Chapter 31

Monday morning Cole stared at the layout pages on his computer screen. The serial killer had been relegated to page three. The news hole for his article fit beside an ad for Shreve and Company, a swank jeweler near Union Square.

He’d expected this. Without anything new to report except the serial killer had been sighted more often than Elvis, Zoe’s murder was no longer front page material. There was more trouble in the Middle East, and another coup in Africa. Those stories—pick-ups from the wire services—he would have to rewrite for the front page. The articles would run along with photos also provided by the wire services.

If only he could come up with a break in the case. He had the hinky feeling that he was missing something. Aw, hell. He couldn’t track down the fabric sample or some of the other clues that required lab analysis. He was at a dead end with Jacobs’s death as well.

He turned away from his computer and studied the photos of the carpet around Zoe’s grotesque body, the signature ligature of phone cord dangling from her neck. He wondered if he knew of anyone who could possibly suggest a person who could tell him more about the special shoes that made those indentations in the carpet.

Last year had been his tenth reunion. He’d attended only because William Edward Farnsworth IV, his roomie through four years at Harvard and a good friend had insisted he come back to Boston. Eddie had stood at his side during the funeral for Chloe and Tyler and had kept in touch when Cole quit his job and moved West. Cole hadn’t been able to say no to his good friend.

Someone at the reunion was working … or was it heading up? … Geometric Interpretation of Blood Stains—or some damn thing like that. He’d tucked away the guy’s card, thinking he might need an expert on this one day.

Of course, that had been when he’d been nearly comatose with pain and regret. The card was probably in the boxes that he’d hastily packed before moving here. Those boxes were being shipped from San Diego to San Francisco. When they showed up, he had no idea where they would put them in Jessica’s small apartment.

Jessica.

He tossed the crime scene photos aside and looked across the newsroom. He craned his neck to get a better view of her. She was typing away at her computer. No doubt she was working on her next syndicated column. Her last one had been a whopper!

“Limp Dick Syndrome.” Where did she find her material, he wondered. He’d laughed his sorry butt off when he’d read it—and thanked God that he hadn’t ever smoked. He would hate not being able get it up.

His mind drifted back to the weekend. He’d spent most of it in bed with Jessica. True, they’d ventured out into the deluge to let Rupert relieve himself. The rest of the time—when they weren’t in the sack—they’d cuddled in front of the fire, talking.

Laughing.

Enjoying themselves.

Okay, okay, it was great sex. WOW! did not adequately cover it. But it was more than sex. They’d connected on every level.

A year ago, he couldn’t have imagined being with another woman. But now he could. Jessica was sexy as hell, yet interesting. Chloe’s memory hovered in his mind, but he knew she would give him her blessing to go on with his life.

He wanted to ease Jessica’s pain over Zoe’s death. He needed to do more to solve the case. He picked up the telephone and called his Harvard roommate at Farnsworth, Ashford and Dutton in Boston.

When Eddie’s secretary at the law firm put him on the line, he said, “Where in hell have you been?”

Typical Eddie, he thought. A great guy who always came right to the point. When Cole had arrived at Harvard, he’d been a West Coast surfer lost among East Coast preppies. Cole would have dropped out—except for “Fast Eddie.”

Eddie had helped him negotiate Harvard’s shark infested waters where all that seemed to count was where your family had a second home and where you’d prepped. Cole had returned the favor, helping Eddie survive calculus and statistics.

“I’ve moved to San Francisco. I’m at the Herald working the Final Call Killer Case.”

“Hey, that’s great—I think. Right?”

“Absolutely. Investigative reporters live for killers like this.” He hated himself for saying it, but no words were truer. “Remember, at the reunion one of the guys was working on blood splatter patterns or some damn thing?”

“Righto. Rob Fuller is working for … wait til I flip through my Rolodex … ah, there it is. Robert J. Fuller is at the Advanced Data Analysis Institute. His card actually says Geometric Interpretation of Blood Stains. Eeew!”

“Could I get his number?”

Eddie rattled off the number. “What’s going on?”

“I’m hoping he can help me with the Final Call Killer. He may be able to lead me to someone who has information I can use.”

