veiled threat. “I hope I can count on you to keep my name out of it. Mr. Arenburg, who I’m sure you know, owns the Medford Chronicle, and I are old friends. He would not be happy with a reporter who exposed someone off the record. You understand?”
“Text me the address. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Whit hung up. Cordero was just as she’d imagined. All that primping and preening in those photos was just a facade for a duplicitous heart. It was hard to imagine Cordero as a victim. She’d soon find out what her part in all of this was about, though she didn’t expect the truth. No, that would come later after some more digging. But for now, this interview was a good start. Maybe she could give her lead to Riggs and make up for the debacle last night.
Another front-page story and an exclusive. Three known deaths could be attributed to this madman, and she suspected there might be others.
CHAPTER
26
BLURRY-EYED, RIGGS AND Panetta arrived back in Medford by eight fifteen in the morning. They pulled into the sheriff’s headquarters and headed straight for the conference room, where Blackwell and the MADIU team were waiting.
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