Chapter 12

It was after midnight when Grant wheeled Dick into the noisy press room where the morning edition of the Herald was rolling off the presses. His friend was exhausted from covering the Final Call Killer case for Warren Jacobs. Grant was afraid Dick’s health would take a downward spiral. Thank God, he’d found a replacement for Jacobs.

“Remember … the old d-days,” Dick asked, “before computers?”

“I do. I do, indeed.” The clacking of typewriters, the shouting, and the odor of cigarettes had been replaced by the hum of computers, e-mail, cell phones, and the smell of Starbucks.

“This is the … only place … that hasn’t changed … much.”

So true, Grant thought. The two-story high presses whirred while conveyor belts ripped along and worker bees scurried. Off to the side, rolls of newsprint stood like totem poles waiting to be transformed into a newspaper.

By two A.M. the papers would be bundled and loaded onto trucks. By five o’clock the Herald would be on the front steps of homes across the Bay Area.

When Grant had been a boy and visited his father, the sports editor, it had seemed like a miracle. Investigate a story, write it, edit it, assemble it into the paper, print it, ship it, and have readers wake up, sleepy-eyed to find the Herald at their door.

A small miracle, he now realized, but one that he had to make happen 24/7.

“I’m con … cerned about … Jess,” Dick said as Grant wheeled him out of the press room.

“What’s the problem?”

“She’s g-going … in the wrong direction. I’ve been think … ing. This syn.… dication thing is … n’t … right for her. She could do better in … vestigating the Final Call Killer than—”

“Jessica knows her own mind. She’s doing what she wants, the way she always has.”

“I spoke to … her this after … noon when she re … turned from K-Kauai. I heard un … happiness in her voice. I think she … ’s upset she is … n’t covering the serial killer … instead of me.”

Grant doubted it. More likely, Jess was concerned about being nationally syndicated in a few days. Maybe her personal life was giving her problems.

“I’m delivering the eulogy tomorrow at Warren’s funeral,” Grant said, deliberately changing the subject. “I can’t believe he had a heart attack. He seemed so healthy.”

“I’m not sure you could … call it a heart at … tack. I spoke … with my con.… tact in the coron … er’s office. There was … n’t any damage con … sistent with a heart at … tack.”

“I know. They said it was heart failure. What’s the difference?”

“With heart fail … ure, the heart … ah … stops beat … ing for no reason.”

“It’s a damn shame. He died just when he was getting his life together. I don’t know what I’m going to say at the service. Are you coming?”

“I-I did … n’t really know War … ren. I’m sleep … ing in … otherwise I won’t be able to write … another article.”

Grant hated to break the news, but Dick had written his last column. It was a good thing, too. His speech was slowing even more, the way it did when he was overtired. Working again was putting his health at risk.

“Take a day or two off. There’s nothing more to say about that maniac for now. He’s laying low. He goes weeks between murders.”

“A-a good … in … vestigative … re … porter would …”

Be a detective, Grant wanted to say, but a man in a wheelchair at the bitter end of his career didn’t want to hear this.

“Rest up,” Grant advised. “I’ll need you to brief the new reporter when he arrives on Monday.”

Dick snorted, too weak, Grant decided, to argue. His friend was slipping away a little at a time. He missed him already.

Troy considered not attending Warren Jacobs’s funeral. Any fool who watched TV—and who didn’t?—knew the police videotaped the services to look for killers. But the dumbfucks didn’t realize Jacobs had been murdered.

The perfect crime.

He walked into St. Peter and Paul’s church and looked around. The number of people surprised him. From his Internet research, he assumed Jacobs was a loner without friends

He hobbled down the aisle, hunkered over like an old lady with osteoporosis. No one paid any attention to him. People stared at beautiful people—not the old, helpless, or crippled.

Their attitude provided him with a wellspring of disguises. His experience in the theater had made him an expert at makeup and costumes. He had a natural talent for imitating voices. A wizened up old lady was one of his best.

Thanks to his mother.

He edged his way to an empty pew close to the front and dropped onto the wooden bench, pretending to be exhausted. Those near him politely looked away. Troy dabbed his eyes with a lacy white handkerchief and released a muffled sob.

