Chapter 17

Outside the police station, Cole watched the reporters circling like hyenas around fresh kill. Microphone booms hung over the yellow and black crime scene tape set up to keep the media at a distance. San Francisco police Chief Marshall Tibbs was poised to hold the first press conference since the FBI profiler had completed his assessment.

Video camera operators jostled for a clear shot of the podium where a technician was adjusting the microphone. Over his shoulder, Cole counted six satellite vans in the parking lot. This wasn’t a local story any longer. With the latest murder, the Final Call Killer had become national news.

“Hey, Rawlings!”

Cole turned and saw a burly man with a grizzled gray beard elbowing his way through the crowd toward him. He recognized Doug Masterson from UPI. Cole had known him when they’d been in New York and Masterson had been working out of UPI’s office there.

“I saw your article in this morning’s paper,” Masterson said with the three-pack-a-day rasp that Cole remembered even though he hadn’t seen the older man for several years. “Nice going.”

“I got lucky. The police were too busy tracking down all the tips they’ve gotten.”

“Nobody else caught it. Not even me.”

Masterson rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t believe he’d actually screwed up. Cole had always thought the news service guys were cocky, but he supposed it came with the territory. What they wrote went around the world, being picked up by papers that didn’t have reporters on the scene.

“So you’re working for the Herald now. Last I heard you were in San Diego. I read your stuff on the van Dam case. Good reporting.”

“Thanks.”

Cole wasn’t comfortable with praise. Never had been. He figured it came from a childhood spent in a series of foster homes where he’d been punished for a variety of offenses real and imagined. The only praise had come from his teachers, and it embarrassed him because other kids teased him for being so smart.

Chief Tibbs tapped on the microphone to test it, and the chatter tapered off. Cole saw Stan Everetts behind the chief. He knew the profiler from the Danielle van Dam case.

Everetts was a highly trained straight shooter who came up with surprisingly accurate profiles. Dick Crawford’s source at the station had already faxed over a copy of the profiler’s findings. Cole didn’t need to be here except to protect the source. It would look suspicious if the reporter covering the serial killer case for the Herald didn’t attend the press conference especially after the scoop in this morning’s paper.

Chief Tibbs cleared his throat, then spoke to the crowd. “Let me begin by telling all of you that we are working around the clock on this case. The FBI has sent the special Rapid Start team to input clues and information into a central database to compare these killings to others across the country.”

“This guy hasn’t been involved in any other killings,” whispered Masterson.

Cole nodded his agreement. As far as he could tell, the UNSUB, unknown subject, lived in the city and had just begun murdering women during the past year, which had been the profiler’s conclusion, too.

They listened as the police chief rehashed a lot of details but added nothing new. Cole decided the chief’s pure-business attitude was intended to ease the minds of the terrified women in the city.

Fat chance.

“What we need is for the public to listen to the information that the FBI’s behavioral science expert is going to tell us.” The chief paused and glanced first to his right and then to his left. “Look around you. See if anyone you know fits the profile. If someone does and is acting suspiciously call our toll-free tip line.”

As the chief slowly gave out the number, Masterson said, “They’ve already gotten more tips than they can possibly handle. Remember the Beltway Snipers? They called in tips themselves and weren’t taken seriously.”

The chief introduced Stan Everetts and the crowd fell silent, the only sound coming from the cars crawling along the street behind them. Cole listened as Everetts told the media that the serial killer was a white male in his late twenties who was immature, narcissistic, highly educated, and worked in the computer industry or some closely related business.

“How would he know that?” Masterson whispered.

“They don’t call the Behavioral Sciences Unit—BSU for nothing,” Cole joked.

Actually, he gave the BSU a lot of credit. They thoroughly studied the crime scene and the victim to create a profile. They weren’t always correct, but more often than not, they were.

“The young man is or was married, but he hates women,” Everetts continued. “This may not be immediately apparent, but if you listen carefully to him, you’ll pick up on his rage toward women.”

Cole silently gave Jessica credit. She’d been the first to report his uncontrollable anger toward women when she’d discovered each victim’s hyoid bone had been broken during the attacks. He was all kinds of pissed at her, but he still had to admit Jessica Crawford wasn’t just another pretty face.

Last night, it had been a bitch sitting across the table from her. Every time he looked into those incredible blue eyes, he remembered the way she’d gazed up at him just before she’d come. Incredible sex, but she’d just been using him.

