A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(74)

“What missing prostitutes?” Tatum asked.

“Vice informed us of two missing prostitutes since yesterday,” Martinez said. “Tiffany Styles and Amber Dew. We’re trying to establish if they’re really missing. If they are, they might have been our killer’s latest victims. Amber Dew was seen entering a dark Ford Focus, and we’ve alerted dispatch about it.”

Zoe cleared her throat. “I think it’s unlikely that was him. He’d almost certainly target a different group now that he knows we’re on to his interest in prostitutes—”

“He doesn’t necessarily know that,” Martinez said. “He might simply think he should watch out for mobile phones in the future. We can’t ignore those leads.”

“You’re stretched too thin as it is. Don’t underestimate this man’s intelligence. We’re talking about a man who learned how to embalm on his own and is even improvising and refining the technique—”

“Thank you, Dr. Bentley. I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t think we can overlook these cases. Mel, you have your assignment. Anyone who is finished with his task or just bored can help out Tommy since we have . . . how many video hours of security camera feeds in the nearby streets, Tommy?”

“A bazillion.”

“There you go. A bazillion hours of security camera feeds. And I have a meeting with the captain and the chief because it’s Friday, another week has passed, and the killer is still out there. See? I get all the real fun.”





CHAPTER 52

Harry glanced at the time. It was half past five, and he really had given Zoe Bentley fair warning. He had the article ready; all he had to do was think of a good clickbait headline. “FBI Profiler Gets Chilling Messages at Crime Scenes” or maybe “Three Mysterious Envelopes Left for FBI Profiler, and You Won’t Believe What’s in Them.” With an article like this, the headlines practically wrote themselves. Just publish, watch as the endless online readers flocked to read his article, and enjoy the songs of praise from his editor.

Except . . . some part of him wanted more. It was that nagging, enthusiastic part that had made him take the journalist’s path in the first place. It wasn’t the search for the truth—Harry had never cared much about the truth—but it was the search for a good story. Mysterious envelopes left for a profiler wasn’t a story. It wasn’t even a scene. It had no context, no beginning, no end. It would get people to read it, maybe click an ad or two, but after reading, they’d move on and forget.

He wanted to write something that would make people talk.

He sighed, trying to ignore that naive part of him. Better take what he could get. A bird in the hand was worth two in the bush.

Unless it crapped on your fingers and pecked you. Some birds carried salmonella too. And those two in the bush were awesome birds. They had the prettiest feathers.

He took out his phone and sent Zoe Bentley a text message. His phone began ringing a minute later.

“Hello,” he answered, trying not to sound smug.

“You can’t publish that story,” Zoe said. She sounded hollow. Weary.

“Give me something better to publish,” he said. “Right now.”

There was a moment of silence. “What if I give you a damn good story . . . a story no one could possibly have? But you have to promise not to publish it until I tell you.”

“That . . . depends,” he said, his curiosity flaring. “I want to hear the story, and I want a deadline. I can’t wait forever for your permission.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “There’s a place not far from the police station called Wilma’s. Do you know it?”

“Sure.”

“Can you be there in twenty minutes?”

“Give me half an hour,” he said. “Traffic.”

“See you there.”

It took him only twenty-five minutes, and Zoe was already waiting for him, her face a mask of anxiety and exhaustion. He pulled up the opposite chair and sat down. She nursed a mug of coffee. The way she looked, he wasn’t sure coffee was a good idea. He smiled. She didn’t smile back.

They sat in silence for a bit.

“I’ll start,” he suggested. “You were about to tell me an amazing story no one else has.”

She nodded, staring at him. “You can’t publish it until I—”

“Until you tell me,” he said. “But we have to agree on a final date. And I sure as hell don’t want this story to get out before—”

“It won’t.”

The waitress approached him. “What can I get you?”

“Just coffee, thanks,” he said.

“Do you want cappuccino, pumpkin latte, or—”

“Just good old regular coffee.”

She walked away.

“Okay, let’s hear it,” he said.

Zoe’s eyes glazed, as if focusing on a distant memory. “Back in 1997, there was a serial killer in Maynard, Massachusetts. He raped and killed three young women. A suspect was arrested and killed himself while incarcerated.”

Harry nodded, writing in his notebook. The notebook was mostly for show. He was recording the entire conversation. But writing also helped him concentrate. He penned down 1997—Maynard, killings.