Was he the ultimate or what?

“Did you know him well?” whispered the woman next to him.

Troy turned and gazed into the most amazing blue eyes he’d seen since Courtney left him. The striking blonde kept looking at him, not realizing she wasn’t speaking to an old lady.

“Warren was my cousin’s son,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Troy sniffled into the handkerchief. “I’ll miss Renny.”

“Renny?”

“That’s what the family called Warren.”

She smiled sympathetically and said, “Renny. I never knew.”

Troy had made it up on the fly—a lesson learned in improv. No question about it. Troy was the bomb.

“Renny was so good to me. I live on food stamps, you know.”

“You should register with Meals on Wheels,” she replied, compassion underscoring each word. “They’ll help you.”

“Did you know my Renny?” he asked.

“We worked at the Herald together, but I can’t say I knew him well,” replied the classy blonde.

The Herald.

That’s the main reason he’d taken the time to disguise himself and come to the motherfucker’s funeral. They had been the ones to dub him the Final Call Killer. This was his chance to see what kind of people they were.

Keeping his gaze low and dabbing his eyes with the handkerchief, Troy surveyed the group. He recognized a couple of them, but no one looked twice at him.

They were average people, he decided. Nothing special. Except for the blonde next to him. She had sympathy for an old lady dressed in tattered clothes.

“I thought my Renny’s articles about the manic who’s killing women were fantastic,” he whispered to the blonde.

“Yes, they were very good.”

“The one about displaced anger was brilliant.”

“Do you think so?”

“Absolutely.” It was so good it got the bastard killed. “I don’t know if the paper will ever be able to replace Renny.”

She hesitated a moment before saying, “No person can ever be replaced because we’re all unique in our own way, but they’ll have to hire another investigative reporter.”

The way she said it, Troy knew they already had hired someone, but the woman was being kind to an old lady who thought Warren Jacobs hung the moon.

“Are you a reporter?”

She smiled, and he noticed she had nicer, straighter teeth than Courtney. “I write two feature columns, one on lifestyles and the other on travel.”

“My dear,” he asked as the minister stepped up to the pulpit, “what is your name?”

“Jessica Crawford.”

He would have no trouble remembering her name.

The reception following the service was held at Grant’s penthouse. The sun glistened on the dark blue San Francisco Bay. Traffic zipped along the Golden Gate Bridge. Jessica stood at the window, thinking how strange it was for the weather to be so beautiful on the day of a somber funeral.

Life goes on.

Behind her, people chatted and someone laughed. Warren Jacobs wasn’t laughing. No more deadlines. No more articles about the Final Call Killer.

It was over for Warren.

Renny, she thought, amused. She tried to imagine him as a child when he’d picked up the nickname, but she couldn’t. The image in her mind was of a quiet, insular man with deep-set dark eyes and a hairline that had receded, leaving a single tuft of brown hair at the top of his forehead.

She wished she’d made more of an effort to get to know Warren. He seemed a little aloof, but now she wondered if he hadn’t been intimidated by taking over for a legendary journalist like Richard Crawford.

Obviously, he’d been a nice man. He had taken care of the elderly lady who was a distant relative. Jessica had offered to share a cab here, but it was such a beautiful day that the lady had wanted to walk.

“Jessica, you’re back early.”

Marci’s breathy voice made her cringe.

“I finished my report and came home to see my father.” She didn’t add that her father had been too busy working to see her. After work today, she would stop by and see him.

Wide-eyed, Marci nodded, and Jessica noticed the buttonholes on Marci’s navy suit looked strained. Obviously, this was a pre-enhancement suit.

“Your father wrote several interesting articles about the serial killer while you were away.”

Come on, Marci. Just spit it out. Tell me about Jason.

“It’s just so, like, sad. At the funeral, Warren didn’t have any relatives—”

“His second cousin, the elderly woman who sat next to me, was there.”

Marci put her hand on her bosom and heaved a sigh. “Thank goodness. I know he lived in Tacoma before he moved down here to work. But I thought he told me he didn’t know anyone in the city.”

