Jack of Diamonds

by Christopher Greyson

  Finally, something is going right for me.

  “Now?” Mrs. Hershberger sets the cup down. “No, it’s not too late. Fifteen minutes? Certainly. I’ll be waiting.”

  In the darkness I’m fuming. It will take twenty minutes for the medicine to make her go to sleep. Now I have to do this the hard way.

  Mrs. Hershberger comes back into the room carrying a flowerpot.

  I reach out and bump whatever it was that I hit before. It pushes against the wall.

  Mrs. Hershberger turns around. She’s more aggravated than frightened this time as she marches forward, grabs a handle in each hand, and yanks the gull-wing doors open.

  My Taser crackles and the prettiest blue light flashes like indigo lightning.

  The look on Mrs. Hershberger’s face is one of horror and pain. Part of me wants to be sorry, but . . . in art there must be sacrifice.

  24

  Jack walked through the doors of the sheriff’s department and headed straight to Morrison’s office, hoping to beat Thomas there. The station house was oddly quiet. He’d heard that emergency calls were down thirty percent last week—a huge drop. Statisticians might speculate over the cause, but Jack had his own theory: evil had a hierarchy. It was like when a great white moves into an area to start hunting. The other predators, without even seeing the shark, flee. They sense a more ruthless killer and, like most bullies, are scared of a real fight.

  Through the window, he saw Thomas in Sheriff Morrison’s office. He was poised and relaxed. Not a good sign. Jack waited, leaning against the empty cubicle used by patrol officers to fill out their reports. He used to hate sitting in there. He detested the endless hours of paperwork that came with each and every shift. I’d give my right arm to be in that seat now.

  Jack didn’t even try to lay odds on what the sheriff would do. It could go either way. He just tried to be patient, and not look in Morrison’s office again. But in spite of his best efforts, he peeked. Morrison caught Jack’s eye, and Thomas turned to look at Jack, too.

  Thomas smiled—and Jack had his answer. His jaw flexed and he started for the door as Thomas was leaving.

  “Jack.” Thomas held the door open as Jack marched by.

  Jack stopped at Morrison’s desk, rigid and at attention, a force of habit. “Sir.”

  “Sheriff Collins made you do that, son. I don’t. Take a seat.” Morrison shuffled the paperwork around on his desk, apparently debating how to begin the conversation. The room smelled of fresh coffee, though it looked like it had yet to take effect on the tired man. “I’ve weighed both sides of the situation.” He looked up. “Thomas is working up a profile of our killer and running the three unidentified sketches through the FBI facial recognition program.”

  “That won’t be fast enough. We need an answer now.”

  “We always want an answer right away. But this is police work. It takes time. You know that as well as anyone.”

  “With all due respect, sir, we need to go to the media. Put the pictures out there so we can warn these women.”

  “Look, Jack.” Morrison sat forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Going to the media is a double-edged sword. I feel we should give Thomas a chance first.”

  “I don’t agree with that decision, sir. I know the reporting hasn’t been exactly fair—”

  Morrison slammed his hand on his desk, making Jack’s heart race. Sudden and loud noises still had that effect. “It’s been downright lies. They’ve already driven Cunningham and Dwyer out of office. Mary Dwyer was on the town board for twenty years! Those reports made her look like a fool. How are we to know how the media would spin this? They could report that a serial killer is out there and not even show the sketches. We have no control over them.”

  “We could make them agree to terms that—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Jack. They hide behind ‘journalistic freedom’ now. They could promise us that they’ll show the sketches and go back on their promise just as fast by claiming freedom of the press.”

  “But sir—”

  Morrison sat up in his chair, his back rigid and his jaw set. “I’ll rethink using the media—but first I’m going to give Thomas more time. End of discussion. Go home and get some sleep. That’s an order.”

  Jack stood. There was more that he wanted to say, but he could see now that it would be pointless, like talking to a wall. Morrison had made up his mind, and no amount of arguing would change that.

