by Banks, R. R.
But that's fine. It's the name of the game. Just like in sports, players make a name for themselves, build their brand, and then jump when a big, fat carrot is dangled in front of them. I don't begrudge anyone trying to make a better life for themselves and their families. It's the nature of the beast – and something I have profited from quite nicely over the years.
While working for me, however, they can help me build a rock-solid foundation for this paper. They can help me grow the brand. One, I hope, that endures and never stops growing and evolving.
It's stupid, but when I first started CEM – and again, now that I'm taking over the paper – I find myself thinking about my legacy. I mean, I built the agency up into something fantastic, and I hope to do the same with the paper. It got me thinking that it would be nice to hand it off to my children one day.
I've never been the settle down, get married, have a family type. But, seeing these businesses through their infancies, nurturing them, and watching them grow, has definitely made me see things a little differently. It’s changed my attitude in subtle ways. Not that I have a reason to think about kids right now, anyway.
“Did she say how long she needs to think about it?” I ask.
Ava shakes her head. “I told her to take a few days,” she replies. “Which is fine. I need to finish up these other employee evals and see where we are in terms of staff anyway. We have some time before the staff is finalized.”
I run a hand through my hair, feeling a flash of irritation. Honestly, I thought she would have jumped at the chance to come back. She seemed so distraught about losing her gig with the paper, and though she didn't say it, I knew Emma was afraid she had lost out on her dream job. That she'd never get another bite at the apple.
As somebody who has lost their dream job, I know it’s something I never want Emma to experience.
“You know, full disclosure here,” Ava says, “I bristled at you demanding I hire her. I don't like being told how to staff my office. It takes a level of trust between editor and writer. And to be perfectly honest, the fact that you're forcing this girl on me made my trust in her practically nonexistent.”
I shrug. “My paper,” I say. “My rules.”
“Fair enough,” she says. “Doesn't mean I have to like it though.”
“Is there a reason you object to her?” I ask. “Other than the fact that I want her here?”
She flashes me a sardonic grin. “Strangely enough, no,” she says. “I actually quite like her. She's tough. She's smart as a whip, and very talented as a writer. She made that dry, boring police blotter crap she was forced to write actually sound interesting.”
“Right?” I ask and chuckle.
“What is she to you though?” Ava asks, her eyes boring into mine. “I mean, why are you so insistent on having her on staff?”
“She's a kid who needs a break,” I say.
“That's all it is?”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing,” she says. “I'm not implying anything. I'll just ask you straight out – are you trying to force her on me because you're sleeping with her?”
I look at her for a long moment, a ribbon of anger winding itself around my insides, squeezing me tight. It takes balls of steel to look me in the eye and ask me that question. I must give Ava some credit and respect for that – the woman is fearless.
“Frankly, I don't think that's any of your business.”
“Actually, it is,” she says. “I need to be able to operate a functioning, efficient, and professional newsroom. To do that, I can't have any kind of personal drama in here. Now, you've set some lofty goals for me, and if you –”
I hold my hand up to cut her off before she can get rolling. “Again, although I appreciate your concern, it's an inappropriate question.”
“With all due respect –”
“Let me just assure you that there is nothing inappropriate between Emma and me.”
Not that I don't want there to be. Not that I'm not going to do everything in my power to make it happen. Emma sparked something in me I've never felt before.
She may have rebuffed me the first time, but I'm not going to let her go that easily. I want her – whether Ava likes it or not.
“Then what is it about her?” Ava presses. “I mean, I have a hard time believing you read one of her clips – as well-written as they are – and decided to buy a paper just because she was out of a job.”
If she only knew how close she was to the money with that flippant remark. Not that I'm going to tell her that, of course. But, I know I have to give her something.
“Fine. Full disclosure,” I say, knowing good and well that’s a lie. “I was a friend of the family growing up. I knew Emma when she was a kid. Her brother was my best friend back in high school. I went away to college, and you know how those things go. I haven't seen her since she was like – eleven, maybe? I reconnected with them at their father's funeral recently and learned that she'd lost her job here. She seemed pretty torn up about it, actually. So, I –”
“So, you bought a newspaper, so she'd have a job?” she asked, astonishment in her voice.
“Not exactly.”
She laughs, a rich, throaty sound. “That's sort of what it sounds like.”
I shift in my seat and take a drink from the bottle of water I'm holding. “Truthfully, I was bored. Burned out. I needed a change,” I say. “It just so happened that my interests aligned with Emma's in this instance. I decided to take a leap of faith.”
“That's quite a leap,” she says. “Given, that you know nothing about the industry.”
“That's why I hired you,” I say. “You're going to teach me. I already built one company in an industry I knew nothing about, and today it's thriving. I plan to do that here as well.”
“You're an ambitious one, I'll give you that.”
“If you're not swinging for the fences in life, are you even living?” I ask.
She gives me a small nod and a smile. “I suppose not,” she says. “I respect your tenacity.”
“Thank you.”
“But, I also have to warn you that there will be some bumpy times ahead as you settle into this new role.”
“I anticipate having some rough patches,” I say.
