The Shadow Killer by Gail Bowen

pleasure, but tonight she chews on it dutifully. It might as well be broccoli. “Charlie, we need to talk,” she says. “About Ian Blaise.”
    â€œHe calls in all the time,” I say. “He’s doing fine. Seeing a shrink. Back to work part-time. Considering that it’s only been six months since his wife and daughters were killed in that car accident, his recovery is a miracle.”
    Nova has lovely eyes. They’re as blue as a northern sky. When she laughs, the skin around them crinkles. It isn’t crinkling now. “Ian jumped from the roof of his apartment building Saturday,” she says. “He’s dead.”
    I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the stomach. “He called me at home last week. We talked for over an hour.”
    Nova frowns. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. You shouldn’t give out your home number. It’s dangerous.”
    â€œNot as dangerous as being without a person you can call in the small hours,” I say tightly. “That’s when the ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties can drive you over the edge. I remember the feeling well.”
    â€œThe situation may be more sinister than that, Charlie,” Nova says. “This morning someone sent us Ian’s obituary. This index card was clipped to it.”
    Nova hands me the card. It’s the kind school kids use when they have to make a speech in class. The message is neatly printed, and I read it aloud. “‘Ian Blaise wasn’t worth your time, Charlie. None of them are. They’re cutting off your oxygen. I’m going to save you.’” I turn to Nova. “What the hell is this?”
    â€œWell, for starters, it’s the third in a series. Last week someone sent us Marcie Zhang’s obituary.”
    â€œThe girl in grade nine who was being bullied,” I say. “You didn’t tell me she was dead.”
    â€œThere’s a lot I don’t tell you,” Nova says. She sounds tired. “Anyway, there was a file card attached to the obituary. The message was the same as this one—minus the part about saving you. That’s new.”
    â€œI don’t get it,” I say. “Marcie Zhang called in a couple of weeks ago. Remember? She was in great shape. She’d aced her exams. And she had an interview for a job as a junior counselor at a summer camp.”
    â€œI remember. I also remember that the last time James Washington called in, he said that he was getting a lot of support from other gay athletes who’d been outed, and he wished he’d gone public sooner.”
    â€œJames is dead too?”
    Nova raises an eyebrow. “Lucky you never read the papers, huh? James died as a result of a hit-and-run a couple of weeks ago. We got the newspaper clipping with the index card attached. Same message— word for word—as the one with Marcie’s obituary.”
    â€œAnd you never told me?”
    â€œI didn’t connect the dots, Charlie. A fourteen-year-old girl who, until very recently has been deeply disturbed, commits suicide. A professional athlete is killed in a tragic accident. Do you have any idea how much mail we get? How many calls I handle a week? Maybe I wasn’t as sharp as I should have been, because I’m preoccupied with this baby. But this morning after I got Ian’s obituary—with the extended-play version of the note—I called the police.”
    I snap. “You called the cops? Nova, you and I have always been on the same side of that particular issue. The police operate in a black-and-white world. Right/ wrong. Guilty/innocent. Sane/Not so much. We’ve always agreed that life is more complex for our listeners. They tell us things they can’t tell anybody else. They have to trust us.”
    Nova moves so close that her belly is touching mine. Her voice is low and grave. “Charlie, this isn’t about a lonely guy who wants you