Intuition
The sun sank into the trees, goldenrod and coral deepening to violet at the horizon as I turned onto my street.
Three hours at my desk produced a day two story with a sidebar featuring the sketches and pleading for help identifying the victim, but netted me less than nothing else. I went back seven years in the Telegraph archives, but didn’t find anything on a missing autistic kid (I’d done a story on the program for autistic children at Syracuse in college, and it fit) with a flair for art. Something about Picasso told me he’d been on the streets since before he was old enough to vote, and that made me sad.
I grabbed a yogurt and a Diet Dr Pepper and settled on the couch with Jasmine’s journals. Two hours later, I was convinced there was something horrible—maybe horrible enough to be important—in her past. She loved Flyboy, she loved her friends, they were going to Colorado. Life on the streets was all sunshine and roses. She doodled in the margins—hearts, daisy chains, and boxy “T”s with halos of stripes. I jotted a note to check missing person’s reports for the first initial T.
I also flagged four repetitions of “Mr. B was right. I’m free,” but found nothing to indicate who that was, or what he was right about. I paged back through, turning carefully to make sure the magical key I’d hoped to find wasn’t on a stuck-together page. Nope. Not one word about anything that happened more than a year ago. No mention of jealousy, money, or why the Methodist shelter was worthy of tears. Strike one.
I took Darcy out to play and fell into bed.
Sunrise didn’t bring me any closer to an answer, nor did the fitful dreams that came between Sunday’s round of fetch and Monday morning’s body combat class. Maddening. Something was there, but it danced around the edges of my brain, vaporizing every time I got close. I gave up trying to catch it and made a mental grocery list as I squatted, sidestepped, and ap-chagi’ed to the pounding dance music.
Rinsing conditioner out of my hair with twenty minutes to get to the news budget meeting, my eyes snapped open.
Jasmine didn’t want to go to the shelter. The church shelter. She’d made Picasso afraid of people who might ask questions about her.
Every story I’d ever read about crazy religious sects spun through my brain on fast forward.
Holy Manolos.
I toweled off and threw my gym gear into my duffel bag, climbing into my car with nothing but mascara and lipstick on my face. My still-damp feet slid in my Jimmy Choo wedges as I rushed for the newsroom.
I flew off the elevator, barely returning my friend Melanie’s grumpy “good morning.” The fat folder tucked under her arm told me she was headed to City Hall for a budget work session. Summer money season made me excessively thankful I didn’t cover the council. Numbers make my eyes cross.
I plopped my black leather tote down in my cube and pulled out my computer and notebook, scribbling my thoughts before I hurried to Bob’s office for the meeting. Lost in my suspicions, I almost walked into Grant Parker as I rounded the corner.
“In your own little world of dead folks this morning, huh?” My friend’s emerald eyes crinkled at the corners when he flashed his famous megawatt grin. He waved a copy of the city final. “You had exactly no fun this weekend.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” I matched the grin with one of my own, sinking into my usual Virginia-Tech-Orange upholstered armchair and smoothing my linen pants. “Kicking Charlie’s ass is always fun.”
“And watching it never gets old,” Bob said. “Nice work, getting the inside track at the PD. Though I’ve seen Charlie Lewis in action enough times to know I wouldn’t want to be Aaron White this week. Or maybe you, either. She’s got to be good and pissed at losing to you two days in a row.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “But she’ll live. It’s not my fault they trust me more.”
“Sure it is.” Parker feigned outrage. “Damn you for being honest and upstanding.”
“Pesky morals aside, I also don’t come with a cameraman.”
“That could change before too long.” Rick Andrews’s voice came from the doorway, and I turned my head to see Shelby’s spiky black hair poking over one of our publisher’s charcoal-suited shoulders.
I tossed a WTF glance at Bob and he shrugged a reply.
“Good morning, Rick,” he said, dropping his copy notes to the desktop. “To what do I owe the honor today?”
“There’s a blogger who’s taken it upon himself to add to Nichelle and Charlie’s competition,” Andrews said, stepping to the center of the room. Shelby scurried inside and shut the door behind her. I steeled myself for an ass-chewing, glaring at Shelby. She twisted her full lips into the smirk that always made me want to smack her and I turned my attention back to Andrews.
“This morning, he has video of the murder scene from Saturday night,” he said. “It could be time to step up our game. Our website can feed video, too.”
