But the effects of the stress-reducing cruise had probably just evaporated in two quick minutes—which is the main reason I'd kept the first two emails to myself. That and the fact I knew she'd be as protective of me as I was of her.
“I guess we should address the elephant in the room, huh?” I said.
“You mean the chestnut hair with blond highlights?” Marisa held up her locks. “And you gotta love the curls.”
“Do you want to go stay with your aunt down in San Antonio for a few weeks, just while we work through this story?” My voice had raised a half octave. I glanced at Brandon, realizing we were playing out all of this personal drama in front of my editor, who, I admitted, would probably keep his job. Brandon's mouth was sealed shut.
“Really, Michael? Come on, you and I know I'm not going to San Antonio or the Como motel, or anywhere. This is all just a coincidence,” Marisa said, starting to get up from her chair and put on her tan, all-weather coat. “We just need to chill and not let our minds run wild.”
I jumped up, eager to help her put on her coat. I nodded my head at Brandon. Gesturing toward the door, he got the hint to exit stage right.
“Look, I'm glad you're not jumping to conclusions about this. I realize I overreacted, and I didn't use the best judgment.” I held her shoulders and looked into her honey brown eyes.
She put her hand on my chest. “It's okay. It's not like we don't have a history of being drawn into some tense interactions.”
God love Ireland, I thought, but didn't want to further excite the stress meter.
“Deep down, you and I both know it's really not about any threat. Because there isn't one. It's more about you worrying about my emotional well-being. Thank you.”
She wrapped her arms around my midsection and kissed my neck. I held fast to our bear hug and returned the kiss on her cheek. Then our mouths met for a brief but meaningful kiss.
“We're both grownups, so let's just agree to share everything and not feel like we need to protect each other,” she said.
“I love it when you lay down the law. It's sexy.”
I checked out my office window then brushed the front of her breast with my thumb.
“When you coming home?” she said quietly, running her tongue across her lips.
I chuckled and brought her closer. Her eyes danced with excitement.
“Oh, it's good to see blood is still getting to your brain...and other parts of your body,” she whispered seductively.
Another deep kiss.
“No working late tonight,” she ordered with a smile.
“That's the last thing on my mind.”
Chapter Four
Sporadic pops filled the meeting room, where three entire walls were floor-to-ceiling glass, followed by a domino of aluminum squeaks. I took two long chugs of my Diet Coke, and four others did the same with their drinks of choice. Only one chose non-caffeine. Andi, our paid intern who was finishing her last seven hours at the University of North Texas while working near full-time hours at the paper, sipped a Mandarin Key Lime Oogave. She had no issues following her own path.
“We've only got a few minutes to discuss this third note before Detective Pearson arrives with his team,” I said over a number of active voices.
A couple of glances, but four of my best journalists—and that includes the coed—couldn't contain their sheer excitement at the thrilling story that had been dropped at our electronic doorstep. They acted like kids exchanging stories and candy after a triumphant Halloween night of trick-or-treating, minus the costumes. Well, all except Stu, whose droopy bags under his eyes, and saggy jowls made him look like a cousin to Richard Nixon.
“Listen up, people. Let's dial back the sugar high for just a few minutes and discuss our next steps.”
“You know, they never caught the Zodiac killer. At least, they don't think they caught him. Maybe he's resurfaced here in North Texas, and he's blessed us with his musings,” Brandon said, practically frothing at the mouth.
“Do you know how many quacks send letters, emails, black roses with a haunting poem, whatever, to their local newspaper? It's all about publicity, regardless of what the note says. Probably just some college kid getting his jollies,” said Stu, who did a double take with Andi. “Oh, sorry. You know what I mean.”
“Not a problem. I'm sure there are a lot of college kids gettin' their jollies doing any number of things,” she said. “But this doesn't sound like a bored student. More like a bitter, sick man who can't contain his bizarre urges.”
Stu took another drink of his canned soda, but dribbled some down his chin and onto his faded-blue, button-down shirt. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed the stain.
“You both make convincing arguments,” I stated transparently. “But we're the watch dogs, so we err on the side of caution.”
“I really don't think we should print this, even though he's, more or less, teasing us to,” Brandon said.
“I agree...for now.” I glared at Brandon, trying not to openly roll my eyes. He was wearing his new Boston Strong baseball cap backward. I admired his devotion to worthy causes, but why couldn't he carry out his loyalty without disrespecting the Great Game of Baseball? I clicked my pen twice and refocused my thoughts.
“Stu, dig into this email and pull it apart. Search our archives and try to find anyone who gives off the same vibe as this nut job.” I checked a couple of notes I'd written, then looked up and noticed Andi had been mute for more than a few seconds—an all-time record for her.
She gave me a wistful smile. I think that meant she was upset with me not giving her the lead role in this story that could explode into something that might draw national attention.
I addressed her near-pout gently but firmly. “Look, I appreciate your initial thoughts on this guy, Andi, but you've got your hands full with this new feature series you've been working, plus there's school.”
