The numbers were a distraction thatcaught on the raw edges of her mind, already overwrought from all theoverthinking and the spiraling obsession she had only just managed to pullherself back from. It was hard not to catch on them again, hard to remindherself that they were just times, not part of some deeper code or meaning.
It was hard going, even when she managedto stay focused. She gave a frustrated sigh and flipped back to the presentday, looking over the past few weeks.
There were more numbers here. More five-or six-digit strings after customer names. One or two a week, going back forthe last two months. Around one a week before that. Back when the diary hadstarted, there was barely one a month. Shelley had been right: it was certainlya growing trend. It looked like more and more people were getting themselvesbooked in for Holocaust memorial tattoos, and Franks had managed to gain areputation for doing them.
Zoe blinked. That was it. The lastunfinished part of the equation that had been bothering her.
If Franks had only tattooed Holocaustnumbers on three people over his whole career as a tattoo artist, then it madesense. He snapped recently, decided to carry out his own violent neo-Nazirevolution, perhaps spurred on by his friends at the Aryan Brotherhood. Therecould even be a wider conspiracy, with other members of the gang also carryingout killings on his behalf to avoid suspicion. That was all exceedinglyplausible, and as an experienced FBI agent, Zoe had no doubt whatsoever in herability to bring that case to trial and secure a conviction.
But that wasn’t the case they weredealing with. No, Franks had not just tattooed three memorial numbers. Zoeflicked through the pages again, quicker this time, only counting. He was rightabout his estimate—there were more than fifty serial numbers listed next tobookings throughout the book, and that didn’t include any hidden messages thatshe might have missed—like John Dowling’s tiger cover-up, or Naomi Karling’sflowers and vines.
Jasper Franks was known for his workwith symbols and signs. With controversial elements. There was no real way ofknowing how many tattoos he had given to descendants of the Holocaust. How manyof them might have talked about their heritage in the chair, explaining thesymbolism of the design they had chosen. Then there were other tattoos he haddone: one was noted down as “Star of David,” another as “Shofar.”
So why, out of all of these names, hadJasper Franks seemingly selected three of them at random? One he had knownabout for years, one for months, and one who had not yet even managed to gether tattoo done yet?
And why would he willingly tattoopro-Jewish symbols onto other clients, who did not seem to have been targetedin any way?
It didn’t make any sense—and that alonewas enough to fill Zoe with a growing sense of horror.
Whoever their murderer was, it wasn’tJasper Franks.
Which meant he was still out there—freeto kill again, while both the FBI and the LAPD relaxed, thinking they hadfinished the job.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
The watcher was waiting again. Threewere down, and now he had another in his sights. Another who had to be takenout of this world, to protect everyone else that was in it.
A woman again, this time. She was olderthan the others, but she lived alone. She would be an easy target. He had takento seeking out these easier targets, pursuing them in sequence, because theharder it got, the more chance there was that he would fail. Just look at thatlast girl. If she had managed to get away, or if the police had come quicker,he might have been caught.
If he was caught, or stopped in someother way, he would not be able to complete his mission. It didn’t take agenius to understand that that would mean the world was still at risk. So hewas starting with the easier ones, reserving the others for later.
If there was a later.
He had seen himself on the news earlier.Not his face or name, of course. But they were talking about him. About the twobodies that had burned, and about the third that had not. Everyone had put ittogether, even though he had not finished the job. That was bad news. It meantthe clock was ticking. That he might not have as long as he thought before thenet tightened.
He would do what he could. Every singleone of them cleansed from the world in fire, or at least removed fromexistence, was one more shot at safety. Perhaps after he was stopped, someoneelse would take up his mantle. He had to at least do what he could.
His phone buzzed in his pocket,distracting him from his view of the front of the house. He shifted in the seatof the car, digging it out and opening it up to read the message he hadreceived.
He read it several times, trying tothink it over. It was not good news. It was a friend of his, someone who workedat Dead Eye Dave’s and had seen a police raid go down earlier. They hadarrested Octopus Artistica. Taken him away in cuffs, screaming and shoutingabout his rights.
That wasn’t good either. It meant thatthere was attention on it. Media would soon report on the latest development.
The man was torn. It was perhaps goodthat the police had some kind of suspect to focus on that wasn’t him. It meantthat there might be some time, still, before they realized that they were wrongand carried on looking elsewhere.
On the other hand, this was close tohome. Very close to home. He knew Octopus—knew him well. They hung around in thesame circles. All of which meant to say that perhaps the cops already had aninkling of the motive for the murders.
But he had been careful—so careful.Burning the flesh from the bones, taking away the evidence of the ink marked
