Chapter 28

A full week had passed since Troy had read Jessica’s syndicated story that spouted all sorts of lame theories about serial killers. In this one Jessica refused to call him Lady Killer because she claimed he didn’t really merit the title. He didn’t view the women he killed as ladies, and he didn’t think of himself as a charismatic charming man.

A man intimidated and threatened by successful women.

“That bitch! Who does she think she is?”

He hated her more than he’d ever hated any woman—except Courtney—but he had to concede he had a tiny spark of admiration for Jessica. He’d strangled her friend. She wasn’t taking it lightly; she was going after him the only way she knew how.

He was sitting in front of his computer, staring at a screen full of information, but he couldn’t concentrate on his invention. Killing Jessica was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated. She had that skank Cole Rawlings living with her. If he wasn’t with her, Jessica hung out with Stacy and her doctor boyfriend.

Work and the play were taking up more of Troy’s time than usual. He liked the play, and he was dynamite in his role. After this, he would easily land the lead in the next play.

They were set to open in two weeks. He needed to kill Jessica before then because the play would tie him up every night except Sunday for a month. There had to be some way to separate Jessica and that prick.

He’d come up with something. He always did.

Grant hung up the telephone and stared across the room at the Rolph Scarlett abstract that he’d selected for his office the day he’d been named executive editor. How was he going to break this to Jessica? The direct approach was probably best, he decided.

He called downstairs and asked her to come up. While he waited he brought up the layout for tomorrow’s paper on his computer screen. He read Cole’s front page article on the serial killer.

Damn all. Cole Rawlings had been a rare find. The Times loss was the Herald’s gain. His series on the Final Call Killer was such sharp, incisive reporting that it was certain to get the attention of the Pulitzer jury except for a couple of articles that bridged hard news and commentary.

Grant had always found it ironic that the Pulitzer stood for top-notch reporting and photojournalism. Joseph Pulitzer had been a nineteenth century muck-raker, who would have been right at home today working for the National Enquirer. Grant would bet most people in the country believed Pulitzer had been a reporter for some elite paper like the Times, when the opposite was true.

Each year editors from around the country convened at Columbia University to decide the Pulitzer winners. Grant had been invited every year since he’d taken over as executive editor. Some said it was like the fox guarding the hen house, but all of the editors tried hard to be fair. If one of their reporters made it to the final round, they recused themselves.

The Herald would pay the fee to enter Cole and any other reporters that Grant decided had a chance of winning. Hank hadn’t come up with anything this year, but he was considering Jessica’s picture of Jock Rawlings extreme surfing that had run along with the picture of her.

The extraordinary wave was so tall and the Rawlings kid so graceful that it just might catch the eye of the Pulitzer jury for a photojournalism award, especially since so few pictures of anyone surfing waves this size existed. Photojournalism wasn’t Jessica’s field, but she had taken a one-of-a-kind photograph.

One of her New Millennium LifeStyles articles might also be entered. He would have to reread them all, or she might come up with something better before the entry deadline.

Zoe’s articles on the Alternative Minimum Tax and the devastating effect it would have on the middle class had been archived in her computer. The Herald had continued to run them. He would enter that series as a tribute to her.

Zoe was as hard to replace as he had anticipated. He had a staff reporter doing pick-ups from the wire services. He was interviewing business reporters, but so far he wasn’t impressed with any of them.

His secretary buzzed him and said Jessica was here. He had the temp send her into his office. He got up and walked around to the front of his desk where two chairs faced the massive glass and chrome desk. When he talked to his staff, he didn’t like to have the desk between them.

He thought the secret to good management was to make your team feel as comfortable as possible so they would want to give the paper their best. Besides, Jessica was special. Family, really. All Grant had in life was the paper. What would happen when he retired? What would he do with himself?

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Have a seat.”

As she sat down, Grant couldn’t help noticing Jessica looked prettier than usual. Even though she was still despondent over Zoe’s murder, she seemed happier than she had in a long time. Dick had told him that Cole was living with her.

Grant didn’t much approve of office romances. Too many ended disastrously, but there wasn’t a thing he could do to prevent them. Hopefully, this one would work out. He liked them both tremendously.