She brushed her wavy, dark-brown hair to the side of her ear and nodded. The slender, athletic intern, who after just a year working in a professional environment, had more than earned her stripes. And I knew that given her internal drive and the DNA she'd inherited from her much-heralded father, journalistic greatness was just a matter of time. Like most youth, though, patience wasn't exactly her strong suit.
Then Brandon blew a hole in the happy balloon I'd just given Andi. He said, “Do you think there's any way that this guy is connected at all with the weekly features Andi and Hector are pulling together?” Brandon's question was obvious, considering they'd run two feature-length stories about adoption—the process, the cost, the holes in the system, looking at it from every perspective involved. Two more stories were planned for the next two Sunday editions. Hector, our senior photographer, had provided some amazing pictures to accompany each of Andi's insightful stories. Both truly captured the emotion involved from all sides.
“I wondered the same thing sitting here,” Andi said. “But the timing isn't right. The first email hit two Fridays ago, but our first adoption feature didn't run until two days later.” She shrugged her shoulders.
I picked up the printed email and found myself re-reading the part about forcing us to print the content. Brandon rolled his fingers on the table, and I glanced his way.
“You thinking the same thing?” he asked.
I nodded. “If this guy's for real, and we don't see another email next Friday, then we might be writing a story about a murdered woman.”
Chapter Five
I'd first met Detective Carl Pearson when I worked at J&W Technology Services and I was propelled into a murder cover-up investigation. Actually, he was the one leading the formal police expedition, while I joined forces with my journalism friends to determine who'd killed a beautiful, bright receptionist. The tangled web ended up snagging business executives, wealthy community leaders, city employees, even the police chief. While initially skeptical about my instincts and conspiracy theories, Carl finally came around. And, in an unspoken way, we'd developed a bit of
mutual respect.
He, along with his partner Roger Smith, sat to my left; the rest of my team—Brandon, Stu, Andi—sat opposite of Franklin's finest. Carl's long legs ate up the low back, swivel chair. He looked like a throwback to Shaft, with his shaved head and well-groomed goatee. He wore a gray mock turtleneck, and his gold watch matched his gold-rimmed Ray-Bans sitting next to his notepad.
“Can I get you anything...water, soft drink?” I asked Carl and Roger.
“Water is good.” Carl took the bottle, uncorked the cap, and downed a quick swig while reviewing his notes. He was the epitome of cool.
“Let's start by taking a look at the...” Before he finished, I slid over a copy of the third email. I also gave one to his more doughy, and hairy, partner.
“Wow, Doyle, you attract maggots like you're a walking trash bin,” Carl said, setting down the hard copy.
“Uh, thanks.”
A flash popped to my right. Our cameraman, Hector, was taking a few shots of the meeting, in case we became part of the story along the way—Brandon's idea. Carl didn't object, although his scowl said otherwise.
The eight-year detective cleared his throat and looked at Brandon, Stu, and Andi, all with pens touching paper, like Carl was about to provide the secret formula to Coca-Cola.
“Anyone else know about this email?” He directed the question at me.
“Just my wife.”
“Marisa, right,” he held up a finger, nodded his head and let out a subtle chortle.
He crossed his arms, and his biceps and triceps rippled through the shirt.
“Our cyber unit will be here shortly, and they'll want to understand your IT security, firewalls, email software, and then they'll go back to headquarters and start their research,” Carl explained. “From there, who knows where this could take us.”
Andi volunteered, “Hopefully, to a basement where a psychotic man is sitting in a diaper, sucking on his bottle, bullying other geeks who do the same thing.” Everyone stared at her. I rolled my eyes, rethinking her recent maturity leap. Then again, she was years ahead of a twenty-two-year-old Michael Doyle.
Roger took Carl off to the side of the meeting room, and they talked briefly.
Carl walked back to the table and sat down again. “So, can any of you think why this lunatic is targeting your paper with these emails?”
Heads shook side to side.
“Andi's been writing weekly feature stories about adoption, although the first one didn't run until two days after the first email,” Brandon offered.
I tossed each detective hard copies of the first two emails, which were, essentially, summarized in the last email.
Carl brought his thumb and forefinger to his chin while looking at the three pieces of paper.
“Outside of warning every female in the region, especially those with curly, highlighted hair, there's not a lot we can do to prevent anything at this point,” Carl said. “Our best hope is the cyber team.”
“Are you concerned about the pattern of emails hitting each Friday?” Stu asked.
“The content itself is salacious enough. But the need to share his thoughts and desires, along with the patterned repetition of the communication, are traits typical of a certain kind of perp,” Carl acknowledged, briefly looking down.
“What kind is that?” Andi asked.
“The worst kind. A serial killer.”
Chapter Six
Intellectual stimulation. That's all Whitney had ever wanted. Well, that plus someone with an idea on where he was going in life—and that didn't involve a wide-eyed teenager yanking a stained sheet off his bed, tossing it over his shoulder, and marching off to the weekly fifty-keg toga party.