“Righto,” Eddie said, and Cole recognized Eddie’s distracted tone.

“I know you’re busy.”

“I’m due across town for a deposition. Call me on the weekend when we can talk.”

He hung up, reminding himself to call Eddie this weekend. In the two years since Chloe’s death, Eddie had called consistently even though Cole never phoned him. He seemed to understand Cole was too depressed to call the way he once had. Eddie would be pleased that Cole had a woman in his life again.

The Advanced Data Analysis Institute turned out to be a forensic laboratory that used high-tech methods to evaluate evidence sent to them from around the country. Rob remembered him and knew Cole was a reporter.

Harvard had one of the strongest networking systems around, Cole thought as he hung up the telephone. Grads were eager to help each other whenever they could. He silently thanked Eddie for keeping him in school. Now he had a first class education and connections.

The institute had a database of shoe and tire prints. As soon as Rob received the pictures, he would have them run through the computer.

“Hi, there.”

Cole looked up and saw the Herald’s food critic, Alex Noonan. He must be slumming, Cole thought. Noonan belonged upstairs with the foodies.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“Not much. I went to a new restaurant last night.” Noonan wrinkled his nose. “Too much salt in the polenta.”

“God forbid.” Noonan could make a crack in the pavement sound like the Grand Canyon. He would glom onto any excuse to trash a restaurant.

“I’m going to a new café for lunch tomorrow. I was wondering if you had a ball cap or T-shirt from San Diego. I want to go disguised as a tourist.”

“Nope. Can’t help you.”

“Oh, well. I can always wear one of my wigs and a Raider’s ball cap.”

Noonan walked away, and Cole stared at the back of Jessica’s pretty head, thinking. A disguise. Maybe the serial killer wasn’t known to the victims. Perhaps he disguised himself.

What kind of disguise would have caused those women to open their doors? A priest, a cop, a UPS or FedEx man came to mind.

That might have worked the first or second time, but when women realized a homicidal maniac was around, they would have been more cautious. He decided to add this angle to his article anyway.

Jessica completed the article for her column paper with a smile. “The Z Epidemic.”

She hit the send button and forwarded the column to Manny. He’d gone for her “Limp Dick Syndrome” head. Maybe he would use this head as well.

The least used and nearly forgotten letter in the alphabet had become a super star. According to Jessica’s research the Z had gained prominence when hip-hop made it popular. Boyz N the Hood.

About the same time, Internet chat rooms and e-mail were creating their own jargon, using the Z where an S should be. It was a phonetically based code to pluralize words as the Internet began to invent a unique language.

Geeks and hip-hoppers had something in common. Who would have thought? she asked her readers.

Once marketing experts realized how popular the Z was with young teens who had purchasing power, they quickly fed the public more Zs than it knew what to do with. From Target’s Cool Toyz to Life Saver Kickerz to the Kidz Network television, the Z had booted the S out the back door.

She stared at the blank screen and wondered what she should write for the upcoming Sunday’s New Millennium Travel. She was running out of articles from the morgue and filler from previous trips. Maybe she and Cole could take a weekend somewhere nearby and she could write about it.

She indulged herself, closing her eyes for a second. In her mind, she saw Cole’s head on the pillow facing her. Dark hair tousled from making love. His jaw shadowed by a fast-growing beard. His blue eyes gazing at her in a way that made an inner heat curl through her body.

What a weekend!

Did it get any better than this?

No, not if what you wanted was just sex. But she’d been kidding herself. Sex alone was never going to cut it for her. Not with Cole. She wanted something … more.

“Jessica, got a minute?”

Hearing Duff’s voice, she flinched as she opened her eyes. She would rather daydream, but she knew Duff was lonely and needed to talk. “What’s up?”

“I came across something that might interest you. It’s called IMS. That’s short for Irritable Male Syndrome.”

“Is that a real medical condition?”

“Yes. A drop in testosterone results in the loss of libido, which causes insecurity and irritability.”

Cole Rawlings was not suffering from a precipitous drop in testosterone. He must have gotten some other guy’s fair share. Make that three guys.

