Tiffany’s movements were slow and guarded when Sin entered her room. She appeared scared and her bandaged hand shook when she raised it in greeting.
Sin told her it was natural to be frightened after what she had been through. Tiffany asked her about the case, but cried more than anything else.
Sin thought about how to respond to her questions about the case. The truth was, she wasn’t any closer to catching the killer than she was when she first arrived in Miami. She was about to tell Tiffany just that when she remembered why she came.
“I’m going to arrange for Action News to meet me here at the hospital.”
Tiffany’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“I’m going to send our friend a message.”
The corners of Tiffany’s mouth turned skyward. “I’d like to help.”
“Are you sure you’re up for that?”
“I look worse than I feel. Besides, getting my mind on work might help me stop feeling bad for myself.”
Sin silently chuckled. She’s a brave girl. “Okay,” she agreed. “Do you feel up to making the call? I want to go live at noon.”
“I’ll do better than that, I’ll make sure Cheyenne comes along.”
Who’s Cheyenne? Sin thought.
At eleven-thirty, Sin was sitting in a chair while a Lady Gaga look-a-like applied makeup to her face.
Sin was exasperated. “Is all of this necessary?”
“Yes,” Tiffany answered, “so sit there and let Cheyenne do her magic.”
Sin rolled her eyes as her face was poked and painted. Cheyenne sounds like a stripper name.
She moved her gaze to Tiffany while trying to sit like a statue and talk out of the side of her mouth without moving her lips. “You should be in bed, not down here bossing me around.”
Tiffany, who was wearing a hoodie to hide her face and hair, shook her head slowly. “This is the best I have felt since I got here. I’m staying.”
“Fine,” Sin responded, “but I swear if I end up looking like some sorority bimbo, your injuries will be the least of your problems.”
Tiffany squeezed Sin’s arm and winked. “Relax, sorority bimbo is my gig, yours is bitchy cop.”
“At least we’re playing to your strengths,” Cheyenne mumbled in an Eastern European accent as she stepped back and admired her work.
Sin looked at her reflection in the mirror and was suddenly speechless. The transformation made her green eyes appear more mysterious. The base that had been applied to her face brought out her olive skin tone, and the dark burgundy, almost black, lipstick added to her fierce look. Her ebony hair had been blown straight to complete the “Don’t fuck with me!” package. Coupled with her form-fitting black jeans and charcoal tee, she was a picture of authority.
Sin brought her hand up to run her fingers through her hair, and Cheyenne slapped it away.
“First rule of stage makeup,” she said. “Don’t touch.”
Sin looked back to the mirror, grabbed a towel and began scrubbing her face. “First rule of Sinclair O’Malley,” she announced, turning her face and the white towel into a smeared mess. “I let my words and actions speak for me. Stage makeup isn’t necessary.”
Cheyenne threw up her hands and stomped away on her six-inch heels, as if testing the thin plastic to see how much the stilettos would take before snapping beneath her.
Sin spent the next ten minutes washing off all of Cheyenne’s hard work. And as she finally turned back into the woman she knew, she heard the cameraman yell.
“Two minutes to cue.”
Hearing the command, Sin reached for her gun belt. She strapped it on, placed the palms of her hands on the cold pearl inlay of the grips, and calmed her nerves.
Sin eyed Donny, Tiffany’s cameraman, and then her gaze rested on Tiffany. Her jade green eyes grew darker with her steely expression. “You stay inside,” she ordered. “I don’t want our killer to get even a glimpse of you. Understand?”
Tiffany pointed to the doors and nodded. Sin walked out of the main entrance of the hospital and into the mid-day heat.
Sin stared at Donny who cued her to begin. She had one hand resting on her gun belt, and her hip was cocked to the side. The glare from the sun caused her to momentarily look away. She adjusted her vision and once again fixed her sight on the camera.
For a moment, she stayed silent and continued to eyeball the camera, squinting until her eyes had turned into mere slits.
“For those of you who don’t know, my name is Special Agent Sinclair O’Malley of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There was an attempt on Tiffany Swenson’s life late yesterday, and she is now in protective custody. Unfortunately, during the murder attempt, Ms. Swenson received burns to her face and body. Luckily, there was no permanent damage. I assure you she is a strong young woman and will recover fully from her ordeal and injuries. I’m not here to give you a medical status report, there are others better equipped for that. I’m out here for one reason and that is to speak directly to the person now known as the Painted Beauty Killer.”
Producing a piece of paper from her pocket, she read a piece from the Songs of Innocence. “Then every man, of every clime that prays in his distress, prays to the human form divine, love, mercy, pity, peace.” She folded the paper and calmly placed it in her back pocket.
Focusing in on the camera, Sin made sure to speak to the one person out there who she wanted to shiver in their chair wherever they might be. “I don’t know what happened to you that caused you to become twisted. Frankly, I don’t care. I am here to tell you that I will show no pity, no love, and absolutely no mercy in my hunt for justice. And you will have no peace.”
Sin deepened her stare and added
