Where had the idea come from, anyway? Owen rarely went to the cemetery, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking of Marilyn. As far as he knew, Alex hadn’t been there himself for years.
Owen felt a knot of tension building at the base of his neck. He had enough things on his plate already. There was no room for an indignant son.
<><><>
It was mid-afternoon, following a successful but intense power lunch with key contributors to his campaign, when Owen’s secretary buzzed him.
“Selby’s on the phone,” she said. It was always Selby, never your wife. Claire had known Marilyn—they had, in fact, shared an interest in needlepoint. Owen had the sense that Claire looked upon Selby as an interloper.
He picked up the phone. “Hi, honey.”
“I hate to bother you—”
“Anytime, you know that. There’s no one I’d rather hear from.”
She hesitated. “Owen, you got a letter today . . . “
He swallowed hard. He’d been half expecting it, trying hard to pretend he wasn’t. But that didn’t make it any easier.
“I wouldn’t have opened it,” Selby said, “except it was addressed to both of us.”
“Your name was on the envelope?” Maybe it wasn’t what he thought, after all.
“Owen and Selby, not even Mr. and Mrs.” She drew in a breath. “There was a poem inside. Typed on a full-sized sheet of paper.”
Owen felt his stomach clench. His first response had been right, after all. But addressed to both of them? That was a new twist, and it made him queasy.
“Don’t touch it any more than you have already.” Not that it would make a difference. They’d never get prints. The guy was careful.
“I know, Owen. I already put it into a folder. Do you want me to read it to you?”
“Let me find a pen first. Okay, go ahead.”
“It’s four lines.” She read the note out loud.
Who knows
Where the rose
Goes
Next.
Not haiku, as Kali would point out. And different from the others in that there was nothing specific about the victim.
“That’s the whole poem. But there’s a photo, too. Grainy and kind of dark. Of a woman. It looks like it was taken through a window or something.”
“You mean from outside the house looking in?”
“Exactly. It’s creepy.”
Owen offered a grunt of agreement.
“First the rose, and now this poem,” Selby said after a moment. “It’s like the murder of that woman who used to work for you, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And the Strangler case from before.”
Owen had mentioned the similarities only in passing, trying not reveal the full extent of his concern, but Selby had seen immediately how worried he was. “There are differences,” he told her. “And I’m still convinced Davis was guilty.”
“But I know how much it’s been on your mind. You don’t need this now.”
“You’re keeping the doors locked, right?”
“You don’t think—”
“Just to be safe.” He didn’t want to scare her, but who knew where the killer would strike next? And Selby’s name had been on the envelope.
<><><>
Kali’s eyes fixed on the photo Keating had placed on her desk. He was talking to her about the note, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the woman in the photograph. Jane Parkhurst. Kali might not have been able to recognize her from the original snapshot, but Keating had had the photo enlarged and computer enhanced to make it clearer.
Jane Parkhurst, dressed in a white terry bathrobe, was talking on the telephone. From the cabinets in the background, it looked like she might have been in the kitchen. How had the killer taken the picture? Had he been the one to call her? The idea of being baited was so intrusive, so sick, it made Kali shiver.
Keating tapped his fingers on her desk. “The guy’s no poet,” he said. “Even I can tell that.”
Finally, she turned her attention to the note.
Who knows
Where the rose
Goes
Next
Kali’s stomach felt as though it were weighted with lead. He was already planning his next kill. They no longer had a choice. They had to go public, to somehow alert women without causing a panic.
Once they did, the whole Bayside Strangler connection was bound to come into play. The very thing they’d been hoping to avoid.
“This is the first time he’s actually hinted at more killing,” she said at last.
Keating was standing over her at the edge of the desk. He now sat and leaned forward. “The guy’s getting off on the gamesmanship of it.”
Kali nodded.
“Were the earlier poems like that?” Keating asked.
“Earlier poems?”
“In the Bayside Strangler case.”
“I’d have to go back and reread them . . . In fact, that’s something I’ve been intending to do, but my recollection is that they were more subtle.” She paused, trying to call up the words, but seven years was a long time, and the notes had faded in her memory. “The last one was different, as I recall. More amateurish. And it wasn’t haiku as the others had been. Speculation was that maybe he was getting tired of the poems. Or that he was too busy to spend much time on it. Davis’s father had a stroke only a few days after Wendy Gilchrist’s death.”
Keating rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How strong, really, was the case against Davis?”
“You’re asking if the wrong man was convicted?”
“Isn’t it possible?” Keating was studying her with such intensity, she could almost feel his eyes grazing her skin.
“I think Davis killed those women,” Kali said quietly. “I thought so then, and nothing since then has made me change my mind. But the case against him wasn’t as strong as we’d have liked.”
