ST
I looked toward the cluster of cubes that made up our copy corral. Still silent. I clicked reply.
I’m here for a least a while. May have to run to police HQ after the meeting. Can’t wait to hear.
Another ten spam messages and I found one from Landers.
Call me.
That was it. I checked the clock and rifled through my bag for the card he’d scribbled his cell number on. No way he was still asleep with so much going on, anyway. Dialing, I glanced around the newsroom, pondering Shelby’s cryptic email and wondering for the first time if Bob had a point about the blogger. What if Girl Friday worked at the Telegraph?
Landers picked up before I had time to get very far with that. “How are you this morning?” he asked in place of hello.
“About done being scared,” I said. “Getting pissed. Kyle said you had a good lead.”
“We’ll find them. May take a few days, but we will.” His tone left no room for doubt.
“Thank you.” I picked up a pen. “So, in all the excitement, I never asked you what you wanted to talk to me about last night.”
“And I never mentioned it. You have time to come by here this morning?”
“Are you already at the office?”
“I haven’t been home in two days. I got an ID on the second vic late yesterday. Haven’t released it yet.”
Definitely front page. Probably lead story, unless Congress was up to anything interesting.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said. “Thanks.”
“People are shooting at you. It’s the least I can do.”
“But you were going to tell me before you knew about that. I appreciate it.”
“See you in a few.”
I shot Bob an email telling him to save me space on the front for the second victim and scribbled an apology for missing the news budget meeting on a Post-it. I stuck it to his closed door on my way to the elevator. Two birds, one stone: I could avoid Bob for the morning and get a great scoop. We might even get it on the website before Charlie could get it on the air at noon if I hurried.
My BlackBerry binged a text when I started the car. I glanced at the screen. Kyle again. “Got myself a new assignment. The good reverend should watch who he shoots at.”
“That was quick. It’s not even 8:00,” I tapped back.
Bing. “I’m charming. Everyone sees it but you.”
Red light. I smiled. “And modest, too.” I hit send as the light turned green.
I slid the car into a tight space on Grace Street a few minutes later, checking in with the desk sergeant and dropping my bag on the belt for the x-ray machine. I stepped through the metal detector, smiling at the patrolman watching the monitor.
Landers picked up my bag. “Good morning.”
“To you, too, detective,” I said, turning the smile on him. He was serious about the two days at the office, his jaw shaded with a half-inch of scruff and the same rumpled blue button-down and khakis I’d seen at one a.m. still hanging on his spindly frame. I checked his left hand. Married. I bet his wife was super excited about this case.
He punched the button for the elevator and leaned against the wall. “Cecilia Erickson, age twenty-four.”
“The same age as Ruth Galloway,” I said, my brain whirling. Crap. What if it was a serial? “How did you get the ID?”
“Dental.”
Well, that was more normal, anyway.
I dug a pad and pen out of my bag and scribbled as I followed him into the elevator. He didn’t speak again until he shut the door to his office.
“She was a paralegal,” he said. “Working on a law degree.”
“The law school isn’t far from the Bottom,” I said, glancing up from my notes.
“It’s not. But the school isn’t what caught my eye.”
I held his gaze until he dropped his eyes to the papers on his desk. I was almost afraid to ask.
“Where did she work?”
“Jessup and Poole.”
I only managed to hold onto my pen because I’d felt it coming. The firm was an old one. Powerful, with tentacles in political lobbying. And ties to the Mafia.
“That’s the second employee they’ve had turn up murdered in a year.” I scribbled as I talked, mentally sorting puzzle pieces.
“She didn’t work for the murdered lawyer,” Landers said. “But she did work for one of the senior partners. Aaron tells me you might have seen him last Sunday morning. If you sat close enough to the front.”
My pen clattered to the floor.
“These people are so far in the middle of this they can’t see their way out,” I said, more to myself than to Landers as I picked it up.
“It certainly appears that’s more of a possibility than I thought,” he said. “What are they hiding that’s worth killing two young women in the space of a week?”
I kept my face neutral, which wasn’t easy under his scrutiny. Things I had found on my own—like Ruth’s name and hometown—I was happy to share. But the ATF information Kyle had given me was off the record. Landers would have to find that himself.
“Could that be why Agent Miller was at your house last night?” Landers drummed his fingers on the desktop.
“You’d have to ask him,” I said.
He slammed his hands down on the desk. “Two people are dead and someone’s trying to kill you.” He got louder with every word. “Isn’t that more important than your story?”
“You wouldn’t trust me if I passed on information someone else gave me in confidence. My reputation is much more important to me than the story. Kyle likes you. He got himself assigned to a new investigation this morning. Call him.” I jotted Kyle’s cell down and passed it across the desk.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes flashing. “I don’t have time for games.”
“I’m not playing one.” I kept a handle on my temper—not simple, with so much frustration and so little sleep in the way. Landers wasn’t a bad guy. He just wanted to figure this out. I could sympathize.
“You have any suspects?” he asked.
“A few. I wouldn’t rule out Ruth’s parents, though I’m not sure how they’d fit with the second victim.”
