Back at her desk, Camarin tried to put off her fact-finding mission surrounding Terry Mangel’s recent tour long enough to edit an article on the wonders of CoolSculpting. But as soon as Wynan headed off to the printers, she took advantage of the opportunity to research without reproach.
Sure enough, his last two stops before Chicago did not disappoint. About a week after the caravan pulled out of Dallas, a realtor stumbled upon the lifeless body of Ramona Bernstein, the manufacturer of a line of low-calorie, low-carb frozen meals in nearby Trophy Club. Alleged cause of death: starvation and dehydration. She’d been tied to a chair in the pantry of an overpriced, and therefore rarely toured, home listed for sale, surrounded by packages of foods she couldn’t reach.
And in Creve Coeur, just outside St. Louis, the victim was Claude Chapelle. He was the owner of Rez-de-Chaussée, a French restaurant that had been repeatedly sued for firing waitresses because of weight gain. Since weight was not a protected class, none of the plaintiffs won their suits, but the murderer got the last laugh. Chapelle turned up at a local rifle range, tied to a target, his limp, bloodied body riddled with bullets. Guess you were fired too. Whoever this killer was, he or she had an ironic and macabre sense of humor.
Cam leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, and contemplated what she had stumbled onto. Her first story—a serial killing spree. All one-off local killings in small suburbs of big cities, which was probably why no one had recognized the connection on a national level. Or if anyone had, they had yet to go public with the information.
What next? She couldn’t go to Fletcher or Wynan, not after they’d made her promise to lay off the story. Who could she call? The police? The FBI? Were they really going to pay attention to a cub reporter from Trend magazine? Probably not. More likely they would advise her to restrict her concerns to how Björk and Whoopi Goldberg were murdering fashion on a daily basis.
Maybe she could share her suspicions anonymously on the internet. But she had no street cred. She’d just add one more conspiracy theory to the millions already out there in the blogosphere.
And if she leaked her suspicions to CNN or one of the wire services, what would that get her? Nary a thank-you, much less any credit for uncovering the crime. And certainly no one would report the deaths in context, drawing attention to the real motivation behind them—the plight of those who wasted every precious minute of their lives hating themselves because of their weight.
No, she had to investigate this herself, figure out which of Mangel’s followers was so incensed by his rhetoric, he or she was singlehandedly eliminating the entities he railed against in his ‘sermons.’
She mused at the irony. Here was someone garnering national attention for doing exactly what she yearned to do—pointing out the injustices waged daily against people like her sister. His propaganda espoused her personal cause to thousands each week, albeit for his own financial gain. His convictions made Mangel her comrade in arms, but his greed, her enemy. Alas, in the pursuit of justice, she was going to have to besmirch their shared cause by exposing the calamity his words had inspired. Sort of like cutting off your foes to spite your case.
“I don’t pay you to doze off on the job, Ms. Torres.”
Startled, she opened her eyes. A long night’s sleep seemed to have done wonders for Fletcher. The twinkle in his eyes matched his facetious tone.
“You don’t pay me to fetch you chicken wraps after-hours either, but I do what needs to be done. That is what you pay me for.”
“Touché. Thank you for last night. You were a lifesaver. Would you care to join me in my office so we can continue our discussion?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll be right in.”
Cam decided by his officious tone that he’d written off their momentary flirtation as a drunken hallucination, and for the moment, she was in the clear. She strolled over slowly, determined to retain her cool, all the while silently repeating her vow to keep things one hundred percent professional.
A few moments later, she knocked twice, then pushed through the door he’d left ajar. Before her, overwhelming the room with a burst of color and sweet fragrance, was a vase filled with about two dozen wild rainbow roses, a mélange of purples and pinks, blues, reds, and oranges. Entranced by their beauty, she approached the desk, leaned over, and sniffed deeply.
“They’re lovely, aren’t they? Something to brighten up the office,” Fletcher said, emerging from behind the door she’d just opened.
“They’re so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“Ditto,” he said, joining her by the flowers.
She could feel his breath caressing her hair, his cologne as sweet as the floral tones of the bouquet. Her breath grew shallow, and her chin quivered.
“You can consider them a thank-you gift, if you like,” he whispered into her ear.
She turned by a quarter, so she could stare directly into those soulful blue eyes, daring her to let down her guard, forget the magazine he owned and what causes it supported, and indulge in their mutual yearning. While she wanted to stand firm in her resolve against discrimination, her impulsive streak beckoned her to explore the one thing she realized she wanted even more.
She smiled and held up a finger. “Just one second.”
She took two steps back and pressed the door shut, checking to make sure it was locked.
“I just don’t want your executive editor interrupting us again.”
“You want this to be strictly Hans off?”
She grinned and slinked closer. “I’m just grateful for the thumbs-up,” she murmured, sliding her arms around his neck.
He ran his fingers down the sides of her dress, lingering at her hips. So close, so warm; he felt as good as she’d dreamt he would.
He’s going to feel those rolls of fat. She tried to ignore the voices, and instead focused on his lips, slightly apart, plump and tempting. She leaned in, unable to resist their lusciousness any longer.
To her dismay, he suddenly froze in place like a statue and then took a step backward, extricating himself from her embrace.
See, he was never really interested. He knows you could blow up like a balloon after your next meal.
“You know you don’t have to,” he said, almost teary-eyed, his voice tinged with desire and dread. “This has nothing to do with your job. And if you choose to leave right now, walk back to your desk…I’d never hold it against you.”
“Pity,” she whispered, stepping forward and placing her arms back around his neck, her face resting on his shoulder so her lips were at his ear. Their bodies were even closer than before, and she pressed her hips tight enough against his to feel his excitement, long and hard, rubbing against her. “I like having you hold it against me. Please don’t stop.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Before he could speak again, she moved her head and pressed her mouth against his, enjoying the tickle of his beard. His tongue darted out to tango with hers. She luxuriated in his touch, her hands straying from his neck to press against the front of his shirt, which hinted at the muscular chest underneath. She unbuttoned his top button and then the next as his hands lifted her dress and palmed each of her ass cheeks, forcing her closer still to his throbbing member.
And then the phone rang.
“Ignore it,” she whispered, drunk in the moment.
They continued their heated grasping and groping through four rings, relieved when the noise ended. But when Fletcher’s cellphone started vibrating immediately afterward, the mood was broken. They reluctantly relaxed their heated embrace.
“I’m sorry. It might be important. I have to take it.”
“I understand,” she lied.
She smoothed her dress and regained her composure. Maybe it was for the best anyway. He obviously thought work was more important than any potential romance, and of course, he was right. She had no business flirting with her boss, especially when she was on the verge of making a major breakthrough on the BBG case.
“Dinner tonight?” he asked Cam as his cell buzzed a third time.
“Thanks, but I can’t. I have work.” For once she was grateful for the excuse. Time to cool down, reflect.
She turned and walked out as he answered his goddamned phone.