The twenty-three-year-old graduate student swept her left hand across her tapered houndstooth trousers, then gently raised the cone-shaped stemmed glass and sipped her cosmopolitan. It had been six months since she'd been intimate, and while brains and internal drive were at the top of her 'husband search' checklist, she couldn't ignore the natural urges to be held, caressed by a chiseled, sophisticated man. A man who would desire every inch of her sneaky curves across her five-foot-seven-inch frame—as well as respect and admire her advanced intellect.
Yes indeed, she had to admit, she wanted the whole package.
The local band, The Blasters, had just taken their ten o'clock break, allowing the bouncers to drain the bar of all the under-twenty-one kids, who possessed one-track minds so infantile she couldn't imagine them ever contributing to society. In just the last hour, Whitney had been approached three times by one of these boys, each of whom had the charisma of a Saint Bernard. Come to think of it, the overconfident, inebriated frat boys had just as much drool hanging out of their lustful jowls as the husky dog. She sighed, thinking the four-legged pillow might be a nice back-up companion plan if she didn't start making some headway in the man department. At least a dog was faithful, protective, and always appreciated a good back rub.
Situated on a bustling street, a stone's throw from the tree-lined Ole Miss campus, Proud Larry's had been serving drinks to students for years, but had slowly developed a young professional type of crowd. Jenny, Whitney's long-time roommate had wanted to ride shotgun on this venture, but Whitney realized the multi-friend approach was outdated and, frankly, cramped her style. She had developed into a confident, desirable woman—in every sense of the word. And she'd accept nothing less from her future partner.
She felt a slap of cold wind escape through the front door, and she rubbed her arms, which were covered in a nearly see-through blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves. “Excuse me, I think you might be better off with this.” Whitney turned and felt her cardigan sweater being placed over her shoulders. She reached back and touched a hand, a few hairs extending off the knuckles, long, large fingers. A man's hand.
“Oh, why thank you.”
His smile was warm, genuine, and he had cute, spiky, dirty-blond hair. She caught herself peering into his magnetic, hazel eyes. An elongated pause.
“Can I get you another cosmo?” he asked.
Whitney flinched, a hopeful spark ignited inside. Then, she noticed the white towel draped across his shoulder. He was a bartender. Her heart sank a couple of notches.
“Why sure, it can't hurt on a Saturday night.”
The man reached in front, nearly brushing her D-cup breasts, picked up her empty glass, and wiped the table clean. His plaid shirt rolled up, veins popped on his taut forearms.
“I'll be right back with that drink.” He gave her a left-eyed wink and popped his dimpled smile.
Whitney let out a breath, and her shoulders dropped two inches, realizing her heart longed for what it couldn't—or in this case shouldn't—want. She watched the band members congregate on the lectern. The ponytailed drummer caught her eye, but she'd never give in to that temptation. That last thing she wanted was to follow a band from city to city, gig to gig, living a nomadic lifestyle. She could envision the party lasting a few weeks then slowly drummer boy would venture away to experiment with other females of his choosing. Once a groupie, always a groupie, she knew.
“Here you go, miss.” The bartender gracefully placed the drink on a napkin. His hands were only inches away from hers. They looked so perfect, almost out of place for someone working the bar.
“Thank you.” She batted her plush eyelashes without even trying, and she caught the sparkle of those hazel eyes again.
“Can I get you anything else? An appetizer, anything?”
God love Ireland
“I think I'm good. Thanks anyway.”
He turned and ambled away, and she watched each step.
A few minutes passed, and she felt a buzz from her third cosmo. The band jammed, and she tapped her black heels to the rhythm. She caught herself staring at the incredible dexterity and rhythm exhibited by the ponytail, flinging his sticks with such intensity. Maybe drummer boy would get his once-in-a-lifetime shot at Miss Whitney. Even southern belles had yearnings that could be
ignored only so long.
Just as the band strummed their last power chord of the evening, Whitney took her mirror out of her silver purse. A little fluff of the hair here and there, some fresh lipstick, and she was ready for action. She pulled her purse strap across her chest and rose from the seat. One step later, a bar waitress hopped on stage—her braless boobs flopping like water balloons under her tank top—and grabbed drummer boy and laid a wet one on him. He didn't appear to be overly interested, but boob girl clung to her new toy like he was the last man on earth.
Fine, Whitney thought. Drummer boy deserved no better than boob girl, certainly not the pure, refined qualities of Miss Whitney Mayfield—sculpted body, charming wit, and endless brains.
Whitney emptied the last three drops of her drink and turned on a dime for the door, ready to end the night and return to her bottled eyeglasses, never-ending science labs, and fading dreams of finding Mr. Perfect before she morphed into her forty-nine-year-old mother, saggy like a dried-up prune.
Three steps from the door, she caught a glimpse of someone familiar off to the right, head buried in a book. She scooted sideways a few feet to see if that could be the same person. His hands adjusted silver-rimmed glasses and turned a page—effortlessly, yet with patience and attention to detail. That was the difference, she could see from a distance. This perfectly shaped man cared about the small things in life, and she could envision how attentive he'd be in all parts of their life together—especially under the sheets.
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