"Good. Tell reception to direct him to the second-floor conference room."
True to his word, Bradley Cummings arrives twenty-five minutes later. He looks the same as the last time I saw him. Craggy good looks, impeccable suit. Tall. Never one to be embarrassed, Callie had regaled me with tales of the adventurous jungle sex they'd had. "Quite satisfactory," she'd dubbed him.
He's kept it simple. Him and a cameraman.
"Thanks for coming, Brad."
"Callie gave me the short version on the phone. No self-respecting newsman would pass this up. How do you want to do it?"
"I'll give you all the details off-camera. Then you can do whatever Q
and A on camera you need to go along with it."
"That sounds fine."
"Here's the thing, Brad. I need this on by six o'clock."
"Trust me, that's not going to be a problem."
"Good. The other thing is that I want to ensure a specific part of the information on this case is communicated by me to the camera. You'll understand when you see it. It's vital that I'm the one to say it, and no one else."
He gives me an uneasy look. "This is on the up-and-up, right, Smoky? The story?"
"If you mean, am I just using you, then yes, I am. But"--I hold a finger up--"every detail will be true. You'll be reporting the truth. But you'll also be doing two other things: warning future potential victims, and giving me a chance to piss this killer off. That's why I have to be the one to say it. Think of this guy as a hand grenade, Brad. I'm going to pull the pin." I shrug. "Whoever pulls the pin runs a chance of getting caught in the blast."
He looks into my eyes, searching for a lie. "Fine. I trust you. Lay it on me."
I spend the next twenty minutes giving him a rundown of what has happened in the last five days. He does his job well, jotting down notes, interjecting questions here and there. When I am done, he sits back.
"Wow," he says. "This really is . . . something. I assume the thing you want to say concerns the contents of the jar."
"That's right. One of the reasons it's important that I be the one to say it and no one else is that it's going to piss him off. He'll probably fixate on whoever delivers that news."
"Right," he says, thoughtful. "Well, then, let's get to it."
Brad is deft on camera. His questions are sharp and pointed, without being an attack. He arrives at the crucial question.
"Special Agent Barrett. You stated that you have revealing information concerning the contents of the jar he sent to you. Can you elaborate?"
"Yes, Brad. We had the jar opened and its contents analyzed. We found that the flesh inside was not human. It was cow flesh."
"What does that mean?"
I turn so that I am looking right into the camera. "It means that he is not who he says he is. He is not a descendant of Jack the Ripper. It's most probable that he believes he is. I doubt he knew what was in that jar." I shake my head. "Sad, really. He's living a lie, and he doesn't even know it."
"Thank you, Agent Barrett."
Brad leaves more than happy. He promises to get the story on at six and eleven and just manages to keep from running out in eagerness.
"That went well," Callie remarks. "I'd forgotten how handsome that man is. Perhaps I need to give him a call."
"If you do, I don't want all the details this time."
"That's no fun." She pauses. "He's going to be enraged, honey-love. Jack Jr., I mean. This could push him over the deep end."
I give her a grim smile. "I sure hope so. Now let's go see Ms. Waters."
We take an agency vehicle, as I want to ensure that we aren't followed or tracked. While the cars belonging to other members of the team have been swept for bugs and tracking devices, it's always possible that he knows them by sight.
On the way to see Leona Waters, I call Tommy Aguilera and tell him about the e-mail.
"One of them must have been there last night. Or this morning. It also means they're well-informed about the people you know. People like me."
"Yeah. So I guess that's it, Tommy. I'll give you a call later, if you don't mind. About getting rid of the bug and the GPS tracker."
"You won't have to."
"Why is that?"
"Because I'm going to keep shadowing you, Smoky. I told you last night. You're my principal. The job isn't over until you catch him and I know you're safe."
I want to protest, but the truth is, part of me had hoped he would say something like this.
"I'll still be watching, Smoky."
The trip takes longer than it should, thanks to an accident on the freeway; a van had run itself into a guardrail. The accident was minor, but the rubbernecking, as always, was major. By the time we arrive, it's nearly two in the afternoon. Leona Waters lives in a very nice apartment building in a not-so-nice area. Santa Monica is a crapshoot of kinds. Many parts of it remain middle-class or even upscale, but much of it has decayed, like the rest of LA. This is the constant tale of this city, leading people to move farther and farther out to try and escape the cancer. It always seems to catch up.
We park and walk up to the front entrance. There are security doors, requiring residents to enter a pass code. A security guard sits at reception. I rap on the glass to make him look up. He gives me his best expression of bored irritation until I place my FBI identification against the glass. He flies out of his chair like it's an ejector seat, rushing over to let us in.
He sees the scars on my face and stops for a moment, staring openly. Then his eyes move to Callie. They crawl up and down her body in a flash, pausing for a noticeable half second on her bust.
"What's going on, ma'am?"
"Just an interview . . . ?"
"Ricky," he offers, licking his lips. He stands up a little taller. Ricky looks to be in his late forties. He has the run-down appearance of someone who used to be in shape but let himself go. His face is lined and tired-looking. Not someone enjoying his life.
"We're just doing an interview with one of your residents. No big deal."
"Do you need any help, ma'am? Which resident?"
"I'm afraid that's confidential, Ricky. You understand."
He nods, tries to look important. "Oh, yes, ma'am. Of course. I understand. Elevator's right over there. Let me know if you need anything." Sneaks another peek at Callie's boobs.
"I will, thanks." I won't, I think to myself.
We get in the elevator. "Revolting little man," Callie remarks as we ride up to the third floor.
"No kidding."
We exit. Arrows direct us to apartment number 314. I knock on the door, and a moment later it opens.
The woman who has opened it and I stare at each other, both at a loss for words. Callie breaks this silence.
"Have a sister I don't know about, honey-love?"
I don't, but it's a fair question. Leona Waters and I could be related. Our height is almost identical. She has my curves at the hips, and lack of them at the bust. The same long, dark, thick hair, and our faces have similarities. Same size nose. Different color eyes than mine. She's missing the scars, of course. Behind my amazement at this, I feel a sick unease. I think it's clear why Jack Jr. chose this particular woman.
"Leona Waters?" I ask.
Her eyes dart from me to Callie and back again. "Yes . . ."
I hold up my identification. "I'm Special Agent Smoky Barrett, with the FBI."
She frowns. "Am I in trouble?"
"No, ma'am. I'm the head of the Violent Crimes Unit in Los Angeles. We're hunting a man who has raped, tortured, and murdered at least two women. We think he plans to make you his next victim." I'm going right for the jugular, maximum shock value.
Her mouth drops open. Her eyes go wide. "Is this some kind of a joke?"