The half-spent candles flashed on the backs of my eyelids, my stomach doing a slow somersault. “What kind of video?” The words were somewhere between a rasp and a croak. I cleared my throat. “That is, what’s in the video you saw on the four-one-one page?”
“A pan of the murder scene, complete with police tape,” Andrews said.
“But not the body?” I asked, the edges of my notebook biting into my fingers as I tightened my grip on it.
The look that crossed his face made me glad he didn’t know what I’d seen Saturday night. Andrews didn’t care much about anything but selling papers, and I refused to describe the scene in detail for a variety of reasons. I made a mental note to tell Bob to keep my knowledge of it to himself.
Andrews shook his head, drumming his fingers on his thigh. “I noticed the page doesn’t have too many followers yet, but that could change. I don’t want to lose out on this story.” He glanced at Shelby. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Sandy.”
I bit blood out of the inside of my cheek trying to hide a grin. Parker coughed over a laugh. Shelby stared daggers at us both as she stepped forward. “Anything for the good of the paper.” She flashed a put-upon smile at Andrews. “You know, if Nichelle needs to concentrate on this murder coverage, I’m happy to pitch in and help with the courthouse. Or anything else.”
“I’m perfectly capable of doing my job, thanks, Sandy,” I chirped, hitting the last word hard and drawing a soft chuckle from Bob.
Andrews just nodded when I turned back to him. “I’m afraid the PD won’t give me the kind of access they have so far if I’m toting a camcorder.” I smiled my most earnest smile. I had less than no interest in a cameraman sidekick, and juggling my notebook and a palmcorder didn’t sound appealing.
Andrews twisted his mouth to one side, folding his hands behind his back. Parker made an exaggerated version of the same face at me over the publisher’s shoulder. I swallowed a giggle and looked away. When I glanced back, he stuck his tongue out at me. I winked and clicked out a pen.
“Let’s see what happens with this,” Andrews said finally. “You do good work, Miss Clarke. Most of the time.”
He meant I did work that was good for occasional national wire pickup and ad revenue. I bet he didn’t read my stories without one of those things attached. Lucky for me, his odd fear/respect/jealousy relationship with Bob meant he stayed out of our hair for the most part. Especially since Les Simpson, the managing editor, had gone back to bean counting and sucking up to Andrews full time, pulling back on weaseling himself and Shelby into the newsroom. That had made for a lovely few months.
The last thing I needed was for Andrews to get a burr under his designer saddle in the middle of such a big story.
“The PD’s cyber unit is working on finding the blogger. Just for their own informational purposes, though she’s going to get herself way on their shit list if she’s posting video of crime scenes. I hear the ATF has an interest in talking to her, too.”
“Her? How in creation would you happen to know the blogger is a woman, Nichelle?” Splenda dripped from Shelby’s words.
“Girl Friday? Call it intuition. You might have lost yours after so many years at the copy desk, but mine works just fine.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know who she is, now would you?” She spoke to me, but looked at Andrews, who raised an eyebrow.
“You’re not working with anyone outside the newsroom, Miss Clarke? I don’t suppose we have a specific policy on that, but I—”
“I wouldn’t. Even if I had the time,” I said, turning to Bob.
“Nichelle is nothing if not loyal,” he said. “I’d stake my reputation on that.”
Andrews nodded. “Good enough. For now. Let Sandy here know if you need any help.” He spun on the heel of one wingtip and walked out.
Shelby flounced behind him. The section editors filed in when the room cleared.
“What’s he doing slumming down here?” Eunice Blakely asked, lowering herself slowly into the chair opposite mine and straightening her bad leg. She had a half-dozen screws in one hip as a souvenir of her war correspondent years, which ended with a helicopter crash during Desert Storm. These days, she ran a tight ship in our features section and kept everyone fed. “It’s not even noon.”
She pulled a large Ziploc baggie from her coral canvas tote and laid it on Bob’s desk. I leaned forward, peering at the contents. Bars, speckled with oats and bitsy chocolate chips. The peanut butter smell that hit me in the face when I opened the bag made my stomach gurgle.
“Eunice, you’re a magician,” I said, swallowing the first bite. “Tell me these are part of your healthy cooking jag, and I might kiss you.”
“Pucker up, buttercup.” She grinned. “Figured I needed to make up for the almonds from Friday. My sister sent me this powdered peanut butter stuff that’s my new miracle food. Tastes great, bakes well, almost no fat. Those won’t cost you more than five minutes in the gym.”
