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After a quick shower, Maddock made a call to Franzen, who had left them both her work and cell phone numbers. He was taking a calculated risk, given that he and Bones had just broken into Shipman’s home and stolen the man’s property, but the garret with its eerie shrine to Megan Keane, was too important to keep secret. He didn’t feel he had the full measure of Franzen just yet, but his instinct told him she was someone he could reason with. And it was obvious she took the missing girl’s case personally and was driven to solve it. He was confident she’d find a way to get a warrant without blowback to him and Bones.
Franzen didn’t answer. He left his name and number, then collapsed onto the bed and turned out the lights, but sleep eluded him. His body felt like a giant toothache. Everything throbbed all the way to the bone. He changed positions, tried calming techniques, but nothing worked. The lure of the journal lurked in the back of his mind. What might he find there?
After twenty minutes he gave up. Already bemoaning tomorrow, he turned on the light and sat up. The journal lay on his bedside table. He picked it up and ran his fingertips across the cover, felt the years held in its dry, cracked leather. He opened the cover to reveal the name written in elegant hand on the first yellowed page.
Kirk Striker
The gravity of the moment hit him hard. He held in his hands the personal journal of the Black Dahlia killer. How had he even considered trying to sleep?
There was a soft knock and then his door opened a few inches.
“I saw your light was on and wondered if you’re okay,” Spenser said as she stepped in and closed the door behind her.
“As good as can be expected.”
“What are you reading?” She hopped lightly onto the bed and scooted in close.
“Just some light reading. Kirk Striker’s journal.”
“Shut up!” She slapped him on his bruised shoulder. “Sorry,” she said absently, her eyes locked on the journal. “It’s legit?”
“I think so.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Bones and I broke into Shipman’s house and stole it.” He quickly recounted the details of their impromptu investigation of Shipman. Spenser’s eyes grew wider as he described the odd garret at the top of the house.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered. “The police need to know, don’t they?”
“I left a message for Franzen. I figure we’ll tell her what we know and see how she wants to handle it. I think what we found is important enough that she won’t get in a twist over a little breaking and entering.”
“And burglary.” Spenser tapped the book with a red lacquered fingernail.
Maddock frowned. “I don’t think I’m going to tell her about the journal just yet. I know we haven’t found a shred of evidence to support any lost treasure theories, but I still believe there’s something out there. Shipman wasn’t just researching Striker; he was studying lost treasure. And I think this journal is the key.”
Spenser nodded. “As soon as the existence of this journal becomes public knowledge, you’ll lose it.” She began counting on her fingers. “Local police, the FBI, criminal profilers, movie producers...” She froze, as if mesmerized by some invisible sight. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
Maddock waited but she didn’t finish the thought. “Are you going to let me in on your epiphany?”
“You don’t need to find buried treasure. You could sell this for an insane amount of money.”
Maddock shook his head. “I really don’t think so.”
She made a pouting face. “I wouldn’t do it either. But I’m not wrong. If this is authentic, it’s worth a ton. But, since we won’t be listing it on eBay any time soon, I say we get started reading.” She rested her head against his shoulder and settled in.
Maddock turned to the first entry.
It was written in code.
Neatly aligned rows and columns of numbers and letters covered the first page. And the second. And the third.
Spenser let out a rueful laugh. “Here I was thinking this would be easy. When will I learn?”
“You know, I say that all the time.”
He continued thumbing through the journal. The code switched to something like hieroglyphs with numbers and letters mixed in. Here and there was an entry in what appeared to be Morse code.
They continued paging through. It was all the same—lots of strange-looking codes and symbols. The few Morse code entries were cryptic. The last was particularly odd. Maddock decoded it. “Cluster guardian,” Maddock read aloud.
“What is that? Some mythical creature that guards the treasure?”
Maddock slowly closed the journal, turned to stare at her.
“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” Spenser tilted her head, touched his arm.
“No. It’s just that my mind went to that same exact place. Great minds, I suppose.”
“Let’s test that theory.” She took the journal from him, set it aside then leaned in close. “Look me in the eye and tell me what I’m thinking.”
“That it’s going to take a lot of work to decipher the journal,” he said.
“Nope, too obvious. That’s strike one.”
“You’re wondering if he’s already deciphered the journal and has beaten us to the punch.”
She shook her head. Once again, a stray lock of hair fell across her face. It was almost as if she did it on purpose. Maddock liked it. “Also readily apparent. Strike two.”
“Don’t let Bones hear you say ‘readily apparent.’ He claims I’m the only human being under the age of seventy to use that phrase.”
“Quit stalling. You’ve got one more guess.” She was so close he could feel her breath against his lips.
“What happens if I get to strike three?”
“You don’t make it to first base, so you definitely won’t score.”
Even Maddock could recognize an invitation when he heard it. He leaned in and planted a soft kiss on her lips, which she returned with more intensity. She let out a soft whimper. And then she pulled away.
“Hold on. That was cheating. You can’t steal first base.”
“I think I just did.”
“Fine. Here’s what I’m thinking,” she said, sitting up straight. “Bones wasn’t there for very long before Shipman came home, was he?” When Maddock shook his head, she went on. “So, unless Shipman was just out wandering aimlessly, wherever he was going couldn’t have been far from where Bones left him, and he couldn’t have stayed there very long. If he left tracks, you guys could follow his trail and find out where he was going.”
Now it was Maddock’s turn to sit up, sending bolts of pain up his spine. “That makes sense,” he grunted.
“Yes, it does. Didn’t we just discover that you and I think alike?”
“I thought we played that game and I struck out.”
“No. You definitely got on base.” Spenser reached across him and turned out the light.