“Jessica, I had a call from Triad Media. They selected you for syndication for your humorous approach to personal relationships and changes in society—not for articles on the serial killer.”

“I see.”

He knew she didn’t. When she pursed her lips the way she was now, Jessica was battling the urge to argue.

“Why don’t you go back to writing what you do best?”

She slowly nodded. “Okay, but tomorrow’s article is already written.”

“Is there something in the morgue you could use?”

She hesitated a moment before saying, “There has to be. I’m not feeling very funny these days.”

“I understand. The death of a friend is hard to accept, especially when she was killed in such a cruel, tragic way.”

“I keep seeing her sprawled there, Rupert at her side.”

“Is Rupert with you today?” he asked to get her mind off Zoe.

“No. I’ve made arrangements for him to stay with a neighbor during the day.”

“I think he looks better without the dreadlocks.”

She perked up a little. “Everyone thinks so.”

“Go back to your computer and find something funny in the morgue.”

Jessica plowed through her archives, searching for something entertaining and informative. The minute she’d walked into Grant’s office and saw him sitting in front of his desk, she knew they were going to have one of those “talks” that were so famous around the paper. She’d realized she was skating on thin ice when she’d devoted so much time to the serial killer, but she’d felt she had to do something.

She owed it to Zoe.

Most of what she had archived centered on relationships. She was determined not to let the “Love Doctor” image attach itself to her nationally syndicated pieces.

She found a mildly humorous piece on Internet dating services. It made her think of Zoe. The last man she’d seen she’d met through Matchmaker.com. He’d been cleared of any connection with her death.

Forcing herself to concentrate, Jessica remembered how she had sent e-mail surveys to the women on Matchmaker when she was researching this article. What do men lie about? That had been the question she had asked hundreds of women of all ages.

The answer had stunned her. She’d expected them to say weight, height, or how much money they made. She’d been wrong.

Men weren’t honest about smoking. According to the responses she’d received, men checked the No box next to smoking on their personal profile even though they actually did smoke. What was the point? she’d wondered. She supposed men thought their dates would like them so much that smoking wouldn’t matter. Wrong.

Smoking.

A thought hit her. Hadn’t Duff told her something about the anti-smoking campaign the tobacco industry had squashed? She couldn’t remember exactly. Duff rattled on so much about health issues that she only half listened.

She got up and went across the room to where Duff’s cubicle was. “Got a minute?”

Duff spun around, obviously surprised to see her. “Sure, sure. Come in.” He lifted a stack of health bulletins off the only other chair in his office. “Sit. Sit.”

“I remember you telling me about an ad campaign the tobacco industry got axed.”

Duff took his handkerchief out of his back pocket, took off his wire-rimmed glasses, and began polishing them. “They got it pulled because if men knew the truth, they would have more incentive to stop smoking.”

“I don’t remember the details. Tell me again, please.”

“It was a great TV ad that ran here in California, funded by the money the state received from the tobacco settlement. It showed this hot young guy in a bar, smoking. He’s having sexy thoughts about this beautiful girl. As she slinks by him, the cigarette goes limp and curls downward.”

“The message being smoking makes it hard to maintain an erection.”

“Exactly. Men are usually okay until their late thirties or early forties. Then the problem sets in.”

“What causes it?”

“The tiny capillaries in the penis become clogged.”

Jessica smiled inwardly. Duff was actually blushing, polishing his glasses for all he was worth, now.

“Smoking leaves residue throughout the body—veins, heart, lungs. The capillaries are so small that blood can’t flow into them properly.”

She nodded. “Blood in the penis makes it go erect.”

“That’s right.”

“Would you mind if I used this for a New Millennium LifeStyles column?”

“Not at all. I’d be honored.”

The auditorium where they were rehearsing was colder than usual. Troy knew he wouldn’t take off his jacket all evening. It had started to rain just as they arrived, and they were scurrying all over the cavernous building to find enough containers to collect the water dripping from the ceiling.

“Somebody check the costumes,” ordered the director, Nate Connors.

“I’ll do it,” Troy volunteered.

The costumes were kept in aluminum lockers that someone had scavenged from a high school gym that was being demolished. The lockers were in the back of the ancient auditorium along with the wigs and makeup. Troy had his own makeup kit and wigs at home.

