out there, time was ticking. How much longer before the killer took another life? Judging by his schedule so far, maybe a day.
Time was passing and somewhere my target was planning his next kill while I sat in a diner, across from my “partner,” who looked as anxious to get to work as any time-card puncher on Monday morning.
I vented my frustration with chatter.
“—two hours, not a single nibble and my butt is frozen to the ice. So I check the guys’ hooks, and no one has any bait. ‘Bait?’ one says. ‘What for? We don’t want to catch anything. We just wanted an excuse to toss back a few before lunch.’”
Jack opened his mouth, but a burst of static cut him off. Across the room, a server moved a portable radio onto the counter. The three customers there all leaned forward, like fans listening to the last inning of the World Series. I caught the words “number five” and “Boston.” A game this early in the day?
“Turn it up,” someone yelled.
The server obliged. I made a face, then caught the first rush of the announcer’s words and stopped with my coffee cup halfway to my lips.
“—received confirmation that this is definitely murder number five. It appears the Helter Skelter killer has taken another victim—”
“Fuck,” Jack muttered.
“—Boston. Police have released few details at this time. They will say only that an unidentified woman has been found suffocated in the stairwell of her office complex.”
Customers crowded around the counter to hear better. Not so much as a fork clinked against china.
“—approximately 7 a.m. Police have confirmed that a page from the book Helter Skelter was found with the body. A news conference is scheduled for later this morning. More details are expected at that time. We return now…”
Jack pulled his chair forward, legs scraping the linoleum. He jerked his head toward the door.
Jack got into the car and drove. Not a word about what had happened inside. Yet the news had been enough to get him up and moving.
After less than a thirty-minute drive, Jack pulled into Fort Wayne, Indiana. He drove to a strip mall and parked far enough from the storefronts that no one would notice or care that we were taking up a spot and not shopping.
He got out. I followed. He looked at me over the roof.
“Uh, let me guess,” I said. “When you said ‘stop by’ the pronoun you left off was ‘I’ not ‘we,’ right?”
“You want to come?”
“I’m not going to spend this investigation hanging out in the car, getting secondhand information. But I’m not in a hurry to be introduced to all your underworld contacts, either. You know this guy—it’s your call.”
“You should come.” He locked the car. “Get it over with.”
Before I could say anything, he was already striding across the parking lot, leaving me jogging to catch up.
We stood before a small two-story house on a street that was mostly brick bungalows, with the occasional two-story thrown in for variety. An old neighborhood in every way, from the massive oaks that looked as if they’d seen the first colonists to the front porches adorned with wicker rockers, mobile scooters and wheelchair ramps.
Down the street, an army of young men worked their way from lawn to lawn, mowers and hedge-clippers in tow. A patrolling security car slowed to give us a once-over, then drove on. It looked like an upper-middle-class retirement community, where the owners kept their houses small, saving their money for Alaskan cruises and European vacations. A strange place for an underworld contact meeting.
“Something I should tell you.” Jack peered up at the house. “Things I didn’t mention before. Probably should have. But…” He paused, then shook his head. “Too late now. You’ll understand or you won’t.”
With that, he headed for the front steps.
SEVEN
White curtains in the windows. Fresh dark green trim to complement the yellow brick. A black metal mailbox. The space
Time was passing and somewhere my target was planning his next kill while I sat in a diner, across from my “partner,” who looked as anxious to get to work as any time-card puncher on Monday morning.
I vented my frustration with chatter.
“—two hours, not a single nibble and my butt is frozen to the ice. So I check the guys’ hooks, and no one has any bait. ‘Bait?’ one says. ‘What for? We don’t want to catch anything. We just wanted an excuse to toss back a few before lunch.’”
Jack opened his mouth, but a burst of static cut him off. Across the room, a server moved a portable radio onto the counter. The three customers there all leaned forward, like fans listening to the last inning of the World Series. I caught the words “number five” and “Boston.” A game this early in the day?
“Turn it up,” someone yelled.
The server obliged. I made a face, then caught the first rush of the announcer’s words and stopped with my coffee cup halfway to my lips.
“—received confirmation that this is definitely murder number five. It appears the Helter Skelter killer has taken another victim—”
“Fuck,” Jack muttered.
“—Boston. Police have released few details at this time. They will say only that an unidentified woman has been found suffocated in the stairwell of her office complex.”
Customers crowded around the counter to hear better. Not so much as a fork clinked against china.
“—approximately 7 a.m. Police have confirmed that a page from the book Helter Skelter was found with the body. A news conference is scheduled for later this morning. More details are expected at that time. We return now…”
Jack pulled his chair forward, legs scraping the linoleum. He jerked his head toward the door.
Jack got into the car and drove. Not a word about what had happened inside. Yet the news had been enough to get him up and moving.
After less than a thirty-minute drive, Jack pulled into Fort Wayne, Indiana. He drove to a strip mall and parked far enough from the storefronts that no one would notice or care that we were taking up a spot and not shopping.
He got out. I followed. He looked at me over the roof.
“Uh, let me guess,” I said. “When you said ‘stop by’ the pronoun you left off was ‘I’ not ‘we,’ right?”
“You want to come?”
“I’m not going to spend this investigation hanging out in the car, getting secondhand information. But I’m not in a hurry to be introduced to all your underworld contacts, either. You know this guy—it’s your call.”
“You should come.” He locked the car. “Get it over with.”
Before I could say anything, he was already striding across the parking lot, leaving me jogging to catch up.
We stood before a small two-story house on a street that was mostly brick bungalows, with the occasional two-story thrown in for variety. An old neighborhood in every way, from the massive oaks that looked as if they’d seen the first colonists to the front porches adorned with wicker rockers, mobile scooters and wheelchair ramps.
Down the street, an army of young men worked their way from lawn to lawn, mowers and hedge-clippers in tow. A patrolling security car slowed to give us a once-over, then drove on. It looked like an upper-middle-class retirement community, where the owners kept their houses small, saving their money for Alaskan cruises and European vacations. A strange place for an underworld contact meeting.
“Something I should tell you.” Jack peered up at the house. “Things I didn’t mention before. Probably should have. But…” He paused, then shook his head. “Too late now. You’ll understand or you won’t.”
With that, he headed for the front steps.
SEVEN
White curtains in the windows. Fresh dark green trim to complement the yellow brick. A black metal mailbox. The space
Similar Books