I helped myself to another one, snatching my hand out of the way as the rest of the staff descended. Bob dropped the empty bag into his trash can and grinned. “Now that we’ve eaten, can we talk about the news?”
“Aw, why not?” Parker said. “We’re all here and everything. Might as well.”
I glanced around and noticed our sports editor was missing, which explained Parker’s presence. Normally, I’d ask where Spencer was—curiosity is an occupational hazard—but after Andrews’s blog-and-pony show, I took it as a bonus from the universe to brighten my Monday and focused on Bob. Spence had proven himself to be a bitter jackass during a big story I’d covered in the spring, and we still weren’t speaking.
“The story of the week—month, whatever—is going to be Nichelle’s coverage of this murder,” Bob said, looking around. He fiddled with a paperclip, blowing out a frustrated sigh. “I’d trust anyone in this room with my life. Here’s the thing: Andrews was here because there’s a blog that’s popped up lately about crime in Richmond. I don’t think it’s professional enough to be written by anyone in our newsroom, but just in case, I want y’all to keep anything you hear in this room to yourselves for the duration of this story. Understood?”
Nods and murmurs from the crowd faded into awkward silence.
“You’ve got the inside track, right, doll?” Eunice asked finally.
“So far,” I said. “The problem I see is our online friend either doesn’t understand she’s pissing the cops off, or she doesn’t care. I’ve got a decent chance of staying ahead of Charlie because Aaron and I are helping each other out, but it’s harder with someone who doesn’t play by the rules.”
Bob nodded. “I have utter faith in your snooping abilities,” he said.
“You always know how to make a girl blush, chief.” I batted my lashes.
“It’s a gift.” Bob dropped the paperclip and looked at Parker. “Sports? The Generals look good this year.”
“They do,” Parker said. “We’ve got coverage of tonight’s divisional face-off leading, and I have a column on the kid who won the Nate DeLuca scholarship. The first anniversary of his death is coming up.” He glanced at me and I dropped my eyes to my notes. A year ago, DeLuca was the Generals’ golden arm, a starting pitcher whose death got mixed up in a crazy story that nearly resulted in mine.
“I can’t wait to read it,” I said.
Parker smiled. “I guess I’d better bring my A game, then.”
“You always do.” I grinned.
Bob moved on to features and Eunice outlined a summer family fun section while I checked email on my BlackBerry. It was Monday, all right. Ninety-seven messages before nine a.m. I scrolled down the screen, Aaron’s name catching my eye.
Call me when you can get away.
I bounced in my seat until Bob dismissed the meeting, hoping Aaron had good news.
Bolting for my desk, I made it four steps before Parker’s voice froze my Jimmy Choo in midair.
“Can we talk?” he asked, falling into step beside me.
The uncertain tone from our resident Captain Charisma was enough to make me forget Aaron for a minute.
“Never too busy for you. What’s up?” I stopped and turned to face him, leaning against a long row of filing cabinets.
His full lips disappeared into a thin white line, and he tipped his perfectly-tousled blond head. “It’s Mel.”
Uh-oh. “I saw her going out to a budget session.” I kept my voice even. “Everything okay?”
“I dunno.” Parker shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “We’re just—she’s not—” He sighed. “Let me try that again. Nothing’s really up. It’s just not as much fun as it was. Not as easy. I’ve never been in a relationship before, really. Is this normal?”
“Boy, are you asking the wrong girl.” I laughed. “That sounds like a Bob question. But I’ll say that from talking to my friend Jenna, who’s been married for, like, ever, it seems good relationships go through phases.”
“Yeah?” He nodded, more to himself than to me if I read his face right.
“When did it start?”
“Right around when TJ died,” Parker said.
I nodded. I’d noticed some tension in paradise when Parker’s friend lost his teenage son in April. I smiled and channeled Emily. “Have you talked to her about it?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe you should try. If there’s something weird between the two of you, letting it fester is only going to make it worse.”
He nodded. “We’re supposed to have dinner tomorrow night. I’ll ask her.”
“Holler if you need to talk.” I patted his arm. “It’ll be okay. Maybe she doesn’t handle dead people well. Not everyone sees them on such a regular basis.” I glanced at the big silver-and-glass clock on the wall between the elevators. “I have to run, but really. I’m around if you need me.”
“Thanks.”
I strode to my cube, grabbing the phone and punching in Aaron’s cell.
“Happy Monday, sunshine,” he said.