  Jack had already decided what he was going to do, too.

  25

  Jack waited outside the hotel room door with his hand up and ready to knock, but he hesitated.

  I need her help. We’re still friends; there’s nothing wrong with asking—

  The door opened, and Marisa stood there smiling at him. “I got tired of waiting for you to bend your wrist and knock. How did Alice ever get you to bend your knee?”

  Jack felt color rush to his cheeks as he lowered his arm. “You knew I was out here?”

  She placed a delicate hand over her heart. “I felt you.”

  “Like sonar?” Jack joked.

  “Maybe.” Marisa stepped aside to let him in. “Are you allowed to come in?”

  Jack didn’t know if that was a dig or a legitimate question, but it made him think of Alice and whether she would agree to Jack seeing Marisa in her hotel room.

  Maybe? Who am I kidding? If I asked Alice, the answer would be a flat-out NO. That’s why I didn’t ask.

  He stepped into the room and was relieved to see that it was a two-room suite, with the bedroom separate. It was some small comfort knowing he wasn’t alone in a room with Marisa and a bed. Not that that would carry much weight with Alice or that the lack of a bed had ever stopped Marisa.

  “Thanks for meeting with me this morning. I need your help.”

  “Again?”

  Jack smiled. Marisa had helped him several times in the past, even when they weren’t on the best terms. When he’d needed her, she’d always been there for him.

  “It’s about those sketches.”

  “The ones you thought were almost as good as mine?”

  “I’ll apologize again if it makes you feel better.”

  “It might.” She smiled impishly. “You can try.”

  “I thought you didn’t like it when a man begs.”

  “Did I say that?” She winked.

  Jack crossed his arms. “You’re the best artist on the planet as far as I’m concerned. And I mean that.”

  “You know the way to touch my soul, Jack Stratton.” She stepped toward him and stopped just a little too close. She smelled of bergamot and roses. “What can I do to help?”

  Jack shook his head as if to rid it of the explicit memories her intoxicating fragrance evoked. “Clean up one of the sketches.” Jack wiped the sweat that had begun to form from his brow. “It has blood on it that obscures part of the woman’s face.” Jack pulled out his phone and showed the photograph of the sketch to Marisa.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve never been squeamish around blood, and I’m totally desensitized after running the tattoo shop, but I do hate it when art is defiled. You’re right, this sketch is good.”

  “Can you scan in the picture and remove the bloodstains? Is that possible?”

  “I can do one better—I can re-create the sketch. But it’ll take a little while.” Marisa gazed up at him underneath her long lashes. “Would you like some coffee? I have brandy.”

  The truth was, Jack would love a good stiff drink. But he couldn’t right now, not with all that was going on, and especially not in a hotel room alone with Marisa. “Coffee, please. But I’ll pass on the brandy.”

  Marisa walked over to the bedroom door and stopped, one hand on the doorframe. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” Her sensual smile was dangerously beautiful, like that of a mythological siren. If she starts singing, I’m running for the door.

  Jack looked around the hotel room as he waited. It was immaculate; either she
hadn’t spent any time here, or housekeeping had just come through. The television remote was still in its place, the welcome card was still on the coffee table. Jack looked through the door to the bathroom and saw that the toilet paper still had the fold at the end of the roll making it into a crisp triangle.

  He had sat down at the desk and was lost in thought when Marisa touched his shoulder. He jumped a little.

  “Sorry.” She was carrying an artist sketchpad and some pencils. She set them down on the coffee table in front of the couch, then walked into the kitchenette. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s the artist in me. Always watching. Never seen.” She opened a cabinet and removed two coffee cups and a bottle of brandy. A coffeemaker sat on the counter, and she poured a cup for each of them, never taking her eyes off Jack. To hers, she added a splash of liqueur.

