“I think he’s ashamed of himself. Apparently, she told him to wait in the van while she went to check something out. He claims he doesn’t know what. Anyway, she hadn’t been gone ten minutes before he was asleep. And he didn’t wake up until Joey and I banged on the side of the van about half an hour ago.”
“That’s a long nap.”
“He says he’s been running short on sleep for days. Probably true; a lot of our technical people get fascinated with their toys and keep the weirdest hours you can imagine.”
Isabel frowned. “You’ve checked with her station, with the other media people across the street?”
Dana nodded. “Oh, yeah. The last anybody saw of Cheryl was just before dark last night. Dammit, I warned her to watch her back, brunette or not.”
“Why?”
“Because I think the spotlight on a small town like Hastings can get pretty uncomfortable, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this maniac targeted a journalist just to get us to back off.”
Isabel rested a hip on the corner of an unoccupied desk, where the conversation was taking place. “That’s not a bad theory, assuming he isn’t too far gone to think logically. Off the record.”
Dana nodded again, this time somewhat impatiently. “And I’m no profiler, but I’d expect him to target somebody who doesn’t fit his clear preferences so far, just to make a statement.”
“You’re not the one I want, but you’re in my way. Nobody’s safe,” Isabel murmured. “Go away.”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Thanks for filing the report, Ms. Earley.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help look for that kid-”
“The best way you can help her and us is not to get yourself added to our missing-persons list. Don’t go anywhere alone. I mean anywhere, unless it’s into a locked room you know damned well is safe. Pass the word to the other journalists, will you?”
“Will do.”
“Male and female journalists,” Isabel added.
Dana nodded wryly and left.
Isabel remained where she was for several minutes, frowning at nothing. She was tired. Very tired. And worried.
If this bastard had grabbed a brunette journalist, had been angry enough to stray so far from his preferences, then why hadn’t Isabel felt it?
“What’s wrong with me?” she murmured.
There was no answer, except for the feeling she had of something crouching in the darkness. Watching.
Waiting.
When Rafe walked into the conference room just before four that afternoon, he wasn’t especially happy to find Alan Moore there with Isabel.
“Hollis and Mallory are out running down a couple of leads,” she told him, without going into detail. She seemed none the worse for what had happened in Jamie Brower’s secret playroom, though something about her eyes told him she was still suffering a pounding headache.
Rafe nodded without commenting on either her info or his own hunch, and said to Alan, “Please tell me you have a reason other than idle curiosity for being here.”
“My curiosity is never idle.”
“I should have warned you about him, Isabel. You can only believe about half of what he says. On a good day.”
“See, this is what happens when you grow up with a guy who becomes a cop,” Alan said. “He turns into a suspicious bastard right before your eyes.”
“Not without reason,” Rafe retorted. “You’ve been a pain in my ass since I was appointed.”
“I’ve been doing my job.”
Isabel intervened before they could begin rehashing past offenses, saying, “Alan received something a bit unexpected in yesterday’s mail.”
Rafe stared at Alan. “And you’re just now bringing it in?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Alan, one of these days you’re going to go too far. Consider this a warning.”
Despite the calm tone, Alan was perfectly aware that his boyhood friend was deadly serious. He nodded, not really having to fake the sheepish expression. “Noted.”
Without commenting on the byplay between the men, Isabel handed Rafe a single sheet of paper in a clear plastic evidence bag. “I’ve already checked it. No prints, except his.”
The note, block-printed yet virtually scrawled in a bold, dark hand on the unlined paper, was brief.
MR. MOORE, THE COPS HAVE GOT IT
ALL WRONG. HE ISN’T KILLING THEM BECAUSE THEY’RE BLONDES.
HE’S KILLING THEM BECAUSE THEY’RE NOT
“Not blondes?” Rafe said, looking at Isabel.
“Yeah, but they were,” she said. “At least, Jamie and Tricia were natural blondes; Allison Carroll used hair color.”
“But she-” He stopped himself.
Isabel finished the comment for him. “She matched top and bottom. But the lab results are in, and they say she used hair color. It’s not all that uncommon for a woman to dye her pubic hair, especially when the change is so drastic and she’s at a stage in her life when looking good naked is a major goal. In any case, Allison’s natural hair color was very dark.”
Rafe met Alan’s interested gaze, and said, “This is off the record, you realize that?”
“Yeah, Isabel’s already warned me. Giant red federal warning, accompanied by flags, stamps, sealing wax, oaths of secrecy, and appropriate threats of being transported to Area 51 and turned into a lab rat.”
Isabel smiled but said nothing.
“Just as a point of interest,” Alan commented, “Cheryl Bayne is a brunette.”
“Cheryl Bayne,” Isabel said, “is missing. As are others on an unfortunately lengthy list. We don’t know that anything has happened to any of them.”
“Yet.”
“Yet,” she agreed.
Alan eyed her, then continued, “Anyway, when all is said and done and you’ve got the guy, I reserve the right to inform the public that I was contacted by the killer.”
“Were you?” Isabel murmured.
“Third person,” Rafe noted, studying the note. “He isn’t killing them because they’re blondes. This could have been written by someone who knows the killer. Knows what he’s doing.”
“Or maybe,” Alan offered, “he’s schizophrenic and believes it’s not really him killing these women.”
“You just want this to be the killer,” Rafe said in an absent tone.
“Well, yes. This story could be my Watergate.”
Isabel pursed her lips. “No. Your Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy. Not your Watergate.”
“It could make my career,” Alan insisted.
“Yeah?” Isabel was politely interested. “And do you happen to remember the name of the journalist who was supposedly contacted by Jack the Ripper?”
Alan scowled. “Shatter a man’s dreams, why don’t you?”
“Do you remember?”
“It was over a hundred years ago.”
“And the most famous serial killer of modern times. Countless books have been written about him. Movies made about him. Theories as to his identity endlessly debated. And yet the name of that journalist doesn’t exactly spring readily to the tongue, does it?”
“Do you know it?” Alan challenged.
“Of course. But then, I specialize in serial killers. More or less. Everybody in the business has studied the Ripper case. It’s practically Murder 101 in Behavioral Science at Quantico. Everybody wants to be the one to solve it.”
“Including you?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’ll ever be definitively solved. And I don’t believe it should be. Some things should remain mysteries.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“Yes, I do. We should never, ever believe life-or history-holds no surprises for us. That way lies arrogance. And arrogance can blind us to the truth.”
“Which truth?”
“Any truth. All truth.” Her voice was solemn.
Alan sighed and got to his feet. “Okay, before you start calling me Grasshopper, I’m going to leave.”
“I’m sure I have a pebble around here somewhere, if you want to stay and test your readiness,” Isabel said, still solemn.
“Somehow, I don’t think I’m fast enough,” Alan said, not without a note of honest regret. He offered them both a casual salute, then left the conference room, closing the door behind him.