Again the phone caught his attention.
Well, speak of the devil. Charity’s number popped onto the screen.
Earl Ray scooped up the phone just as it disconnected.
“Shit.”
He returned the call.
No answer.
What was that all about? He left a message. “It’s Earl. Call me back.”
He clicked off and immediately heard the sound of chimes indicating she’d texted him.
Good.
He hated to admit it, but he kind of missed having her around here.
She was a spunky thing. Full of fire. Even if she did rub O’Day the wrong way. But at least she had life. His gaze wandered to the door, where his son, in sloppy jeans and a T-shirt, his hair wound up in that stupid man bun, slowly sauntered to his workstation. Probably stoned out of what was left of his mind.
Irritated, Earl Ray glanced down at his phone as the text message came onto the screen. “What in fuck’s name is this?” The picture was of a naked woman lying in a bed, her eyes staring upward, her mouth rounded as if in surprise, a pistol pointed at her head. Her hair was black and braided, the plait falling over one pale shoulder to curl at her breast.
He’d seen her, he thought, but couldn’t place her. What was Charity doing? The message accompanying the photo was simple:
ANOTHER VICTIM.
“Another one? Who’s the first?” Earl said aloud. What the fuck kind of game was this? And then he noticed the small hole at the woman’s temple where a barely discernible splotch of blood matted her hair. “Holy fuckin’ shit,” he whispered, adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. “What the hell?” A story! Quickly he punched out Charity’s number, wanting an explanation. Who was this girl? Where had he seen her? Had she killed herself? Or had someone else done it? How the hell had Charity gotten the picture?
The phone rang several times.
“Pick up!” he growled. What was wrong with her? She’d just called him, damn it.
More rings as Earl paced in front of his desk.
Finally, Charity’s recorded voice asking the caller to leave a brief message and number. Really? For the love of—! “It’s Earl,” he said sharply, as voice mail began to record. “Got your message. Call me.”
Then he clicked off and stared at the photo again, and with a creeping sensation born of being in the business for so long, he felt a little frisson of excitement. Charity was teasing him with this picture, but he knew in his heart she was onto something big. Something earth-shattering.
“Hey!” he called over to the online department, where Gerry was talking to Jeanette.
His son glanced up as Earl, half-jogging, made his way past the empty desks and cubicles to the Internet department.
“Take a look at this.” As he reached Gerry, he held out his phone so that both his son and Jeanette could see the small screen. “You know this girl?”
“Maybe?” Gerry said in his usual fog.
“Sure. That’s Willow.” Jeanette had been sipping from a super-sized soda cup. “Uh, Willow . . . what’s her last name?” she asked Gerry.
“Valente?” Gerry offered, his eyebrows slamming together over bloodshot eyes as he studied the image on the phone. “Oh, shit, yeah, that’s her. Yeah. Pretty sure. But how . . . I mean . . . she’s naked?” He stared at his father as if Earl Ray had been looking at porn. “What is this?”
“Don’t know. It’s from Charity.”
“In San Francisco?” Jeanette pulled a face. “What would Willow Valente be doing down there?”
Gerry let out a strangled sound. “It looks like she was being dead, that’s what she was doing.” He paled and took a step back. “Maybe I can find something on the Internet.” He kicked out his stool and began typing on his keyboard.
“Dead?” Jeanette repeated. “I thought she was just naked.” She leaned in closer, her eyes popping. “Oh, God, you’re right.” She too turned ashen, her hand flying to her pale lips as her soda cup slipped to the floor, ice and cola slopping onto the carpet. “What the fu—what is this?” She was already reaching for a tissue on her desk, then bending down to sop up the mess.
“I have no idea,” Earl Ray said, but it was something.
Something damned important.
Something that might just breathe some much-needed life into the Clarion. As Jeanette was picking ice cubes from the floor, Earl started for his desk when Charity texted him again. “About damned time.” But he wanted to talk to her in person and was about to punch in her number when he saw that the message was actually another picture. “What the fuck?” he said as the image filled his screen.
“Oh, shit! God.” Gerry was practically hyperventilating. “Dad! You gotta see this. It’s about Charity. Jesus, can this be right?” Jeanette had straightened and was staring at Gerry’s screen. She let out a scream.
“No, oh, no!” she cried.
But Earl hardly noticed. On his phone, he saw a picture of Charity herself. Not a selfie. This one showed her face beaten and bruised and . . . for the love of Christ . . . it appeared as if she, like Willow Valente, was dead as the proverbial doornail.
* * *
At his desk in the station, Rivers swilled black coffee, eyed his computer screen, and studied the information sent over from Detective Tanaka in San Francisco. Graphic pictures of the dead woman confirmed what they already knew: Charity Spritz had been murdered. The theory was that she’d been caught off guard at her motel in Oakland, where the attack had taken place, possibly in the parking lot—though there were no cameras