  He watched her every move. Every gesture, every motion, was filled with a fluid grace. Unhurried. Refined. He wondered if he could ever tire of watching Marisa. She had an innate elegance about her that would captivate anyone. She was like a ballet dancer; you’d have to be an idiot not to admire her beauty.

  She crossed over to the couch, taking a sip as she went. She sat down and put the coffee cups on coasters before picking up the sketchpad and pencil. She lifted her eyes to Jack expectantly.

  “What?”

  “Well, I was hoping you would come over and join me. A woman likes to feel wanted, even if she’s just a friend. Besides, I need to see the original sketch.”

  Jack held the phone out.

  She didn’t move to take it. Instead she glanced down at the spot on the couch next to her. “Would you mind holding it for me? I can’t sketch and hold the phone at the same time.”

  “Of course.” Jack sat down at the end of the couch opposite Marisa and held the phone at arm’s length.

  Marisa smiled slyly as she started to draw. Jack soon understood why. After only a few minutes of holding his arm straight out, he began to tire. A few minutes more and his hand was shaking.

  Marisa’s smile grew. “Slide in closer. Rest your elbow on the back of the couch and your hand on this pillow.” She propped a pillow up next to her thigh.

  Jack slid closer, and the temperature in the room felt like it rose fifteen degrees. There was no way he could touch the cup of hot coffee now. The phone screen went dark and he swiped it to activate it again. He tried to sneak a peek at Marisa’s sketchpad, but she held the pad up against her chest and scowled. “No peeking.”

  “I want to make sure that the picture just looks like the original. Not too good.”

  Marisa chuckled. “I can fake anything. In fact, if I wanted to sway to the dark side, I think I could find a new career as a forger. I’ll match it exactly. But the person who drew this sketch is very good. Exceptional, actually.”

  “Would you consider it professional?”

  “If you mean, does this person make a living with their art, that’s difficult to say. It would also be difficult to say if they went to school specifically for art. It’s undeniable that they have talent, however. A gift.”

  “When you’re done, I’d like to show you the other sketches and see if you can tell me anything from them. I took several close-ups of the paper and some of the art supplies I found in the killer’s closet.”

  “Certainly.” Marisa set her pencil down.

  “We can wait until you’re finished with the sketch,” Jack said.

  Marisa crossed her legs and smiled. “I’m finished.” She turned the sketchpad around.

  Jack was floored. It was a perfect duplicate of the original. He glanced back and forth between his phone and the sketch. “How did you do that so fast?”

  “Do you like it? I think it’s a very close likeness.”

  “Close? It’s perfect.”

  Marisa handed him the sketchpad. “I’m glad you are pleased with it.” She placed her left hand on his arm and took his phone. Zooming in on the picture, she studied the details of the sketch for a moment and then nodded, seemingly satisfied.

  Jack went to stand up, but Marisa placed a restraining hand on his thigh. “Didn’t you want to show me something else?”

  “Oh—yes.” Jack’s voice was slightly higher than normal. His eyes darted down to her hand on his thigh, then met hers.

  “Forgive me.” Marisa slowly removed her hand and folded it with the other hand demurely in her lap.

  Jack took his phone back and pulled up the close-ups. “Can you tell me if anything stands out to you regarding the paper, or perhaps the charcoal used?”

  Marisa took another sip of coffee, placed her cup back on the table, then shifted so she was looking down at his phone.

  Jack held the phone in his right hand so he could scroll with his left. Marisa leaned forward to stare intently at the screen, her right hand coming up to cup his hand in hers. A bead of sweat rolled down Jack’s back.

  After several minutes, Marisa leaned back and shook her head. “It looks like a charcoal pencil and ordinary sketching paper, similar to the paper in my pad.” She nudged her sketchpad on the table with her foot. “The art supplies are generic. You could pick them up in any art, craft, or hobby store.”

  Jack nodded and scooted away a few inches. “I appreciate all your help, Marisa.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Jack thought for a minute before answering. “I’m going to share the sketches with the news media. Morrison wants to wait, but I don’t think we can afford to.”

