Faces of Fear

Alison shrugged. “Okay. I’ll call Dad and tell him I’ll meet Scott sometime next week.” She eyed Risa, waiting for an answer. “Okay?” she pressed. “Next week?”

“Next week,” Risa promised. “We’ll make it happen, okay? Now jump in the shower. Lexie will be here to pick us up in an hour.”

“I have to call Dad first.”

“I’ll call him,” Risa said. “I’ll explain everything. He’ll understand.”

“Okay,” Alison said, but made no move to get up.

Risa waited.

“Are you and Dad going to fight?” Alison finally asked. “Are you going to hate Scott no matter what he’s like?” Another tear rolled out of the corner of her eye, trailing toward her ear.

“No, honey.” Risa said. “We are not going to fight. Your father doesn’t want to fight, and neither do I.”

“But it seems so weird, Dad living somewhere else, and with a guy.” Alison took a deep, quivering breath.

“I know, sweetheart, but it will be all right. Trust me. It’s going to be hard for a while, for all of us, but we’ll get through it. And we’ll get through it without fighting, okay? I can’t say I’m happy about all this, but I know there’s nothing I can do to change the way people are. Your father is who he is, and I’ll just have to get used to it. I’ll do my best not to get angry, but if I ever do — and I probably will — you’ll just have to forgive me, okay?”

Alison nodded. “Life is weird,” she finally said.

“Indeed it is,” Risa agreed. She hugged her daughter and silently vowed to keep the peace with Michael and Scott.

No matter what.

THE DOORBELL RANG just as Scott poured himself and Michael a second cup of coffee, the remains of a Belgian waffle feast still on the dining room table. As the bell rang again, Scott sighed in resignation. “There goes our lazy Saturday morning.”

“Not necessarily,” Michael replied. “Maybe it’s just the postman. Isn’t he the one who always rings twice?”

Abandoning the coffee, Scott headed for the front door. “Mine never rings at all — he just leaves things on the porch and hopes for the best.”

He opened the door to find Tina Wong hovering impatiently, her finger poised to press the bell a third time. She spotted Michael sitting at the table in the dining room, and ignoring Scott, walked right in, brushing past him as if he didn’t exist. “You turned your phone off,” she said accusingly.

“It’s Saturday,” Michael said. “And good morning to you, too.”

Scott shot a questioning look at Michael. “Shall I offer her a cup of coffee?”

Tina didn’t wait for Michael to respond, and either didn’t catch his sarcastic tone or chose to ignore it. “Black, with one sugar.” She turned to eye Scott as if he were a recalcitrant waiter. “Not Splenda, or Equal, or any of that crap. Sugar.” Then she set her briefcase on the dining room table, snapped open the locks, and sat down next to Michael. “I’ve got a lot of stuff on the Caroline Fisher murder.”

Michael shrugged a helpless apology to Scott as Tina pulled a folder from her briefcase and opened it. She spread the contents out on the table as Scott disappeared into the kitchen.

“Not only was she mutilated,” she said, “but the killer stole parts of her.” She spread out five eight-by-ten photos.

Michael was still looking at the pictures a minute later when Scott reappeared and set a mug of coffee in front of Tina. “Jesus,” Scott breathed as his eyes fell on the images, “isn’t it a little early in the morning for that kind of stuff?” He touched Michael’s shoulder. “How about I leave you two to your business? I’ll be out by the pool.”

“The killer not only mutilated with apparent glee,” Tina said as soon as Scott was out of earshot, “but took the breasts, vagina, and — get this — glands.”

Scott quickened his step, disappeared into the kitchen, and closed the door behind him.

“Glands?” Michael repeated hollowly.

“Glands. Both adrenals and the thymus.”

Michael sat back. “Okay, I’ll grant you that’s pretty weird. But how does it merit interrupting my Saturday?”

“Because,” Tina said, riveting him with her trademark piercing stare, “this is not the first time that glands have been taken from a murder victim.” She handed him two faxed autopsy reports. “San Diego, and San Jose, one week apart, fifteen years ago. And now again, Caroline Fisher in Encino.”

“Fifteen years, Tina?” Michael said, handing her back the pages without so much as a glance. “That’s a long time. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Wrong!” Tina declared, pushing the papers back at him. “We’ve got a serial killer here, Michael. Right now we’re ahead of the other stations, and I don’t even think the cops have put it together yet. But they will.” She leaned toward him, a posture he’d seen her use during many an effective interview. “Before they figure it out, I want to run a special that will blow the roof off our ratings.”

Michael shook his head. “Two murders fifteen years ago is no longer news,” he said.

But Tina wasn’t about to be put off that easily. “I’m telling you, Michael — there’s a monster out there. And right now I’m the only one who knows this isn’t his first kill. The murderer, me, and now you — we’re the only ones who know.”

“Then shouldn’t you be taking this to the police?”

“Oh, I will,” she said. “I’ll go to the police with the tape of my special precisely one hour before we air it.”

Michael leaned back in his chair and gazed at Tina speculatively. “Are those other two murders still unsolved?”

“Yes!” Tina leaned even farther forward, sensing impending victory.

“Do you have crime scene photos?”

Tina nodded.

“Is the M.O. the same?”

Tina hesitated. “I don’t know yet. I’ll have to go to San Diego and San Jose to find all that out. That’s why I need a budget.”

Michael sighed, sagging like a tire losing its air. “Sorry. The whole thing’s way too weak. I can’t authorize a budget for something that goes back fifteen years without any kind of connection at all.”

“Women murdered for their glands, Michael,” Tina said, leaning in again. “This is going to be big. This isn’t just going to be news — this is going to be a book and a movie, and the whole ball of wax. And I want it.”

“You can want it all you want, Tina,” Michael said, unimpressed by her theatrics. “Maybe there is a book, and a movie, and a ball of wax — whatever that is — but at least for now, it’s not a news special. Not in a newsroom I’m running.”

“You’re going to regret it. I’m telling you.”

He smiled thinly. “I’ve regretted decisions before, and I’m sure I will again. But for the moment, I don’t think this will be one of them.”

“What will it take to convince you?” Tina put her files back into her briefcase.

“One more body,” Michael said. “More recent than fifteen years ago, and the same M.O. If you can give me one more body, and prove that the M.O. on all four is the same, I’ll get you a budget and you can have your special.”

“One more body.” She nodded. “If it’s out there, I’ll find it.” She stood up and grabbed her briefcase, her coffee still untouched.

He followed her to the door and opened it.

“I’ll find it, Michael.”

“I have no doubt,” he said, then watched her walk across the porch and down to her car, parked next to a fire hydrant in front of the house.

He knew that if there was another body out there, Tina would find it, even if she had to make it herself.

He closed the door and went to find Scott.

They had a leisurely Saturday morning to resume.