“Because the cops screwed up.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what happened, isn’t it?” There was an edge to his voice that Kali had trouble interpreting.
“We had evidence the judge wouldn’t allow the jury to hear—”
“And other evidence that was allowed in, only to be tainted by allegations that the police had planted it.”
Kali nodded. “But in spite of that, Owen Nelson managed to get a conviction.”
“And a real career boost.” Keating gave her a sardonic smile.
“He did a good job.”
“So I’ve heard.” Keating’s beeper sounded. He checked the number and reached across her desk. “Can I use your phone?”
The question was apparently rhetorical, since he’d already begun punching the keys. His side of the conversation was quick and clipped. He dropped the receiver back into the cradle and looked at her.
“The note was sent to a reporter as well.”
“Jackson?”
Keating shook his head. “A local newscaster, channel four. He was home with a cold yesterday, so he didn’t get the note until today.”
“Maybe he won’t know what to make of it.”
“It came with a copy of Jackson’s book. And he’s apparently already spoken with Anne Bailey’s husband. It will be all over the news by evening.”
This was what they’d been afraid of. No one liked the idea of the media being in the driver’s seat. “Did he get the photo, as well?” she asked.
“Not that I know of.”
That was something in their favor, at least.
“We’ll have to hold a press conference,” Kali said. “In a couple of hours, if it’s going to make the evening news. I’ll get in touch with Emory and tell him to notify the key networks and papers.” Her mind was racing. How much to make public, how best to package what they had. How not to fuel the fire of hysteria.
Or blow Owen’s candidacy out of the water.
Keating regarded her through narrowed eyes. “This announcement comi
ng from the DA’s office?”
She shook her head. That wasn’t her intention. Although she’d clearly taken the reins on the press conference, it was more out of habit than design. “I think statements about the investigation would be better delivered by the detectives in charge.”
Keating’s expression softened, but just for a moment. “Let’s get to it, then. We’ve got our work cut out.”
<><><>
At four that afternoon, Keating stood behind the podium in the press room facing a sea of cameras and microphones. Kali stood off to the side, wondering if the media attention would help or hinder them in the long run. It was, almost certainly, what the killer was after, and that alone made her uncomfortable.
Keating began by reading a prepared statement on the recent murders. He conveyed the pertinent information about each, noting there were similarities but not detailing them. He covered the single yellow rose, the accompanying note, and the poems to police and selected media contacts in the same informative but generalized manner. They were following up on several leads, he said, but they weren’t yet ready to name a suspect.
He ended by urging women to be extra cautious until the killer was safely behind bars.
Although Keating never mentioned the Bayside Strangler, the reference came up almost immediately in the question-and-answer session following his formal statement. It was Jack Jackson who raised the issue, and though it would probably have been picked up by someone else anyway, Kali was annoyed at him for doing so.
“We are aware that certain elements fit the pattern of earlier murders,” Keating said smoothly, “but there are differences too.”
“Such as?” This was another reporter, a woman whose strawberry-blond hair was pinned on top of her head with the help of several dozen shiny barrettes.
“We can’t get into that at this time.”
Jackson picked up the ball again. “Does that mean you’re not even looking for a connection between the two recent murders and those committed by the so-called Bayside Strangler?”
“We are exploring all possibilities.”
“What are you not telling us?” asked a reporter from the back of the room.
Keating offered a thin smile. “As you all know, we withhold some information in every case so as not to compromise our investigation. But I’ve given you all of the key points. And we will keep you informed as new developments occur.”
He was good, Kali thought, wondering why that observation surprised her. Maybe because articulate wasn’t one of the words she’d heard associated with Keating’s name. Tough, cocky, loner, hardheaded and occasionally something along the line of stud muffin, but nothing that had prepared her for the ease with which he was handling the role of public spokesperson. Then again, this wasn’t the first time she’d found Bryce Keating to be a man of surprises.
A reporter near the front of the room spoke up. “Is it true the DA’s office is taking an active role in the investigation?”
“We always work closely with the District Attorney’s office. This is one of the instances where we have chosen to involve them sooner rather than later.”
“Any particular reason?” Jackson asked, shouting to be heard above the others eager to ask their own questions.
“The task force approach has proven particularly useful when dealing with crimes of this nature.” Keating looked at his watch. “We have time for one last question.”
“What advice do you have for women living in the East Bay?”
“They need to be particularly vigilant in the weeks to come. They should keep an eye out for suspicious behavior and travel with a friend whenever possible.” He read off the number of a hotline to call with information.
The room began to empty as soon as the press conference ended. Through the open door, Kali could see reporters standing in the hallway, cell phones pressed to their ears. Meeting a deadline no longer meant beating your competition to the pay phone.
“Nice job,” Kali told Keating.
“The proof will be in how it plays out in the news.”
