“There was a partner, right?” Aaron asked. “The original Moth. Parrish’s partner is still in the slammer, right?”
“Yes.” I left it at that, my resentment rising a notch. He knew damned well that Parrish’s accomplice, who had helped him escape and lured victims into his grasp, was serving an LWOP sentence-life without possibility of parole.
Aaron isn’t stupid. He knew he needed to stop pushing if he wanted my cooperation down the road. So he changed the subject and asked me about mutual friends and former Express employees, and caught me up on news of a couple of people I knew at the Sacramento Bee. Eventually, he said, “Sorry if I upset you about Parrish. Just thought you should know. And you’ll let me know first if John cuts you loose to talk to other media?”
“Sure. Thanks for the heads-up.”
I called Ben Sheridan’s cell but got his voice mail. The outgoing message said he was away and out of cell phone range but would be returning late Tuesday. Leave a message.
I decided I couldn’t leave this news of Parrish as voice mail, so I simply asked Ben to give me a call when he got back to town. I hung up, wondering if Mikelson was already in the process of tracking him down.
Calling Ben had forced me to collect my thoughts. My blood might be running cold, but I still had enough ink in my veins to realize that this was a breaking story, and one the Express needed to cover. Mark Baker, our crime beat reporter, was at his desk, so I got his attention and filled him in. He’s known me a long time and quickly figured out that overt sympathy was probably going to make me lose it, so we mutually pretended this news wasn’t personal.
He called the prison hospital and confirmed the details. At that point, we got together with our editor, John Walters, and the city editor, Lydia Ames. A few more meetings were held, and plans for the front page changed.
I didn’t really want to be writing about Parrish or reminding the public-or myself-of his crimes. But under current conditions, every day with a job at a newspaper felt like a stay of execution, so I didn’t shy away from the work, however much it amplified my fears.
Rumors were at a fever pitch at the Express. No one had any doubt that the paper was in financial trouble. If a buyer wasn’t found soon, we’d close. Bets were being laid on whether our publisher, Winston Wrigley III, was going to resign or be canned before the place shut down entirely. Some said he stayed on because he had nothing else to do with his life, others that he seemed to believe the captain ought to go down with the ship. Most of us felt that this particular captain should have been thrown overboard a long time ago.
But the general state of the industry wasn’t his fault, and as much as I disliked him, I couldn’t help but find him a pitiful creature now. His shame surrounded him like a force field, repelling his critics even as it protected him from our anger. His grandfather had founded the newspaper, his father had built it into one of the most powerful businesses in the city. Yet the newspaper business was one the next son had never understood, and now it punished him for his ignorance. Although his father had seen Winston III’s weaknesses and had been smart enough to set things up so that he answered to a board, too many family members were on that board, and they often protected sonny boy. Luckily for us, these days he avoided his employees-Winston III spent most workdays wandering aimlessly through the many parts of the building that were now all but empty.
For the staff, morale was at an all-time low. We stomached the group “good-bye parties,” fought against the pressure put on senior staff to retire early, and went to too many funerals-the heart attack rate among our oldest male reporters and retirees should have triggered a study by the CDC. Admittedly, these were the guys who, in their salad days, had never touched a salad, and I’m sure the high-pressure work, the years of hard drinking, and the once smoke-filled workplace took their toll. But it was hard not to believe that loss of dignity was the final nail in their coffins.
Old newspapermen were dying. The rest of us had to listen to people who believed all in-depth professional reporting could be replaced by text messages. The saying might have to change to “Don’t believe everything you read… on your cell phone.”
It wasn’t just the Express that was being measured for a coffin, of course. The whole profession had been hearing eulogies while it was still on life support.
That afternoon, though, the newsroom was stirring to life in a way it hadn’t in some weeks. Stories about Parrish, our local monster, sold papers. We could provide the kind of detail that wasn’t going to be available on television. I had doubts that anyone living in the city needed a recap, but I dutifully told them of that time when Parrish-manacled and heavily guarded-pledged to help us find the body of one of his victims. It was part of a plea bargain, in exchange for which he would receive a life sentence rather than the death penalty. At the request of the victim’s family, I accompanied the group that journeyed into the Sierra Nevada to recover her remains. We walked into a trap. I was one of the few lucky ones-I lived.
Parrish escaped and continued to terrorize Las Piernas and other cities while he was on the loose. When he was finally captured, he was injured and almost completely paralyzed. Between that and his conviction and imprisonment on additional murder charges, the good citizens of Las Piernas breathed a sigh of relief. They were safe.
Those of us who had been in the mountains with him never felt completely safe again.
By the end of the day, I was a wreck. When I came home, I told myself I was glad that my husband, Frank, was away on a camping trip with our next-door neighbor, Jack. Glad that they had taken our two dogs with them. Frank needed the break, and the dogs loved going to the mountains. Maybe by the time they got back, I’d have calmed down.
Except for the company of my elderly cat, Cody, I was alone.
Not for the first time, I reminded myself. After all, when you’re married to a homicide detective, there are plenty of nights when he’s not home. Although the dogs were usually with me, this wasn’t the first time Jack-who is in many ways as much their owner as we are-had taken them camping.
Nick Parrish was in prison. He might be able to walk, but he wasn’t going anywhere. I made dinner for one and watched television. Avoided all crime programming, which turned out to be about half of what was on. Other channels I flipped because I didn’t want to shop from my TV or watch someone cook. I still found enough to stay amused. The distraction worked for a time.
I was safe, wasn’t I?
By the time I went to bed, though, I could believe that for only a few minutes at a time. I tried to sleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, I switched on the light and grabbed a book of crossword puzzles. I was still awake when the alarm went off.
I kept telling myself I had nothing to fear.
I was wrong.
TWO
Kai Loudon pointed the Smith & Wesson at the blurred photo on the computer screen. Not a great photo of her face. Just one of those small, low-res images from the newspaper’s Web site. The same one appeared next to all of her stories. Irene Kelly.
He took aim between her blue eyes.
He made a popping sound with his lips as he clicked the mouse in his other hand, setting the computer to sleep mode. The image disappeared as the screen blanked.
He sighed and set the gun down on his desk. Not even close to the real thing. She was alive.
Kai seldom used guns anyway. They were good to have on hand for unexpected trouble, or to let someone know you meant business, but he thought them an unsatisfying way to kill. He had never actually shot anyone. He would rather use his own body to demonstrate his power over others. He was young and strong.