“He was probably speaking of friends. Mrs. Graham saw him regularly.” She looked around the room filled with people from the Herald. Mrs. Graham still hadn’t arrived yet.

“That’s good. I’m glad it wasn’t just those of us, like, from work who hardly knew him.” Marci glanced at the people nearby. “I need to talk to you, like, in private.”

“Zoe told me you’re dating Jason Talbott.”

Color bloomed on Marci’s cheeks. “I-I had no idea he was going out with you, too. This is, like, so … so embarrassing.”

Jessica told herself to smile, but did little more than show Marci her teeth. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I went out with him a few times. It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Marci frowned as if Jessica were speaking in tongues. “Nothing? Jason is, like, so … so—”

“So right for you. Didn’t I say that you would know if this was the guy and to trust yourself?”

Marci beamed, and Jessica could tell she was hopelessly in love. “You were right. Jason doesn’t mind about my trust fund or that I have a larger home than he does. It’s like fab. Totally fab.”

“Things have a way of working out,” she said with more sincerity than she thought possible.

“You’ll meet someone. I just know it.”

Jessica couldn’t resist saying, “I met a great guy in Kauai. A real hottie.”

“Goody.”

Goody? Who used that word these days? She was being bitchy, but she couldn’t help herself. Jason preferred Marci and it bothered her.

“Does the guy you met live around here?”

“No, and it’s too bad. He was a lot of fun.”

Now, that was a stretch. They’d had great sex, but Tag was an awfully serious man. She said a silent prayer that she wasn’t pregnant.

Stacy noticed her with Marci and sailed across the room. “You’ve got to try the goat cheese and porcini mushroom spread.” She tugged on Jessica’s arm. “It’s divine. Grant always finds the best caterers.”

Zoe finished her article. It had taken longer than she anticipated. After Warren’s funeral and the reception at Grant’s penthouse, she hadn’t been able to concentrate. This wasn’t her best work, but it would have to do.

She wanted to get out of the office early because she had a date tonight with Don. What would he think of her wax job?

For sure, Shawn would appreciate a baby-smooth pussy. But the venture capitalist was beginning to bore her. That’s why she was seeing Don.

The Internet offered an endless supply of men. She hadn’t used the Web before because it had seemed as appealing as kissing her mouse. She’d been dead wrong.

One of these days, she might find Mr. Right, but for now, she was content to play the field. Before her date tonight with Don, she was meeting a new man for drinks.

“Guess what?”

She looked up and saw Jessica smiling at her from the entrance to her cubicle.

“I give up. What?”

“I took that rapid HIV test at the West End Clinic. I passed.”

They exchanged hugs and Zoe asked, “How does the test work?”

“They take a drop of blood and put it in this gadget that looks like a high-tech thermometer. If one bar comes up, you’re okay. If you see two bars, you’re HIV positive.”

Zoe hoped she never had to take the HIV test because she’d had unsafe sex. But if it could happen to Jessica, it could happen to anyone.

“Have you got a minute?” Jessica asked.

“Sure,” Zoe said, even though she wanted to slip out early.

“Log on to my page,” Jessica said. “I want you to read the article I wrote on the extreme surfing resort.”

Zoe brought up the screen with Jessica’s article. Because Sunday was two days away, Manny hadn’t gotten to the article to give it a headline. Jessica had scanned several pictures for him to choose.

“That’s me,” Jessica said, pointing to a picture.

“Wow! That wave must be—”

“Forty feet tall. I surfed it and didn’t wipe out.”

“Awesome. Totally awesome.”

“Read the article for me and tell me what you think.”

Zoe quickly skimmed the article. “I don’t think anyone will be going there if they read this.”

“Is it too negative? I did say they have excellent food.”

“Okay, so? Who’ll want to go there if they don’t take proper safety precautions?”

“Plenty of people. Believe me. Some men are on testosterone overload. They won’t give a hoot about safety. But I want to warn people who do care.”

“They’re warned. Just hope this Jock Rawlings doesn’t send a hit man after you.”