He’d persuaded Arinda Castro to open her door to an old lady collecting for the neighborhood senior center. The feminazi attorney had been his first victim, but not the best or most satisfying one.

The bitch had it coming. She was no lady. She’d dissed him big time when he’d delivered a letter from Julio DiGarno, one of the local crime bosses. From the way it felt, he’d guessed it was cash. For what—he didn’t know or care.

He’d come out in a downpour, but did she tip him or even say thanks? No. The bitch signed the receipt and shut the door in his face. It wasn’t the first time she’d treated him like shit.

But it was the last time.

“Need some help?”

Bridget. Jesus H. Christ. She followed him around like a love-sick puppy. She had the hots for him and even knowing he had a girlfriend didn’t dissuade her.

“I’ve got it handled, thanks. The costumes won’t get wet. This part of the roof isn’t leaking.”

“Are you getting nervous?” she asked, all doe-eyed as she gazed at him. “We open in less than two weeks.”

“Naw,” he said with a shrug and walked away, leaving her standing alone.

He would really like to strangle her. The thought was tempting, really tempting, but he didn’t want to screw up the play. Besides, Bridget wasn’t half bad as an actress. If only he didn’t have to kiss her.

They were faking it now, but when it came time for dress rehearsals, he would have to kiss her. Barf. Double barf.

Nate had everyone sitting down. He was onstage near the footlights. The director was a hunched over old man with a face like a pail of worms, but he knew theater. Troy joined the troop, careful to sit between two people to prevent Bridget from sitting beside him.

“In ten days,” the director told them, “we open at the O’Farrell Theater.”

“Thank God,” the man next to him said. “We’ll be out of this firetrap.”

“At the end of the month, after we wrap, we have the chance to perform the play for a major fund raiser. It’ll be held in a huge tent at Golden State Park.”

Yet another AIDS fund raiser, Troy thought. Who cared? It was one more chance to show how great he played his part.

“It’s going to be one of those really posh affairs,” the director told them. “Cocktails, our play, and then dinner with a silent auction. I expect everyone from the mayor on down to be there.”

“What’s the charity?” someone asked.

“The Susan B. Komen Breast Cancer Center.”

“That’s good. Very good,” the woman behind him said.

“What’s special for us is that they are paying more than we’ll probably get at the O’Farrell in a week. It means new costumes, better sets, the works. With good word-of-mouth on our play and this benefit, we may be able to rent a better theater for our next play.”

Way to go, Troy thought. He intended to have the lead in the new play.

“That’s it. Act one, scene one. Places everybody.”

Troy wasn’t in the first scene. He sat where he was and watched as the actors took their places. Bridget came over and sat beside him.

“Isn’t it exciting? The mayor might see us.”

Troy doubted Willie Brown cared much about theater. If he came—and it was a big if for a man with lofty political ambitions—he would come because the elite of San Francisco were there. See and be seen.

“Now I’m really nervous,” Bridget confided.

Strangling her was getting more appealing every minute. Maybe he’d do her after Jessica.

No, he reminded himself. He was going to stop with Jessica. He’d quit and become a legend like the Zodiac Killer who was never caught.

He’d already contacted a patent attorney to protect his invention. Patents took years to process. Meanwhile, he could put “patent pending” on his invention and sell his idea to Intel.

He’d be rich. Famous. And Courtney could go fuck herself. He’d move to some fancy mansion in Silicone Valley where she could drive by and see what she was missing.

A splashy condo in San Francisco would be perfect for his mother. She would be far enough away from him that he wouldn’t have to bother with her. But he would have kept his promise to his father and taken care of her.

Bridget would get to live because the Lady Killer wanted to become a legend. A mastermind who had eluded the police.

He watched them rehearse the first act, an idea forming in the back of his mind. Separating Jessica and Cole was the main obstacle to killing her. There might be a way.

It was a tricky, ambitious plan—a variation on his MO, but that was all right. He was a creative thinker who was totally comfortable outside the box. This was a bold, unique plan.

“Okay, Jessica,” he said under his breath, “you have a little more time. Make the most of it.”