“Me, either. The mother hung up on me. Right after she told me she hadn’t had a daughter in three years and gave me an alibi. They were hosting a tent revival. Three thousand people watched their every move all week long.”
I closed my eyes, giving my head a little shake. “Could they have paid someone to do it?”
He tipped his head to one side. “The M.O. doesn’t really fit with a professional hit.”
“But they seem a little crazy, don’t they? Not surprisingly, they didn’t return my call.”
Landers nodded. “You’re better off. It was like talking to a Stephen King character.” He jotted a note. “I’ll have a chat with the local law enforcement in South Carolina.”
“Ask them about her old boyfriend. I talked to him this morning. Big time torch for her. If he knew she was seeing other guys, he’d have motive. Aaron and Kyle are trying to get him picked up.”
“Thanks.” He scribbled Jared’s name when I offered it.
“I’m not ruling out a serial. Like you said, the law school is near the Bottom.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “But I’m getting more interested in your theory about this ministry outfit. Or maybe there’s another connection between the victims and the killer. I’m not going to give away your headline, Miss Clarke. I just want to catch this bastard.”
I tapped my pen on my notebook, scanning his walls. The case had taken over his office, marked-up maps and horrifying photos dotting the drab-gray interior matte. “I’ve become very interested in a CPA who works for Golightly,” I said slowly. “Edwin Wolterhall. Has a violent sex offender history and a penchant for young brunettes. And she might have been trying to blackmail him. Her friends here said she talked about getting money for them to move.”
He picked up his pen. “Spell his
name for me?”
I obliged. “Kyle seems to think getting a warrant through all the lawyers Way of Life has on staff will be difficult.”
Landers nodded. “It will. But nothing’s impossible if you keep at it long enough. Thanks for coming by.”
I asked for and jotted down contact information for Cecilia’s next of kin before I tucked the pen and paper back into my bag. “Thanks for coming to the rescue last night.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it.” He stood, waving me toward the door. “I’ll keep you posted.”
I settled back into the driver’s seat of my car, the second victim, the law firm, and Wolterhall spinning through my thoughts. There had to be a link. Maybe more coffee and another round with Google could help me find it.
25.
Nancy and Bess
Richmond detectives have identified the remains of a young woman found in a car trunk in Church Hill last week as Cecilia Erickson, 24, of Richmond. Erickson was a paralegal and a student at Richmond American University Law School, where she was in her second year.
“We’re pursuing every angle in this case,” RPD Det. Chris Landers, who’s leading the investigation, said.
Erickson was the same age as Ruth Galloway, the young woman found brutally murdered on Belle Isle earlier this month. Landers said that while an arrest has been made in that case, he can’t dismiss the similarities between the women without further investigation.
I sat back in my chair. That was as close as I could get to saying “possible serial killer” and still sleep at night.
Finishing the story with background from my earlier reports, I sent it to Bob with a note to pop it on the web as soon as he read it through. Lord, I missed the days when Charlie was my biggest worry. At least Charlie had a schedule. A week of constant deadline mode was wearing on my nerves.
More caffeine.
Fresh coffee in hand, I clicked into my web browser ten minutes later, checking Channel Four’s site to see if Charlie had anything.
Coffee sloshed all over my desk when I thumped the cup down, and I snatched the computer out of harm’s way, my eyes locked on the headline: “Police search Bottom for possible serial killer.”
I muttered every swearword I knew—including a few my mother didn’t know I knew—as I scrolled through the story. Which led off “Cecilia Erickson, a twenty-four-year-old Richmond paralegal…”
Damn, damn, damn.
I wasn’t sure where my anger was directed yet, but I was good and pissed. Surely Landers hadn’t blabbed to her. But then who did?
I tapped one finger on the edge of my laptop as the four-one-one blog loaded.
A grinning photo lifted from Cecilia’s Facebook wall smiled at me, two different “unnamed police sources” quoted about the search for Richmond’s very own John Wayne Gacy.
Heat rose in my cheeks as I read, each line sending my blood pressure closer to the danger zone. By the time I clicked it off, I was surprised my head was still intact.
“Dammit!” I dropped my head back and shouted at the ceiling. It shouldn’t have taken Charlie this long to find the blog, honestly. But having to race both of them to this story wasn’t what I needed.
“Everything okay, Nicey?” Bob’s voice came from behind me, and I tipped the chair back and studied his upside-down furrowed brow.
“No. Things are so not okay for me this morning, I can’t even see okay in the rearview.” And the people who shot up my house less than twelve hours ago weren’t even the biggest reason why. Not that I was telling Bob that. “You can take your time with the exclusive I just sent you. Charlie has it already. She got it from Girl Friday.” I sat up and spun the chair around.
“Damn.”
“I don’t get it, Bob,” I said. “Landers was so careful. Hell, he came by my house last night to tell me about this.”
His brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you write it up then?”
“Because—” My lips froze. Shit. That wasn’t smart. “Because we were discussing other things and we didn’t make it around to this. That’s why I missed the meeting to go see him this morning.”
Bob was a good reporter, too. Of all the rotten luck. “What were you discussing with him that was so important you missed being first to a huge story?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Personal stuff?”
