“I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”
Peter had no idea whether Justine was a lesbian, bisexual, or simply the free-spoken product of a generation that had no qualms about checking out members of the same sex. He knew better than to spend too much time thinking about it. She had good taste though. He hadn’t kicked Ellie Hatcher out of bed either, even if her presence there came with the horrible condition that it was a one-night deal. Man, he could not stop thinking about this woman.
“Hey, I’m sending a call back in about sixty seconds,” Justine said. “You better pick it up.”
One of the interns’ jobs was to answer the general public’s crime beat calls. The reporters had lobbied for the change, fed up with constant and absolutely unnewsworthy bitching about abandoned cars, noisy dance clubs, street-level drug dealing, and the occasional illegal exotic pet. Granted, sometimes an apartment-reared lion made good copy, but the interns were perfectly capable of passing along a worthy tip.
“I always take my calls,” Peter said.
“No you don’t. You say you do, but I catch you cheating all the time.”
Peter was only in his midthirties, but increasingly he found himself thinking that youth was a pain in the ass. “Well, it never seems to matter, does it?”
“On this one, it might. The guy says he’s got something on that serial killer case. An exclusive tip only for you.”
Peter didn’t bother to get his hopes up. This call would be just one of many he and other reporters around the city would receive from various whack jobs. He kept his eyes on Ellie Hatcher, wondering if she was getting the same kind of phone calls. “So transfer him already.”
“I tried. I pretended to look for your number while I tried getting your attention. He said he’d call back in exactly ninety seconds and expected to be transferred immediately.” She rushed back to her desk, yelling, “We’ve got about five seconds left.”
This could be interesting. Peter watched the digital clock tick away on the LED readout of his phone. He kept an eye on Justine, who was at her desk now, with one hand on the phone. Five, four, three, two, one. A millisecond of a phone ringing, then Justine’s voice. “
She gave Peter an urgent look and pushed a few buttons on her phone, then Peter’s phone rang.
“Peter Morse.”
“Did that young thing with the pretty voice tell you why I was calling?” The voice had a southern accent. Not a twang, but something southern. Raised in the northeast, Peter couldn’t place it any more particularly.
“She said it was about this week’s murders.”
“That’s right. Amy and Megan.” The names oozed like warm caramel. “There’s more you need to know about what got them killed. Something the police are hiding. You got a pen? Write this down. 455 Fifth Avenue. Third floor.” He read off a series of numbers followed by letters.
“Is that some kind of code?”
“You mean to tell me that an accomplished journalist like yourself is unfamiliar with the Dewey Decimal system? I promise, it’ll make good reading.”
“Wait. Who are you? How can I get a hold of you?”
Peter heard a click in his ear, then hung up as well. He rolled out his keyboard drawer and Googled the address the man had recited. The mid-Manhattan public library. He reached for the pile of notes on Ellie Hatcher and flipped to a summary of the College Hill Strangler case that he’d printed from a Web site called Crime Library. He found what he was looking for on the third page:
Peter was already pulling on his coat as he finished reading. If his caller was a whack job, he certainly was a creative one.
29
LOCATING COPIES OF
Ellie was on hold with a clerk from the Strand bookstore when her cell phone rang. The screen read, Caller Unknown.
“Ellie Hatcher.”
“Detective Hatcher, this is Agent Charlie Dixon of the FBI. I understand that you’re working on this murder case involving Megan Quinn and Amy Davis.”
She cradled the handset of the desk phone against her shoulder and tossed a pencil toward Flann to break him away from Caroline Hunter’s notes. “That’s right, I’m working on both of those cases. How can I help you, Agent Dixon?”
She had Flann’s attention.
“It’s more a question of whether I can help you. Can we meet somewhere?”
“You’re more than welcome to come on in. We’re doing some desk work now.”
“Sorry, I’m not a big fan of local police stations. It’s turning into a nice, bright day outside. You feel like taking a little walk? Somewhere near your station – I don’t want to put you out.”
It was a typical federal ploy for power, but Ellie figured she’d find plenty to argue about with Dixon later. “Sure. There’s an Italian place just around the corner. Lamarca on Twenty-second and Third. How long do you need?”
“I can see it from my car. I’ll be waiting for you.”
IT WASN’T HARD to miss the tall man in a suit, trench coat, and wool cap, settling into a corner table at Lamarca. He had thinning dark hair, small brown eyes, and a puffy, unshaven face. He also had a tray with three coffees and several pastries. They exchanged introductions and handshakes as they unbundled from their coats.
“No partner?”
“Like I said, we’re tied to our desks right now.” The truth was that Flann had so many choice words about the FBI and their penchant for poaching good cases that Ellie had ultimately insisted on meeting Dixon alone.
“I won’t waste your time then. It’s my understanding you’re looking into the murder of Tatiana Chekova as part of this suspected serial killer case. Here, take one of these coffees. And dig into these bad boys too. I didn’t know what you’d want so I-”
“It’s your understanding, huh?” Ellie helped herself to a hazelnut roll. “And how exactly did you come to have this understanding about one of our cases?”
“I know you’re new to this, Detective, but you do realize, don’t you, that if we don’t like the kind of cooperation we get from you, the FBI can always take this case away. Patternistic multiple homicides are a Quantico specialty.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s really going to happen though. I already spoke to your Special Agent in Charge. What’s his name – Barry Mayfield? Anyway, he knows we’re working this case. I asked about Tatiana – and a company called FirstDate too, by the way – and he has to have gotten wind of yesterday’s news by now. If he wanted jurisdiction, he’d take the case. He’d at least come talk to us. You wouldn’t be here. So let’s make this a two-way street: Why are you so interested in Tatiana Chekova?”
Dixon smiled. “Honestly, I don’t want to get into a jurisdictional pissing match with you. Let’s start fresh. I got coffees, I got treats, I’m trying to play nice with you in our little law enforcement sandbox. So why don’t we get