“It’s common among older men, but it can occur in the thirties or even earlier.”

“Is there a cure for it?”

“Sure. Testosterone can be prescribed, but most men are too embarrassed to admit they need it.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Interested in using it?”

She didn’t see an angle. Men were fair game, easy to make fun of in print with some things, but she wouldn’t want to make light of a medical condition that ruined some men’s lives.

“Duff, I think it’s very interesting, but I’m already doing a column on Manopoz, the male menopause. It would be too much like it. Why don’t you use it yourself?”

“Well, I—”

Her telephone cut him off. She held up one finger, then picked up the receiver.

“Jessica Crawford.”

“Jessica?”

The one word took her back twenty-five years to the last time she had heard that voice. On the evening her mother had kissed her good night and walked out of her life.

Jessica covered the receiver with her hand. “Duff, this is a personal call.”

“Catch you later.”

“This is Jessica Crawford,” she said as if she hadn’t immediately recognized the voice.

A beat of silence.

“Jessica, this is your mother.”

Over the years, she’d anticipated this moment so many times. She’d mentally rehearsed what she would say, yet not a single word came to mind. But inside her chest, anger and resentment swelled.

“Where are you?” she finally managed to ask.

“Here. I’m staying at the Campton Place.”

She must have done all right for herself, Jessica decided. The expensive hotel on Union Square was a far cry from the small apartment her father had.

“I’d like to see you, Jessica.”

“Why now? You’ve never called, never contacted me in all these years.” She knew she sounded bitter and hurt, but she didn’t care.

“I know you’re angry,” her mother replied in that soft voice Jessica remembered so well. “You have every right to be. When I see you, I can explain—”

“I have no intention of seeing you. Why should I?”

After a long silence, she said, “Because I’m your mother.”

“No, you’re not. My father was both father and mother to me. Where were you when I needed help with homework? Where were you when I had a ballet recital? Where were you when I was high school valedictorian?”

“You have no idea how much I wish I could have been there.”

Jessica ignored the emotion in her mother’s voice. “It’s too late now.”

“I kept up with you as best I could. I called Grant each month. He—”

“Grant knew where you were?”

“Yes, he did. He told me all about you. He sent pictures when he could.”

Grant, the man who had been like a favorite uncle, had never once let on that he knew where her mother was or that he’d heard from her. Why not? A surge of something too bitter to be mere anger surged through her.

“Why are you calling me now, after all this time?” When I no longer need you the way I did when I was growing up.”

“The time is right. I’ll explain when I see you.”

“Forget it.” She slammed down the telephone.

Grant was sitting at his desk, staring at the snappy new graphics Mort had spent a bloody fortune having the designers create. The new “look” was attention getting, he conceded. Lots of color and graphs like USA Today used. When the temp buzzed him and said Jessica wanted to see him, Grant wasn’t surprised. He’d been expecting her since Allison had called him and said she was going to contact her daughter.

Jessica burst into the room. “You knew where my mother was. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He’d seen Jessica angry before, but this was different. Not only was she furious with him, she was on the verge of tears. He knew she felt disappointed and betrayed.

By him.

He’d known this day would come, but that didn’t make facing her any easier. “I didn’t tell you because your mother made me promise I wouldn’t. You know I always keep my promises.”

Jessica crossed the room in four angry strides and stared out the window at the Ferry Building. “Did my father know?”

“No. I’m the only one your mother contacted.”

“Why?”

“Because she knew she could trust me.”

Jessica spun around to face him. “Where was she?”

“Your mother has been living in Sedona. She’s a very successful sculptress.”

Jessica crossed the room and stood in front of his desk. “Why did she leave?”

Grant studied Jessica for a moment. He hated to see her hurt. Zoe’s murder had been a blow from which she’d yet to recover. Allison couldn’t have known that now was not the best time to reappear.

“You’ll have to ask your mother.”

“I don’t want to see her. I’m asking you.”

“Jessica, it’s not my secret to tell. This is between you and your parents.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

He understood. There was still a hurt little girl inside the grown woman that he loved like a daughter.

“That’s your choice. I can’t say I blame you, but ask yourself if you’re going to regret it later.”