He groaned. “Jesus, Nichelle, were those roses from a cop? I can’t even begin to tell you what kind of headache that’s going to create for the both of us.”
I blinked, giving that a second to sink in. In the balance, it hurt him less to think I was seeing a detective outside work than it would to know why Landers had been at my house at midnight—or who the flowers were really from. Two problems, one unintentional fib. Win.
Shrugging, I changed the subject. “Shelby thinks she has a lead,” I said. “I’m ready to level my playing field. What did you need?”
“You weren’t in the meeting. Just wanted to see what other copy you had for today. I wasn’t looking for the ulcer you just gave me, that’s for damned sure.”
“Sorry.” No, I wasn’t. Ulcer beats heart palpitations. “I’m headed to the courthouse, and I’ll have the murder trial day two. Not sure what else. I haven’t gotten through all the police reports. Not that they’re doing much but waiting for another dead woman to pop up.”
“Your friend think this really is a serial?” Bob’s bushy eyebrows met his hairline.
“He doesn’t know. He can’t rule it out, because if it is…” I didn’t finish the sentence.
Bob nodded. “Right. And what about your preacher? You turn up anything but the girl’s name out there?”
I laughed and shook my head. “No comment?”
“I’m not stupid, Nichelle. Telling you to stay off a lead like that is like tossing a ribeye in front of a dog and telling him to sit. Just don’t get us sued. And if you’re playing Nancy Drew, let’s have the story first, huh?”
“I’m trying.”
“If Girl Friday is getting her information from the PD, perhaps we should run it before you take it to them.”
“I—” I stopped.
He was right. I promised to have my copy ready by deadline (for all the good it would do me) and clicked the blog back up on my screen, scrolling to previous entries.
She hadn’t had Ruth’s identity until six hours after we put it on the web.
But Cecilia, she had first.
Why?
I jumped to my feet and snatched up my bag, hoping Shelby was a decent detective.
Shelby grinned so genuinely when I tapped her shoulder I had to force myself not to flinch. She’s always been pretty, and a true smile directed my way was almost enough to make me like her.
“I got her,” she said, grin still in place.
“Her who? You’re sure?” I bounced on the balls of my feet.
“Ninety-nine-point-nine percent,” Shelby said.
Two solid weeks of competing with a ghost had me ready to punch someone. But I might settle for yelling. “Where can we find her?”
“Your cops should be able to tell you that,” she said, clicking her computer screen to life. “She works at RPD headquarters.”
“A cop?” Damned if Aaron wasn’t right. “Why on Earth would a cop run a blog like that? Dragging information out of the PD is harder than pulling teeth out of a lion. For most people, anyway.”
Shelby clicked a window up, full of bitsy type I couldn’t read from where I stood. “She’s not a cop. She’s a dispatcher.” She waved toward the screen. “Alexa Reading—she graduated from RAU with a bachelor’s in journalism last month, but—”
“She couldn’t find a job,” I breathed, my thoughts straying to Violet and her useless econ degree as I squinted at the screen.
“Not the one she wanted. But she has good communications skills and a college degree. So the PD snapped her up,” Shelby said, scooting her chair to one side so I could see better.
The screen was split, showing a side-
by-side of snippets from the blog next to articles from the RAU Eagle.
“It’s a writing style analyzer,” Shelby said. “It’s as close to certain as you could be that the same person wrote this stuff.”
“How did you find her?” I asked, scanning the highlights in the excerpts. Phrasing—especially odd ones—matched. It had to be her. And it all fit. Working in dispatch, she had 24/7 access to every radio in the department. Her “unnamed sources” didn’t even know they were talking to her.
“I read every post on her blog three hundred times, and some stuff started to pop out at me. She has a good grasp of writing and structuring a news story. But she’s green. So I started looking at the college papers,” Shelby said. “I pulled samples from several issues throughout the year and ran them through the analyzer.”
“That had to be hours of work.” I smiled. “And it’s brilliant. Thanks, Shelby.”
“I hit this about three this morning, and then I couldn’t sleep, I was so excited,” she said. “I guess that’s how you feel when you’re working on one of your Nancy Drew stories.”
“Just about. You’re not a bad Nancy yourself.”
“I’m more of a Bess,” she said. “But I’m good with that. This was fun, Nichelle. Thanks for letting me help.”
I wasn’t sure I’d “let” her do anything. But since she seemed to want to think that, I just nodded.
“Let’s find a dispatcher, shall we?” I asked, another puzzle piece falling in as the times on the blog flitted through my head. “She works the early shift–that’s why she doesn’t post between seven and three.”
Shelby was quiet on the short ride to police headquarters. I was glad of it, too many things whirling through my fried brain to make small talk.
We checked in at the desk and the sergeant smiled. “You here to see White or Landers?” he asked.
“Neither.” Yet. “We’re actually looking for a dispatcher this morning, Sam.” I glanced at Shelby, waiting for the name.
“Alexa,” she said brightly. “Alexa Reading.”
“You aren’t supposed to interview anyone without Detective White’s say-so.” Sam frowned.
“I’m not really looking for an interview.” I smiled. “And I promise, Aaron would approve of my intentions.”
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