“I just don't want you to think you can stroll in here, wave a magic wand, and replicate the kind of success you had with your other business.”
“I'm going into this with my eyes open,” I say. “I assure you. I know there is every chance this paper ends up folding. My goal is to make sure that doesn't happen.”
Ava gives me a long, even look. I can tell she's sizing me up. Trying to see what makes me tick. She's a very sharp woman. The type who can dissect you in an instant just by looking at you. I can tell that she doesn't miss much. She's thorough and dedicated. Which is one reason I'm glad she's heading up the team here.
“Okay,” she says. “I'm sold.”
“Sold?”
A bubbly laugh escapes her throat. “Honestly, part of me thought that this was just some hobby for you. A side project of sorts. Something to do to pass the time. You have the money, so why not take a stab at something different, right?” she says. “If it doesn't work out, no big deal, just cut your losses and move on to the next thing that sounds fun.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now, I think I can see what drives you,” she says. “I can tell that you're competitive. You're not going to get complacent. I can tell that you'll do anything in your power to turn this ship around and make it successful. Mostly, just for the gratification of it – not necessarily because journalism is a burning passion of yours. I almost think you want to make this paper a success just so you can go back and rub it in the noses of the people who questioned you.”
I let out a rueful laugh. I'm right about her. Ava doesn't miss a single thing. I can see why she was such a good reporter – she has a keen eye.
“You got me,” I say. “I can't deny any of that.”
“Nothing wrong with it. I'm not judging,” she says. “I'm just making some observations. The one thing I will say though, is that one day, you're going to have to find motivation that isn’t fueled by proving other people wrong. One day, you're going to need to find satisfaction, if only within yourself. I mean, ten years from now, if the paper is running strong, I predict that you'll grow bored – just as you did with your agency. And after that, you'll move on to another challenge. And another. And another. You're never going to be satisfied until you can find something inside yourself to be satisfied with.”
“Wow,” I say and chuckle. “I didn't realize I was coming in for a therapy session.”
She smiles and shakes her head. “Apologies. Sometimes, I just get rolling and can't seem to stop myself.”
“No, it's okay,” I say. “I think you're right. And who knows? Maybe, if this paper starts to perform, this is the thing that will bring me that sense of satisfaction.”
“Maybe so,” she says, though I can hear in her voice that she doesn't believe me.
“Anyway,” I say. “Thanks for the chat. But, I now have a wayward journalist to wrangle.”
“And how are you going to do that?” she asks, clearly amused. “Emma's going to be difficult to convince.”
“I have an idea, actually,” I say, as a plan starts coming together in my head. “And I may need a little help from you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Emma
I'm sitting in my car, parked up the street from Carlyle Hawkins' place. It's a little after nine in the evening, and most of the houses on the quiet residential street are already dark. Initially, I was going to just drive by to check the place out. Get my mind refocused on the case. But, the first trip out, the lights were still on, and I could see him moving around through the front windows. Hawkins lives alone now. His wife passed of breast cancer a few years back, and his one child – his daughter McKenzie – goes to school somewhere on the East Coast.
I click on my digital recorder and bring it to my mouth. “Subject is fifty-four-year-old Carlyle Hawkins. Former teacher, business owner, well-respected figure in Long Beach,” I say. “Does a considerable amount of philanthropic work – underprivileged kids, coats for the needy, and various other charities. Has a sterling reputation. Also has a connection to at least three of the known victims.”
I have all this information in my notebooks at home already, but as I get reacquainted with the case, I feel like going over all the basic information again will help me fill in the details and flesh out my narrative. Whether or not I go back to the Times Daily or publish my own blog, I will tell this story.
But, I want to tell it right. Which means, I need to be thorough. I can't miss a single thing or make any false assumptions. I want this story to be clean, and I want it to be done right. After all, one way or another, this is the story that's going to launch my career. Or sink it, if I screw it all up – which is something I don't even want to think about.
I'm stopped on the street, because as I cruised by Carlyle's place, I realized a unique opportunity had presented itself. As I passed, I saw him loading bags into his car, which made me think he was heading out on a trip. Maybe overnight, maybe multiple days, I don't know for certain.
All I do know is that his house is going to be empty for at least a little while. That gives me the chance to go have a closer look at a man I think is a vicious serial killer, even if it is slightly illegal. I also know I can’t use any of the evidence I’ve obtained from this unless I want to go to jail myself.
I sink lower in my seat and pull the hat down over my forehead as his car pulls out of the driveway. I don't know why, but I hold my breath until he passes. It's silly and paranoid. He doesn't think anybody suspects him of these murders, and he sure as hell doesn't know who I am, but I still don't want him to see me.
I know serial killers stereotypically have high intelligence, and the last thing I want to do is set off warning bells in the guy's head by seeing me sitting in a car in the dark, right down the street from his house. I seriously do not want to land myself on the radar of a man who has murdered several women. Allegedly.