“I bet mine’s happier than yours, unless you’ve got something Earth-shattering for me.” I leaned one hip on my desk, reaching for a pen.
“I think I might. Landers asked me to find you. He’s up to his ass in alligators this morning and didn’t have time, but he said he promised.”
More work to keep my voice even. “Oh, yeah?” I clicked the pen out and flipped an old press release over. “What’s up?”
“We sent forensics back out there to take more blood samples,” Aaron said. “Turns out, all that show was made with two different kinds of blood.”
“So Jasmine got a piece of the killer? Or there’s another victim?” I scribbled as I fired questions at him.
“Or the killer knows someone who works on a ranch. It was cow’s blood.”
I almost dropped my pen. “What?” I forced my lips around the word. All they wanted to do was gape open.
“Beats the shit out of me. Everything we’ve come up with here is screwier than the last thing.” Aaron sighed. “I don’t suppose you want to offer one of your crazy hunches?”
“No one ever listens to them,” I said.
“Try me.”
“I did have a thought this morning, but I haven’t had time to check it out.” I twisted the phone cord around one index finger. “It’s kind of nuts, though.”
“Any goose chase is better than sitting here scratching our b—never mind,” Aaron said.
I laughed. “Frustrated, detective?”
“Oh, you can quote me on that, Miss Clarke.”
“But not the part about scratching things?”
“Please don’t.”
I snorted. “So, I went back down to the Bottom yesterday afternoon and I found the guy who called this in the other night. He is a really, really talented sketch artist. Seriously good.”
I heard Aaron’s computer keys clicking as he noted that. “That’s where you got the sketches you ran this morning,” he said. “Do me a favor and email Charlie that info? She’s convinced you got them from me. Thanks for putting them out there, though. We’re circulating them through law enforcement.”
“If I get Charlie off your ass, do I get dibs on anything the sketches bring in?”
“Sounds fair to me. So, about your hunch?”
“I asked if any other girls were missing,” I said. “Because of what Landers said about the bloodstains. But artist guy told me he didn’t know because they couldn’t go to the church shelters anymore. He said Jasmine cried if they tried to. Then he told me she said people might come around asking about her, and he should be afraid of them.” I paused for a breath.
“A cult.” Aaron clicked his tongue. “Son of a bitch.”
“It took me twelve hours to get there, but that’s where I landed, too,” I said. “Why do you sound like I just made your day worse?”
“You’re from Texas, right? Cops and crazy religion don’t mix well. Ever been to Waco?”
“Ah. I was in elementary school when that happened, but I remember my mom having the news on nonstop for all of that spring.” A flash of her sobbing into the telephone skated through my brain, and I flinched. My mom never cried, and the memory unsettled me.
“So many things went wrong down there that no one will ever even know about.” Aaron sighed. “The thing is, it’s almost always the same. People resent intrusion and don’t trust the government, and to them, my badge represents the government. Jesus. I’d rather deal with a serial. Good old fashioned psychopaths are logical. People who think God’s telling them to murder young women, I can’t figure.”
“Just a theory. And no one ever listens to my theories.”
“Your gut has a good track record.” Aaron chuckled and I grinned. “But this is going to get very complicated. If you’re right, who knows where she was from, how many people there are, who owns the land, if it’s in another state? My haystack just got a whole lot bigger. And wrapped in a big, fat spool of red tape. That could be federal territory.”
“Could still be a serial. Or a random nutjob. Or someone she knew. Even if she ran away from a religious sect, it doesn’t mean they killed her. What if our psycho was trying to set his scene and didn’t get enough blood out of her?” I paused. “Speaking of blood, you didn’t happen to catch today’s post by our Girl Friday, did you?”
“I haven’t had time to catch if the sun came up,” he said. More computer clicking. “Cyber is on that. Why?”
I waited four beats and bit back a grin at the string of swear words in my ear when he found the video. “Because there’s that,” I said.
“What the hell is the matter with people? Is this person—and I’m using the term loosely this morning—trying to incite a riot?”
“I’m betting she’s trying to increase her readership,” I said. “But I thought you should know.”
“Thanks. I don’t have time for an amateur Lois Lane right now, Nichelle.”
“I’m keeping an ear out,” I said. “Because neither do I.”
I twisted around and looked at the clock. “Crap, Aaron, I have a trial starting in three minutes.” I hung up, my mental puzzle shifting to include cults and cows.
But how to find a link?
Waco.
Maybe Kyle knew where to look.