A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(71)

There was a moment of silence. “Do I remember the serial killer who nearly murdered us both?” Andrea finally asked. “It sounds familiar.”

Andrea didn’t remember what Glover had said that night. But she was the only one who’d really believed everything Zoe had said. As a child, she’d quickly gotten over the terrible night they’d spent locked in Zoe’s room with Glover screaming on the other side of the door. She’d had her big sister to protect her; she’d known nothing would happen to her.

“I think he may be in Chicago.”

“Did you see him?” Andrea asked, her voice sharp. She was now wide awake.

“No, but . . . I have reason to suspect it.”

“Is he killing again?”

“I think so.”

Silence. Finally, Andrea asked, “Did you tell the cops?”

“I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Okay. Do you want me to fly over?”

“To Chicago?” Zoe asked in surprise. “No, there’s no need.”

“Could be a nice vacation,” Andrea said.

“No . . . it’s okay. But thanks.”

“All right. Be careful, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Good night, Zoe.”

“Night, Ray-Ray.” She hung up, staring at the ceiling. She hoped she would fall asleep soon.





CHAPTER 50

Chicago, Illinois, Friday, July 22, 2016

“You want to grab some breakfast before going to the station?” Tatum asked. They were on their way from the motel to the police department. Zoe gazed outside the passenger’s side window. She’d been acting subdued all morning. Tatum wasn’t entirely surprised. He wasn’t sure when she had gone to sleep the night before, but it had looked like she’d been planning a late night. She probably hadn’t slept much.

He had to hand it to her: she worked harder than most agents he had partnered with. And she got results too. The link to Veronika Murray’s murder was a big win for the investigation, and it had earned both of them a measure of respect. Martinez was now actively involving them both in the investigation, his suspicions of the FBI’s nefarious plans laid to rest.

“Hey,” he said. “Did you hear what I said?”

They were sitting at a traffic light on Thirty-Seventh Street. Traffic was thick, rows and rows of people on their way to work, participating in mankind’s dumbest dance—rush hour. More than a hundred years before, the German engineer Rudolf Diesel had invented something amazing called the combustion engine—a manmade engine that could propel a wheeled vehicle down a paved road at an incredible speed. And right now, millions of such vehicles were crowding the streets of Chicago, driving at a speed that would embarrass a kid with a tricycle. Poor Rudolf must be turning in his grave. Whatever the German word for grave was. Probably graven, spoken in an angry, curt tone.

He shook his head, derailing his moronic train of thought. “Zoe,” he said aloud for the third time. “Breakfast, please?”

She jolted and stared at him in confusion. He was getting worried.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “Sure.”

“Excellent.” He smiled. There was a diner just past the next traffic light, a place called Wilma’s. It had a badly drawn imitation of Wilma Flintstone for a sign. Tatum parked the car, got out, and entered the restaurant. Zoe followed a step behind him, silent and withdrawn.

The Flintstones theme pretty much ended with the sign outside. The decor inside was pink walls, a black-and-white checkered floor, and peach-colored seats. Tatum hoped the food would be better than the owner’s skill at interior design.

They sat down, and a waitress approached them with a cheery smile.

“Hi,” she squawked. “What can I get you?”

Tatum winced at the high-pitched tone. It really was too early for this helium-inhaling bubble of cheerfulness.

“Do you have cheese omelets?”

“Of course. It’s one of the best—”

“That’s great,” he said hurriedly. “Get me that and some strong coffee.”

“And what will you be having?” the waitress asked, her supersonic voice aimed at Zoe.

Zoe gazed at the wall. It almost looked as if she didn’t hear the waitress, but that wasn’t humanly possible.

“Excuse me? Miss? What will you have? We have pancakes, banana bread, waffles . . .”

She was about to recite the entire menu. Tatum’s cranium would not be able to withstand it. “She’ll have bacon and eggs,” he said. “Make the bacon extra crispy and the eggs sunny-side up. And strong coffee for her as well.”

“Okay.” The waitress turned around. Tatum would not have been surprised if she’d hopped to the kitchen to deliver the order. But she just walked. Like a normal person with a normal voice.

“She’s like an extreme version of Alvin and the Chipmunks,” he said in a low voice.

Zoe looked at him, though she seemed to be actually looking through him. And through the wall behind him.

“What’s going on, Zoe?” he asked.

“I’m just . . . preoccupied,” she said.

“I can see that,” he said dryly. “Preoccupied with what?”