  Marisa took another sip of coffee and stared at Jack with her signature Mona Lisa smile. It was times like these where he wished he could read her mind, because he had no idea what she was thinking.

  “Aren’t you going to warn me about burning my bridges?”

  Marisa raised an eyebrow. “Why? I might as well ask the flower why it opens when the sun comes out. You’re doing what you think is right. I can’t stop you—no one can. It’s one of the things that I love about you.”

  Jack swallowed. He gave a little nod that came off more like a bow as he tried to hide his embarrassment. “Thank you again for the sketch.” He glanced down at the picture in his hand and froze.

  “What’s the matter?” Marisa set down her drink.

  “You drew three freckles on her cheek. But the original didn’t have them.”

  Marisa reached out her hand. “May I see the original again?”

  Jack took out his phone and pulled up the sketch. He pointed to the woman’s cheek. No freckles, just some blood splatter.

  Marisa took the phone and zoomed in. “There. Beneath the blood you can see the freckles.”

  Jack squinted and nodded. “I see them now. It was just the light.” But the truth was, he didn’t see the freckles. He stared at the photo, trying to force them to appear, but they wouldn’t. Maybe they were just too faded for him to see them clearly, or his eyes were tired. Marisa saw them, so they had to be there. Right?

  He forced a smile as he rose and walked to the door. “Thanks again.”

  “Are you going to be at the photo session tomorrow?”

  “The what?”

  Marisa rolled her eyes. “It’s on the wedding schedule,” she said. “I’m just going to lend a hand. All the bridesmaids are supposed to be there. Well, except Kiku. Alice said she won’t be able to make it.”

  “Did Alice say if Kiku is still coming to the wedding?”

  “I believe so. So—tomorrow?”

  “I’ll try to stop by.”

  Jack lied again, and again was unsure why. When he left the room and the door clicked closed behind him, he was gasping for breath. It wasn’t just the freckles—the freckles that Jack couldn’t see but Marisa somehow knew were underneath the blood. It was what Marisa said earlier, when she came out of the bedroom.

  “‘I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s the artist in me. Always watching. Never seen.’”

  The opening lines of the note the killer left for Alice.

  26

  As Jac
k started up the Charger and drove across town to the Channel 5 TV station for his meeting with Paula Thompson, sweat was pouring down his back. The encounter with Marisa had left him wondering if he could trust anyone, and now he felt like he was betraying Morrison, but what choice did he have? Thomas had his opinion, and Morrison had backed it. And Jack was convinced they were both dead wrong. The safety of those women was at stake. If Jack didn’t warn them, and something happened . . . Alice smiled down at him from the photo on his visor and he repeated his vow to protect her.

  He parked across the street from the building and unlocked his doors. A minute later, Paula Thompson got into the passenger seat and shut the door.

  “I was surprised to receive your call,” she said.

  “I was surprised to make it,” Jack said drily. “Look, I know I’m asking for a huge favor here, but I need to remain anonymous.”

  “Of course. I would never reveal a source.”

  “I’m not telling you how to do your job, but the last thing we need to do is start a panic.”

  “I take it that this meeting is off the record and the police don’t know you’re here?”

  Jack nodded and cleared his throat. “Sheriff Morrison is a good man. But there’s a situation, and I need your help.” He handed her copies of the three sketches, including the one Marisa had drawn. “These women’s lives are in danger. They’re potential targets, and we haven’t been able to identify them.”

  “Is this related to the two bodies you found on Buck Mountain?”

  Jack’s jaw flexed. “I’ll lay it all out to you off the record, but first I need one more assurance.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’ll run this story tonight as part of the Channel 5 Investigation Team series. You’ll say your investigating has revealed that these three women’s lives are in danger and you need the viewers’ help identifying them. Don’t mention that it has anything to do with a police investigation.”