Ben raised his hands, palms up. “The last thing we need around here is another dead-in-the-water story about a serial killer who’s been given the wrong nickname.”
“What’s wrong with the Heartless Killer?” Ian wanted to know. “One of his victims was stabbed in the heart, wrapped in Christmas lights, and left under the tree for her family to find. Another victim, also stabbed in the heart, with a screwdriver I might add, was placed in the middle of a pumpkin patch, right where all the little kindergarteners could find the body. And the most recent victim they found had her heart ripped out of her chest. I would call that heartless.”
Ben grunted. “Human nature demands that everything be given a label. The Heartless Killer has been around for seven years—”
“Six,” Ian cut in.
“Okay, six. His original victims had bite marks; another had her eyelids removed. What about the guy with dead insects stuffed inside his nostrils, and—” Pain sliced through Ben’s skull, like a lightning bolt striking his brain. He grabbed both sides of his head and squeezed his eyes shut. In his mind’s eye, he saw a woman’s naked body stretched out in a field of tall green grass. If not for the thin red line across her throat and her bloodless face, he would have thought she was alive.
“Hey,” Ian said, worried, “are you okay?”
Ben opened his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, “Damn migraine.” He shook off the image. “The point is the killer could have been given any random nickname, so why bother? How about the Phantom, since some say he doesn’t exist at all? Four years ago the woman who escaped before he could drag her into the woods told detectives the man sang ‘Hound Dog,’ so why didn’t they call him Elvis?”
Ian nodded. “See? You could help put another spin on this whole thing.”
“The public is tired of the same old thing. They want to be entertained.”
Before Ian could say another word, Ben swiped a hand through the air as if to erase all this nonsensical talk before continuing on with his original reason for entering Ian’s office. “Back to the Sophie Cole case. My focus will be on the missing sister and my own investigation into finding out what happened to her. The media attention surrounding the shooting in the park will merely be icing on the cake, pulling readers in, making them eager to know more.”
Ian narrowed his eyes. “People will get to know Jessie Cole through your eyes.” He waggled a crooked finger at Ben. “If you do this right, everyone will want to know what happened to Jessie Cole’s sister.”
“That’s right.” Ben shrugged. “What do we have to lose?”
Ian smiled. Not something he did often. “You should take a look in the mirror right now, because you look a lot like the Ben Morrison I interviewed twenty years ago.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“Determined, passionate . . . two of the reasons why I hired you on the spot.”
Ben used to wonder a lot about that Ben Morrison, the man he used to be but could no longer remember. He pushed himself to his feet and went to the door.
“Where are you going?” Ian asked.
“You’re busy, and I need to get started if I’m going to have the first thousand words on your desk by Monday.”
“Did you hear me say yes? Did those words ever come out of my mouth?”
“I didn’t hear you say no,” Ben said as he made his exit.
ELEVEN
Fatigue was setting in by the time Jessie arrived at the building on Nineteenth Street where she rented a two-hundred-square-foot space for $400 a month. It was the smallest office in the building, but the only one that had a window facing the street. The best part was that it was only a block and a half away from where she lived.
She blew at a light coating of dust on the stainless steel sign on the door that read: JESSIE COLE DETECTIVE AGENCY. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. The first thing she’d done after finding the place was paint the walls light gray and install white crown molding, making it look up-to-date and professional. Her desk, a sturdy piece of wood with four steel legs, faced the door. The window overlooking the street was to her right and provided a lot of natural light. A row of filing cabinets against the wall took up most of the space. The nicest piece of furniture was her client chair. She’d found it on a street corner with a sign that said, TAKE ME. So she had. It was a polyester blend fabric with no stains and only one small tear underneath the seat cover that nobody could see unless they turned the chair upside down.
She had a vent in her office but no thermostat to control the airflow. Although it was hotter than hell outside, it was freezing inside. She grabbed a sweater from the hook behind the door, then settled into her mesh swivel chair behind her desk, pulled out her cell phone, and went through her messages.
Before the unfortunate event in the park, business had been picking up. Although her clients varied, including the occasional husbands or wives who paid her to keep a close eye on their spouses, she preferred to focus on cold cases and missing persons. Jessie had started her PI business serving subpoenas and doing subcontracting work for companies that wanted proof that an employee wasn’t injured and shouldn’t be collecting workman’s compensation. Ever since she’d located fifteen-year-old Tonya Grimm, though, a girl who had been missing for two weeks, hiding out at a friend’s house to avoid her parents’ constant bickering, the public tended to think finding people was her expertise.
The first message on her phone was from an angry woman who called Jessie a killer. Her stomach tightened. She thought of the man lying in the hospital and wondered if she deserved this woman’s ire. She’d done everything by the book. She’d pulled out her weapon to defend herself and others. She had a license to carry, and she never worked a case thinking she’d have to do anyone harm. She hit “Delete.” The second message was also from a woman, but she’d called to congratulate Jessie for taking down one more douchebag in the world. Jessie sighed. The last three callers were interested in hiring her to do investigative work.
By the time she’d returned calls, answered new ones, paid bills, and sent out invoices for services rendered, she had a couple of potential new clients. She looked at the clock, surprised that it was already four. She wanted to talk to Parker Koontz’s partner, David Roche, but she decided to put that off until tomorrow. As she readied to leave, her cell rang. She picked up the call as she headed out the door.
“Is this Jessie Cole?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Ben Morrison, crime reporter with the Sacramento Tribune. I was hoping you had some time to talk.”
She’d known the press would call sooner or later. Parker Koontz was well known, an established lawyer in the area. If she ignored the press, they usually became more determined. Better to deal with it now and get it over with. “I have a few minutes right now.”
“I’d prefer to meet in person. Would tomorrow work?”
Jessie sighed. “Does this have to do with Parker Koontz?”
“I’m calling about your sister, Sophie.”
He had her attention. She walked back into her office and took a seat.
“I happened to watch an old episode of Cold Case TV the other night when they aired your story,” he told her. “At the end of the show, they mentioned that there have been few leads and that Sophie has yet to be found.”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m calling because I’m interested in doing a story about you and your family. I would also like to conduct my own investigation on your sister’s disappearance.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Well, you were born and raised here in Sacramento. Our readers enjoy hearing about locals. And the public is also fascinated with cold cases.”
“I see.”
She was about to turn down his offer when he said, “There’s also a possibility that I knew your sister.”