I need to remember that. As of now, I have no proof. I must remember that even though my gut screams that he’s guilty, until proven otherwise, Carlyle Hawkins is an innocent man. My assumptions and my gut could be wildly off base here. I've never tracked a serial killer before, and I could be overlooking the obvious and making some fatal rookie mistakes.
So, if Carlyle never catches wind of my investigation, and I do my due diligence, and don't find a concrete connection between him and the victims, then I can quietly turn my attention elsewhere.
As I watch his taillights dwindle in the distance, then turn a corner, and disappear, I feel my stomach lurch and churn. I know his house is empty. There's nobody there. Yet, I'm still a little scared to go through with it.
“You need this,” I say out loud, giving myself a pep talk. “Suck it up and get it done. In and out. C'mon, Em.”
I take several deep breaths, letting them out as slowly as possible, trying to steady my nerves as best as I can. Of all the things I imagined myself doing tonight, breaking and entering was not one of them. But hey, as a journalist, I can't pass up an opportunity when one as juicy as this shows itself. This is going to give me an invaluable look at who Carlyle Hawkins is when not in the public eye.
I get out of the car and quietly close the door behind me. I look up and down the street, focusing on the darkened windows, searching for faces peering out of the blackness at me. Confident that I'm not being observed, I walk briskly across the street, then make my way to the gate that leads to Carlyle's backyard.
The gate opens with a faint squeak. I pull it closed behind me and make my way toward the back, following the rock path along the side of the house. For as affluent as he is, Carlyle's house isn't all that big. Two stories, and four or five bedrooms, tops. It's a nice house, don't get me wrong. And a heck of a lot bigger than the one I grew up in. But, for somebody of his means, I would have expected something a little larger. A little grander.
But then, given that it's just him, I suppose he probably doesn't need all that much.
I try all the doors at the back of the house and find none of them unlocked. Of course. Luckily for me, I ran around with a group of troublemakers when I was younger, so I picked up a few things – things that would probably mortify my father, but are coming in handy right now.
Slipping the small case out of the back pocket of my black jeans, I squat down and use my lockpicking tools to make short work of the door. The lock clicks open, giving me access inside. I stare at it for a moment, surprised I got it open in less than ten seconds.
“Damn,” I mutter, impressed with myself.
It's been a very long time since I've picked a lock, and I expected to be rusty at it. Apparently, I'm just that good though. Maybe if this whole journalism thing doesn't work out, I can have a long, fulfilling career as a cat burglar.
Slipping my tools back into the case and back into my pocket, I open the door and quietly step inside. I leave the back door open, just in case I need to make a quick getaway. Standing in the middle of the darkened living room, I stop moving, hold my breath, and listen for a moment.
The silence has an almost physical weight to it, and it presses down on me. My stomach is in knots, but I try to shut it out. I hear nothing, and I feel nothing. As far as I can tell, I'm completely alone. Slipping a hooded flashlight out of my coat pocket, I click it on. I do my best to stay away from the front windows, and hope that nobody can see the light moving around inside the house. I'd probably have a tough time explaining exactly what I'm doing here to the cops.
There's nothing exciting in the living room, and I skip the kitchen. I'm not here to see what kind of breakfast cereal he eats. I take a cursory peek through the bedrooms upstairs, but don't see anything I'd consider important or incriminating. That leaves one room – the office. If there's going
to be anything worth seeing, it's probably going to be in there, right?
I make my way back downstairs and to the room near the back of the house. The large security door is closed, and when I turn the handle, I find that it's locked.
Oh, this has to be good.
I swiftly pick the lock, and after putting my tools away, I open the door, pushing it inward. The thick door swings open with an ominous creak as it bumps against the wall behind it. When I step through the doorway, I hear an audible clicking noise. It's soft and faint, but I know I heard it.
I turn slowly in a circle, half-expecting to see Carlyle standing behind me with a gun. The hallway is empty, though. I strain my ears, listening for the slightest sound – a whisper of clothing as somebody moves, the squeak of the sole of a shoe on the floor.
But, there's nothing, and the clicking sound I thought I heard – though, now I'm wondering if I imagined it – doesn't repeat.
“Get a grip on yourself, Em,” I say softly.
Moving deeper into the office, I look closely at the shelves on his bookcases. They're crammed with novels, manuals, and all sorts of trinkets. Keepsakes from vacations past, picture frames, bookends. Absolutely nothing of interest.
There's a large TV hanging on one wall, and a chest of drawers beneath it. I walk over and open the top drawer, shining the light inside.
“Oh, Jesus.”
Great. I seem to have stumbled onto his porn collection. Naughty nurses. Naughty cheerleaders, and even naughtier college co-eds. There are spanking videos. And a few light bondage films. Clearly, Carlyle has his kinks – centered around girls the age of those murdered.
Though it's intriguing, it's not evidence. A lot of guys have a fetish for younger women.
I move on and search through the rest of the drawers, but don't find anything of particular value. All that's really left is the closet and his desk. I stand in the middle of the room and try to decide which to tackle first.
“Closet,” I say.
I have no idea why, but I feel like Hawkins is more likely to hide incriminating evidence in a closet more than his desk. Though, I'll get to the desk later.