From the moment he’d discovered they were both working for the Herald, he’d made up his mind not to think about her, and he hadn’t. Okay, okay, maybe once or twice.

He’d told himself to forget Kauai. Pretend it never happened. The demons of his past were enough. He didn’t need to become involved with someone at work. Kicking himself, he wondered why he’d asked her for the twenty-five dollars. Get your so-called mind back on what the profiler is saying, he told himself.

Everetts was taking questions now. Someone must have asked about the killer’s mother.

“No, this man does not live with his mother.” Everetts pointed to another reporter who was standing near a man with a video camera on his shoulder.

“How do you know this is a serial killer not a spree killer?” the woman asked.

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference,” the profiler replied. “Spree killers do act out of rage while serial killers are usually playing out some bizarre fantasy like this man does.”

“Yeah,” Masterson said to him, “he uses a phone cord, which he brings with him, and he positions their bodies after he strangles the women. Doesn’t that reporter do any research?”

“Probably not. She’s on television.”

“Right now, the killer is in what we call a ‘cooling-off phase’ where he is between victims,” Everetts added.

“Is he going to kill again?” someone shouted.

“Count on it,” Everetts answered.

That’s sure to panic women, Cole thought. He should check and see if anyone had done a column on precautions women should be taking.

“The murdered women were not victims of opportunity,” Everetts said in response to a question. “He carefully selected them.”

Cole thought about what Jessica had said last night. Two of the victims made their living by talking. The dead scientist didn’t fit, but he was going to take a closer look. Just in case.

Chief Tibbs had come up beside Everetts. Cole tried not to smile as someone immediately asked about his scoop.

“We overlooked the time factor,” the chief candidly admitted. “We have a lot of tips coming in to our hot line. The detectives were busy checking out some of the more promising leads.”

Masterson nudged him. “Let’s go get coffee. There’s something I want to tell you.”

Curious, Cole followed him through the crowd. Once they were on the sidewalk and beyond the group, Masterson spoke again.

“I’m being transferred to Paris to head our bureau there.”

“Congratulations.” Cole knew UPI monitored most of Western Europe from Paris, making it a plum assignment. “Who’s taking over the West Coast?”

“Jacqueline Laidlaw,” Masterson replied with a huff of disgust.

Cole didn’t know what to say. He’d been in New York when Jacqueline Laidlaw had accused Masterson of sexual harassment. The news service had settled with the woman out of court, and had transferred Masterson to the less prestigious West Coast office in San Francisco.

They walked into BrewHaHa and ordered coffee. Masterson pointed to a table in the back of the shop. As they sat down, Cole could see something was on Masterson’s mind.

“I’m not turning over my sources to that bitch,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“I can’t blame you.”

Cole had always thought Masterson had gotten a raw deal. The word around town was Jacqueline had wanted to make a name for herself, which was exactly what she’d done.

“I have some good contacts here. I’m giving them to you.”

Christ! How lucky could he get? “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

They talked for several minutes about Masterson’s sources in the police department and even on the FBI’s Rapid Start Team. With the contacts Dick had given Cole, he now had sources it usually took years to develop.

“A colleague of mine—” Cole almost choked on the word “colleague,” thinking of Jessica “—has a theory. The women were killed with phone cords—the symbol of talking—because they made their livings in professions that called on them to talk a lot.”

Masterson studied him a moment. “Why didn’t I see that?”

“It fits except for Vanessa Filmore, the biochemist.”

Masterson put down his coffee. “Vanessa Filmore was president of the Vegetarians for Earth Consciousness. You know, one of those green, tree hugging groups that thrives in San Francisco. She didn’t get much press, but she spoke at conferences and every other place where someone would listen to her.”

Cole heard his own quick intake of breath. Jessica had been onto something. He bet the next victim would also be associated with talking to people.

“Did your research show any common links between these women?” Cole asked.

Masterson shook his head. “None.”

“There has to be something. It looks like he stalks them, learns their habits, then strikes.”

“True. My guess is that they know him. There hasn’t been any sign of forced entry.”

Cole sipped his coffee, thinking.

“There’s one thing I discovered from a source on the Rapid Start Team. Off the record.”

