“Senator, with all due respect, this is an extremely important speech. The public is going to see you like they’ve never seen you before; you need to make the most of this situation, seize the moment—”
“I’ve delivered hundreds of speeches over the years, Levar—”
“This isn’t a stump speech where you’re angling for votes. You’re telling your constituents they’re safe. That you’re doing everything humanly possible to catch this killer. All the mothers out there are putting the safety of their daughters in your hands. You have to show them you’re strong and in control, that you’re up to the task.”
“Your point?”
“Let’s give it a run-through in the conference room. I need to go over some details with you.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary? I’ve only got thirty-five minutes before—”
“Yes. Please come with me.”
She frowned, then gathered her papers and followed Wilson down the hall. The conference room was rectangular, twice as deep as it was wide, and large enough to accommodate a small army of press people packed a bit more loosely than sardines. A wooden podium stood alone on a raised platform against a brown curtained backdrop.
“There’ll be a cup of water on the podium. Do not touch it. You have to tell the viewers you’re working to the exclusion of everything else to keep them safe. You’re not even going to stop for a glass of water.”
“That’s a bit over the top, Levar.”
“Now,” he said, ignoring her objection, “set the papers down and grasp both edges of the podium. I hope you don’t mind borrowing a bit from the Democrats, but Bill Clinton had this down to a science. He has these large hands and he curled them around the edges of the podium, caressing it, symbolizing that he had a full grasp of the situation.”
“Levar—”
“Go with me on this, Senator. It’ll work.”
She sighed her consternation, then dropped her papers on the podium and took hold of its edges.
“No, no—stand at ease, the podium is merely a prop. Here, picture it this way. The edges of the podium are a woman’s shoulders. Pretend it’s your daughter—”
“I don’t have a daughter,” she said firmly.
“Pretend, Senator. Please.”
“Very well.”
“Hold her shoulders gently, but with authority. She’s upset about something, and you’re about to give her some comforting advice. Look into her eyes. In this case, the camera. Tilt your head,” he said, doing the same with his and waiting for her to follow. “That’s it, now pause for a second. You’re thoughtful, but deliberate. Explain to your daughter that she’s safe and that you’re going to do everything possible to look after her safety.”
Linwood’s eyes softened a bit. Wilson nodded his approval. “Good, perfect. Now, back to your papers. Pick up with the sentence, “And I promise. . . .”
THE TELEVISION ZOOMED IN on the senator’s face; this was true drama, in primetime. And it was all because of him. How flattering. Not his intention, but what the hell. We all got our fifteen minutes of fame sooner or later.
“And I promise to do my best to make sure no woman has to worry about being safe in her own home. My representatives and I are working hand-in-hand with the police to catch this madman. And I assure you, we
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He pressed the mute button and she had no choice but to listen to him. “Now, wouldn’t that be something . . . a remote control to make all the bitch-whores shut up on my command!”
He hit the remote and her voice came alive again.
“The police and the FBI are poised to act on several leads. I expect we’ll see a major break in the case any time now.”
“Several leads . . . major break. . . .” Why can’t people tell the truth? They got
VAIL WALKED INTO the task force’s operations center and heard the measured drone of a television emanating from the kitchen. She was jumpy yet exhausted, remnants of her latest run-in with Deacon. She had dropped off the book at Jonathan’s school and gone home to straighten herself up before heading to the op center.
She laid her purse atop her makeshift desk and picked up a note clipped to a folder. As she started to read it, someone tapped her shoulder. She turned, saw Bledsoe, and winced as pain cut through her left leg. When Deacon had grabbed her ankles, he’d twisted the knee she had injured in Sandra Franks’s yard. It had been killing her since leaving Deacon’s a couple of hours ago.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Knee’s a little sore. What’s up?”
“Linwood’s on TV. Dead Eyes press conference.”
“What press conference?”
“You already know as much as I do. Far as I know, she’s doing this on her own.”
Bledsoe followed Vail into the kitchen. Manette and Robby were huddled around a scarred, faux wood- encased Sony television with fuzzy reception.
Vail moved in beside them to get a clear view of the screen, which showed Linwood standing behind a podium.
“. . . and to the Dead Eyes killer, I say your days are numbered. We’re on your trail, and we will persevere until we find you. You will rot in hell, your soul hung out to dry in front of everyone, for society to see who and what you are—”
“Oh, that’s just great,” Vail said, grabbing the back of her neck. “Incite him.” She turned to Bledsoe. “How can she do this—shouldn’t she need clearance from us to go on TV?”
“Politics,” Robby said. “That’s what this is about.”
Vail looked around the room and noticed someone was missing. “Where’s Hancock?”
“I texted him,” Bledsoe said. “Haven’t heard back.”
“I bet he’s behind this,” Vail said. “Doesn’t she realize what’ll happen if the offender sees this?” Vail asked. “We can’t have loose cannons—”
“She challenged him,” Manette said. “Right on network TV. It’ll be shown in sound bites on every major channel for the next several days.”
“Not to be cynical, but I bet that’s exactly what she’s counting on,” Robby said. “Prime-time exposure, for free. Leading up to an election, getting in the offender’s face, and showing him who’s boss is a powerful political statement. Brilliant strategy, really.”
“She won’t look so smart when he uses it as an excuse to kill again,” Bledsoe said.
Manette rose slowly from her chair. “As if he needed an excuse.”
“Whether he did or not,” Vail said, “she’s just given him one.”
“You will rot in hell, your soul hung out to dry in front of everyone, for society to see who and what you are: a monster. A wart, a sin on the face of God.”
He grabbed a gob of clay and hurled it at the TV. It stuck to the screen as if clinging for its life. “I’ll rot in hell, huh?” He threw his tools off the table. Pulled at his collar. Hard to breathe.
The clay suddenly lost its grip and fell with a light thud to the floor.
“Rot in hell?
