railing, her notebook and pen still in her hand. “This city is full of killers. Do they think one more is really going to matter, especially one killing prostitutes? Every second or third year we’re the murder capital of the country. Tourists can’t even walk in the French Quarter anymore without getting robbed.”
“Are you going to write the story?”
Kirsten glanced at her watch. “Of course I’m going to write it. It’s a big story. Scratch that. It’s a huge story.”
“You’ve got to keep my name out of it.”
“Somebody has to go on the record, Murphy. I can’t run a story this controversial with just an anonymous source.”
“The last time I went on the record with you I got fired.”
“How am I going to attribute it?”
“You’re the reporter.”
“The managing editor is going to want to know who my source is before he’ll even consider letting me publish quotes without a name attached to them.”
“I don’t care who wants to know. You can’t tell anyone where you got this information. PIB will come after me again, and this time they’ll make it permanent.”
“They didn’t fire you for talking to the press,” Kirsten said. “They fired you for blowing the lid on something they were trying to keep hidden. What you did took a lot of guts.”
“The rank considered it a betrayal.”
“Why, because you arrested a drug dealer and refused to throw the case?”
“Because I embarrassed the mayor.”
“His brother had a kilo of cocaine in his car. He should have gone to prison, not rehab.”
For all of Kirsten’s big-city-reporter cynicism, she really was naive, Murphy thought. Given enough spins of the wheel, she believed the world was supposed to come out fair, and that right would triumph over wrong, good over evil. It was sweet. Too bad it was wrong.
“PIB doesn’t like getting beat,” Murphy said. “And if you beat them, they come back at you with a vengeance. I’ve seen it happen before.”
“That was three years ago. I think you’re paranoid. If they were going to do something to you, they would have done it by now.”
“Are you going to keep my name out of the story?”
Kirsten looked at Murphy for a long few seconds. Then she nodded.
“Thanks,” he said.
She looked at her watch. “I missed the budget meeting. The city editor’s going to have a fit.”
Murphy stood. “Not when he finds out what’ve you got.”
She flipped through the pages of her notebook. “You really think he’s going to move away from prostitutes and start killing . . .”
“Normal women?” Murphy said.
“I know that sounds terrible but—”
“We call them true victims, people who don’t do things that are likely to get them killed, regular tax-paying citizens. And yeah, I think that’s what he’s going to do.”
“Didn’t you go to some FBI school on serial killers?”
“It was only a weeklong course.”
“Did they teach you anything there, or did you spend your time trying to get into the pants of some FBI chick?”
When Murphy didn’t respond, Kirsten turned and walked down the steps.
He followed her. His Taurus was parked at the curb behind her Volvo. He stopped beside her car as she slid behind the wheel. “Just keep my name out of it,” he said.
Kirsten turned and looked at him. “I will.”
C HAPTER E IGHT
Friday, July 27, 4:50 PM
Murphy stood at the door holding a last-minute arrangement of flowers he had picked up at a supermarket. He knocked but there was no answer. He opened the door and stepped inside. The stench of stale cigarettes almost knocked him down.
“Mother?” he called out.
The apartment was small, even by single-bedroom, retirement-community standards. A sitting room, a kitchenette, and a bedroom, with a bathroom the size of a telephone booth wedged in the middle. Even so, the place was eating a hole through Murphy’s paycheck.
Overflowing ashtrays occupied nearly every flat surface. A film of nicotine covered everything
“Are you going to write the story?”
Kirsten glanced at her watch. “Of course I’m going to write it. It’s a big story. Scratch that. It’s a huge story.”
“You’ve got to keep my name out of it.”
“Somebody has to go on the record, Murphy. I can’t run a story this controversial with just an anonymous source.”
“The last time I went on the record with you I got fired.”
“How am I going to attribute it?”
“You’re the reporter.”
“The managing editor is going to want to know who my source is before he’ll even consider letting me publish quotes without a name attached to them.”
“I don’t care who wants to know. You can’t tell anyone where you got this information. PIB will come after me again, and this time they’ll make it permanent.”
“They didn’t fire you for talking to the press,” Kirsten said. “They fired you for blowing the lid on something they were trying to keep hidden. What you did took a lot of guts.”
“The rank considered it a betrayal.”
“Why, because you arrested a drug dealer and refused to throw the case?”
“Because I embarrassed the mayor.”
“His brother had a kilo of cocaine in his car. He should have gone to prison, not rehab.”
For all of Kirsten’s big-city-reporter cynicism, she really was naive, Murphy thought. Given enough spins of the wheel, she believed the world was supposed to come out fair, and that right would triumph over wrong, good over evil. It was sweet. Too bad it was wrong.
“PIB doesn’t like getting beat,” Murphy said. “And if you beat them, they come back at you with a vengeance. I’ve seen it happen before.”
“That was three years ago. I think you’re paranoid. If they were going to do something to you, they would have done it by now.”
“Are you going to keep my name out of the story?”
Kirsten looked at Murphy for a long few seconds. Then she nodded.
“Thanks,” he said.
She looked at her watch. “I missed the budget meeting. The city editor’s going to have a fit.”
Murphy stood. “Not when he finds out what’ve you got.”
She flipped through the pages of her notebook. “You really think he’s going to move away from prostitutes and start killing . . .”
“Normal women?” Murphy said.
“I know that sounds terrible but—”
“We call them true victims, people who don’t do things that are likely to get them killed, regular tax-paying citizens. And yeah, I think that’s what he’s going to do.”
“Didn’t you go to some FBI school on serial killers?”
“It was only a weeklong course.”
“Did they teach you anything there, or did you spend your time trying to get into the pants of some FBI chick?”
When Murphy didn’t respond, Kirsten turned and walked down the steps.
He followed her. His Taurus was parked at the curb behind her Volvo. He stopped beside her car as she slid behind the wheel. “Just keep my name out of it,” he said.
Kirsten turned and looked at him. “I will.”
C HAPTER E IGHT
Friday, July 27, 4:50 PM
Murphy stood at the door holding a last-minute arrangement of flowers he had picked up at a supermarket. He knocked but there was no answer. He opened the door and stepped inside. The stench of stale cigarettes almost knocked him down.
“Mother?” he called out.
The apartment was small, even by single-bedroom, retirement-community standards. A sitting room, a kitchenette, and a bedroom, with a bathroom the size of a telephone booth wedged in the middle. Even so, the place was eating a hole through Murphy’s paycheck.
Overflowing ashtrays occupied nearly every flat surface. A film of nicotine covered everything
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