From the gleam in Masterson’s eye, Cole decided this was going to be good. An “off the record” report was for the reporter’s information, but not to be seen in print.

“The killer e-mailed each victim and told them that they were next to die.”

Zoe sailed into the small test kitchen where Jessica and Stacy were already seated and ready to have the lunch Stacy’s staff had prepared.

“Well, Don was a dud. A total loser.”

Jessica listened while Zoe launched into the story of the scratch on the new Porsche and how it had bothered Don so much he couldn’t have sex. It was a guy thing, Zoe claimed.

How would Cole have reacted had it been his car? Jessica didn’t have a clue. She’d misread him from the moment she’d met him.

“I have good news,” Jessica whispered. “I bought a pregnancy test kit. I’m not pregnant.”

“Way to go,” Stacy said.

“You’d better get on the pill,” Zoe said.

“If I were in a relationship, I would.”

“I’m on to a new guy. I met him on-line late last night,” Zoe informed them.

“Good luck,” Stacy said, her tone distracted.

“What’s going on?” Jessica asked her.

“I’m thinking of doing one of those household tips books.”

“A Martha Stewart kind of thing?” asked Zoe.

“Well, not exactly. It would be more practical.”

“Less insider traderish?” Zoe asked.

“Seriously, I think Martha has revolutionized cooking and gardening as well as home entertaining.”

Zoe rolled her eyes as one of Stacy’s assistants came out with a pumpkin full of what Jessica guessed was this year’s new recipe for autumn stew.

“My book would have lots of unusual tips like thawing frozen fish in milk makes it taste less fishy.”

“Is that right?” Jessica asked

“Absolutely.”

“Go for it. Write the book,” Jessica told Stacy.

“I agree,” added Zoe.

The assistant set the pumpkin in the middle of the table and served each of them a helping of stew that sent traces of garlic and cumin wafting through the air. They sampled the stew.

“This is delicious,” Jessica said.

“Better than last year’s,” Zoe assured Stacy.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Jessica’s thoughts kept turning to Cole asking her for the money. Why had he bothered, she wondered.

“Zoe, I need some help,” Jessica said. “I want to pay someone twenty-five dollars, but I want to do it in a unique, clever way.”

Zoe eyed her for a moment. “This is about the new guy, isn’t it?”

Jessica hesitated, not wanting to bring up Cole, but she couldn’t lie to her closest friends. “Yes.”

Stacy asked, “What gives?”

Jessica swallowed hard. “I bet Cole twenty-five dollars we wouldn’t have sex.”

“But you did.” Stacy fought a smile.

“It just happened.”

Zoe giggled. “Shit happens. I just wish it would happen to me with a hunk like Cole Rawlings. All I get are bores like Don who’s in love with his Porsche.”

“Last night Cole asked for the money. I guess he’s going to keep quiet about Kauai, but he wants his money.”

Zoe shook her head. “No, babe. He wants you.”

Jessica didn’t agree. From the moment she’d met him, Cole had erected some barrier between them that she didn’t quite understand. Jessica had known he didn’t like her, but he was a guy.

Sex was a priority.

“Just tell me a unique way to deliver the money.” Her voice sounded uncharacteristically sharp, but she couldn’t temper it. Having Cole Rawlings around made her uneasy in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

“Well, you could always deliver the money in a foreign currency like yen, which will produce a wad of bills the size of the Bible.”

“Okay, anything more creative? I don’t want him to actually get my money.”

Zoe looked off into space for a moment. “Bingo! I’ve got it. Checks have been standardized into two sizes. You know, the small checks we all carry, and the larger business size. But banks have to take a check written on anything in any size as long as it’s valid.”

“Valid being?” Jessica asked.

“It must have your account number, a check number, and your signature. That’s all.”

“I get it,” Stacy cried. “We’ll write him a check on a piece of paper the size of this table.”

“Could he cash it?” Jessica asked.

“Theoretically,” Zoe replied. “If he had the guts to take it to the bank. The teller would be flummoxed, but he would call his supervisor, who would summon his supervisor. Finally, someone at the bank would know the check—although unconventional—had to be honored.”

“I don’t want him to be able to cash it,” Jessica said. “I need to pay off the bet, but I want something that he wouldn’t have the guts to take to the bank.”

“Let me work on it,” Zoe said. “I’ll come up with something this guy would never have the balls to take to a bank. Trust me.”