My face burned bright red. “I don’t really update that anymore. I don’t want to be accused of fear-mongering.”
“Some of your earlier stuff was bizarre and hard to follow,” Kate admitted. “But I read about the case you cracked in London last year. Jack the Ripper copycat, eh? What made you so sure you could catch the guy?”
“Audacity, guesswork, and a little luck.”
“I’d add brains in there too.” With a wink, she turned on her heel and headed out of the waiting room. At the doorway, she looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming or what?”
Bewildered, I hurried after her. She led me deeper into the police station, walking with an authoritative sway to her hips. As she power-walked, she filled me in.
“If your friend is gone, that’s four women who have disappeared from downtown Chicago in the last three months,” Kate said. “Not including Megan, who might have been considered missing if we hadn’t found her body.”
“Do you think the missing girls are linked to Megan’s death?” I asked. “I don’t think the killer intended to leave her body in that alleyway. It was an accident that she ended up there. What if the other girls are—?” My voice caught in my throat. “What if they’re already—?”
“Dead?” Kate finished for me. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering that too.”
She pushed open a door and led me into a small office. Her case—the missing women of Chicago—was plastered all over a big corkboard. She had the details of each woman who had disappeared, sticky notes, pictures, and possible connections pinned to the board. Megan Hollows’s information was set slightly away from the others, but Kate had included it nonetheless.
Kate sat in one office chair and rolled the other over to me with her foot. She propped her feet up on the desk and faced the corkboard. “Britney Fielden, Bianca Mitchell, Hannah Peterson, Megan Hollows, and now…” She gestured to me.
“Angelica Taylor.”
“Angelica Taylor,” she repeated, as if committing the name to memory. “Not a whole lot to connect them. They were all between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-two. All relatively active on social media. All tourists to the Chicago area.” Kate twirled a pen around her thumb. “These are important things to consider, but they don’t give us a solid enough link. We can’t pin the disappearances on one person without more.”
“What does your boss think? Royce?”
Kate’s eyes rolled. “Royce isn’t making this case his top priority. He’s more concerned with the drug-related homicides. Not to mention, the whole department is stumped on this. No one can make any connections. That’s why Royce gave me the case, so he can blame it on me if we never solve it.”
“But there are connections,” I said. “You just listed them. You said all the girls disappeared from the downtown area, right? That means the person who took them is probably local.”
“I got that already.” She tapped the pen against a handwritten sticky note on the corkboard: Dick’s probably local.
“You mentioned their social media,” I said. “Any chance any of them are still posting from their accounts?”
“All three of them posted after their supposed disappearance,” Kate answered. “That’s another reason we haven’t been noticing them sooner.”
“Someone posted from Megan Hollows’s account too,” I said. “Whoever’s doing this is purposely trying to buy themselves some time.”
“They succeeded,” Kate said. “Trail’s practically cold. What do you got?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you gotta give me something,” she urged. “Why else would I have brought you back here?”
I rolled closer to the corkboard. “Sorry, police officers don’t ask me to work with them often. Usually, they’re telling me to mind my own business.”
“I could use all the help I can get. Got a hunch?”
“You might think I’m crazy.”
Kate smirked. “Girl, if crazy solves cases, I don’t care if you’re certifiably nuts.”
“So you won’t arrest me if I admit I stole something from the crime scene?”
Her eyebrows hit the ceiling. “You did what?”
“I found a journal in that alley,” I said. “Whoever wrote it was obsessed with H.H. Holmes. He was—”
“Murder Castle guy. I’m familiar. What about this journal?”
“I think it belongs to whoever is kidnapping these women,” I guessed. “And I’m pretty sure he’s mimicking Holmes’s crimes, if his diary is any indication.”
Kate wrote something on a sticky note, rolled over to the corkboard, and planted the note alongside the others: Dick’s a Holmes fan.
“Well, I guess we gotta find a murder castle,” Kate declared.
8
With Kate’s blessing and copies of the other missing girls’ files, I returned to the Saint Angel with fresh confidence. As I stepped out of the Lyft, which had dropped me off across the street from the hotel, something caught my eye. Fletcher Stevens, the investor, lingered around the entrance of the Saint Angel, his gaze fixed on the ground. He made even strides back and forth, scanning the pavement for something. He rounded the corner and continued his methodical sweep in the alleyway where Megan Hollows had died.
He did a double-take then quickly knelt down and plucked something off the ground. He tucked the object into the breast pocket of his black bomber jacket, brushed his hands off, and glanced around to make sure no one was watching. With practiced nonchalance, he sauntered into the hotel.
I jogged across the street and tracked him inside. He waited outside the elevator, whistling a cheerful tune. I fanned myself, hoping for the pink flush to subside from my cheeks, and stepped beside him.
“Whew!” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Cold out, isn’t it?”
“Quite,” he replied politely. He glanced at me, one eyebrow lifting in recognition. “You’re Wolf’s friend. From Rodolfo’s.”
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends,” I admitted. “I ran into him, and he offered me lunch.”
A twinkle lit up Fletcher’s blue eyes. “He’s generous like that.”
“I’m Jack,” I said. “Wolf told me you were trying to buy the hotel.”
He patted his chest, as if to make sure whatever item he’d picked up in the alleyway outside was still there. “That remains to be seen.