Jack Jackson grabbed Kali’s arm as she moved toward the door. “You fucked with me.” He spat the words at her with venom.
“What do you mean?”
“I thought we had a deal. I held back mentioning the first note, the one that came directly to me. In return, you were supposed to tell me before the story broke.”
“It all happened so fast, Jack.”
“How much time does it take to pick up the phone and call?”
Calling Jackson hadn’t even crossed her mind that afternoon. It wasn’t her deal with him anyway, it was Owen’s. “It’s not like I can read the killer’s mind. How was I supposed to know he would send a note to some other reporter this time?”
“A phone call, Kali. That’s all it would have taken.”
“You still have more background—”
“Damn straight I do. And a story already sitting on my editor’s desk. No thanks to you.” He pushed past her and into the hallway.
“What was that all about?” Keating asked.
“Jack Jackson wrote a book on the Bayside Strangler. Collaborated with Owen Nelson, in fact. Jackson’s the journalist who got the note following Anne Bailey’s murder.” Speaking Anne’s name aloud, Kali felt the familiar ache in her gut. In some ways she welcomed it because it kept her focused on the victims as people rather than mere names and statistics.
“He wanted to scoop the story,” Kali added.
“Then why did he raise the Bayside Strangler connection at the press conference?”
Kali had wondered the same thing. “Probably to get our reaction on record.”
“He’s in no position to complain,” Keating said bitterly. “Now he can write another book. More fame, more fortune.”
“He’s not a bad guy, really.”
Keating shot her a look of disdain. “Not a good guy either, I suspect.”
CHAPTER 18
Bryce Keating’s step had a spring to it as he headed for the unmarked black sedan in the parking lot. The press conference had gone well, he decided. It was impossible to know what slant reporters would give the story, but he’d managed to avoid putting his foot in his mouth or losing his temper, both of which had been very real possibilities. And he’d fielded questions in a manner that was fair but didn’t give away too much. All in all, he was pleased.
Kali had approved, as well. Why that should matter, he wasn’t sure, but her comment as they’d left the room together gratified him. He’d caught her looking at him during the press conference, tilting her head the way she often did when listening intently. But he’d been unable to read her expression. That bothered him since he considered himself a pro at reading people. Particularly women.
He climbed into the car and punched Lou’s number on his cell phone. “Hey, Lou, how’s the back?”
“Better, I think.”
“You think?”
“Better, definitely. Not great, but. . .”
“Better.”
“Yeah. I’m thinking I might head back to work. I mean, I can be miserable on the job as well as at home, right?”
“Not really.” The way Keating figured it, a disabled partner was worse than none at all. And Lou was hardly a stoic. He wouldn’t complain outright, but he’d piss and moan about every little thing. Besides, Keating had his own style, and it was different from Lou’s.
“There’s too much going on,” Lou said. “Makes me itchy being on the sidelines. I want to be where the action is.”
“There’s damn little action.”
“You getting enough help?”
“Yeah, Maureen Oliver has been doing a lot of the scut work. Doing it well, I might add. The captain has given the okay for adding another member to the task force if we need it.”
“I’m going to come in tomorrow anyway.” It sounded like a point of honor with him.
“Fine.” Keating wasn’t going to argue.
Lou hesitated a moment. “
How’d the press conference go?”
“Where’d you hear about that?” It had only ended half an hour ago. Keating hadn’t thought to check the radio yet.
“I’ve got my fingers on the pulse, Bryce. Good thing, too, since my own partner doesn’t keep me informed.”
“Your partner had a few other things on his mind this afternoon.”
Lou mumbled something unintelligible.
“What’s that?”
“Forget it. So, how’d the press conference go?”
“Good. Reporter by the name of Jackson, the guy who wrote the Bayside Strangler book, he lashed—” Keating caught himself about to mention Kali’s name. The last thing he wanted was to give Lou more ammunition. “The guy got all hot and huffy because he didn’t get a heads-up on this latest murder. The rest of the group behaved themselves admirably.”
“I’ll make sure to catch the evening news. Might even learn something.” Lou paused. “Where you headed?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re on the street or in the car. I can tell from the background noise.”
The guy might have a bad back, but there was nothing wrong with his hearing. “Thought I’d drop by Jane Parkhurst’s home.”
“The latest victim?”
“Right.”
A beat of silence, then Lou said, “Why her home? Is there something going on I don’t know about?”
Keating didn’t want to discuss the photograph on a cell phone, where his words might be overheard. “I’d rather give you the details in person.”
“Come get me and we’ll head out to the house together. I’ve had about all the convalescing I can take.”
<><><>
Lou grimaced as he tried to extricate himself from the passenger seat of the sedan. His back hurt like hell. Maybe he’d made a mistake offering to come out.
Cold Justice (Kali O'Brien series Book 5) Page 11